Read Online The Making of a Duchess by Shana Galen - Free Book Online
Authors: Shana Galen
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it was a kind and welcoming gesture.
She had a brief flash of one of her phantom memories—a dark-haired woman singing—and then it was gone.
"We'll leave you in peace," the duchesse said, turning toward the door. "Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."
"Thank you."
The door closed, and Sarah nodded to herself. She had done better that time. Her nervousness was decreasing and her confidence growing, especially if she did not think too much about the duchesse's last words—the duchesse expected her to stay for months. Months as Serafina Artois! And the sham started with a ball tomorrow night.
A ball!
Sarah had never been to a ball in her life. The closest she had come was encouraging the Jenkins boys—the children of her last employer—to say goodnight to their parents as Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins left for a ball. It was the only one she ever remembered them attending.
But she would have to get through it somehow. If she could avoid dancing and pretend she spoke everyday with viscounts, earls, barons, and marquesses, she would be fine. Just fine.
And then she had an alarming thought. What if the duchesse—Rowena—expected her to dance with her son, the duc de Valère? Surely, he would ask her to dance. It would be rude of him not to.
Oh, no. No, no, no. She would never survive a dance with the duc.
She had to find a way out of this.
She could feign sickness again, but that would not work forever. Eventually she would have to get well and go to social outings. And she did not want to go to social outings. She wanted to be back at Sir Northrop's with Anne and Edmund, looking at insects in the garden and studying geography. Sarah sighed. The only way to return to her charges was to do as Sir Northrop expected: find evidence implicating the duke.
And if she wanted to avoid dancing with the handsome duc, she would have to do so tonight.
***
Julien sat in his library, brandy in one hand, book in the other. His dark blue coat was wrinkled, and he wore no cravat. The lamp had long since burned down, but he hadn't closed the book or finished his brandy or made any move to go to bed. He was exhausted after staying out all night, but he didn't relish sleep. Sleep brought dreams.
His mind was working now, figuring out how he could slip into France, meet the servant who claimed to know of Armand, and get back to London again. All without being caught by either the French or the English and being accused by one, or both sides, of being a traitor.
The two countries were at war—that much was true, but Julien did not think the situation could be any worse now than in '94, when he had gone back several times looking for Bastien and Armand.
That had been during the Reign of Terror, when the streets ran with the blood of his fellow aristocrats. If he had been caught then, he would have been a dead man. But he had not been caught, and he had not stopped searching for his brothers. After Napoleon seized power in France, the terror quieted, but on each of Julien's voyages, travel between the two countries grew more and more treacherous. Even the smugglers hesitated to risk it, despite the fact that French wines and fashions sold at a premium on London's black market.
Rigby was right: he was a fool to go back. Julien just could not see that he had any other choice. If Armand was alive, however remote the possibility, Julien would risk anything to reach him.
He heard a thud outside the library door and tensed, every muscle in his body straining to hear.
All was silent. It was probably just one of the servants. Probably just the house settling.
But Julien did not relax. The image of a whitehaired woman wielding a pitchfork rose in front of him. Julien pushed it away. He really should go to bed. His mind was playing tricks on him.
Then something moved outside the library door. Julien's gaze darted
She had a brief flash of one of her phantom memories—a dark-haired woman singing—and then it was gone.
"We'll leave you in peace," the duchesse said, turning toward the door. "Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."
"Thank you."
The door closed, and Sarah nodded to herself. She had done better that time. Her nervousness was decreasing and her confidence growing, especially if she did not think too much about the duchesse's last words—the duchesse expected her to stay for months. Months as Serafina Artois! And the sham started with a ball tomorrow night.
A ball!
Sarah had never been to a ball in her life. The closest she had come was encouraging the Jenkins boys—the children of her last employer—to say goodnight to their parents as Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins left for a ball. It was the only one she ever remembered them attending.
But she would have to get through it somehow. If she could avoid dancing and pretend she spoke everyday with viscounts, earls, barons, and marquesses, she would be fine. Just fine.
And then she had an alarming thought. What if the duchesse—Rowena—expected her to dance with her son, the duc de Valère? Surely, he would ask her to dance. It would be rude of him not to.
Oh, no. No, no, no. She would never survive a dance with the duc.
She had to find a way out of this.
She could feign sickness again, but that would not work forever. Eventually she would have to get well and go to social outings. And she did not want to go to social outings. She wanted to be back at Sir Northrop's with Anne and Edmund, looking at insects in the garden and studying geography. Sarah sighed. The only way to return to her charges was to do as Sir Northrop expected: find evidence implicating the duke.
And if she wanted to avoid dancing with the handsome duc, she would have to do so tonight.
***
Julien sat in his library, brandy in one hand, book in the other. His dark blue coat was wrinkled, and he wore no cravat. The lamp had long since burned down, but he hadn't closed the book or finished his brandy or made any move to go to bed. He was exhausted after staying out all night, but he didn't relish sleep. Sleep brought dreams.
His mind was working now, figuring out how he could slip into France, meet the servant who claimed to know of Armand, and get back to London again. All without being caught by either the French or the English and being accused by one, or both sides, of being a traitor.
The two countries were at war—that much was true, but Julien did not think the situation could be any worse now than in '94, when he had gone back several times looking for Bastien and Armand.
That had been during the Reign of Terror, when the streets ran with the blood of his fellow aristocrats. If he had been caught then, he would have been a dead man. But he had not been caught, and he had not stopped searching for his brothers. After Napoleon seized power in France, the terror quieted, but on each of Julien's voyages, travel between the two countries grew more and more treacherous. Even the smugglers hesitated to risk it, despite the fact that French wines and fashions sold at a premium on London's black market.
Rigby was right: he was a fool to go back. Julien just could not see that he had any other choice. If Armand was alive, however remote the possibility, Julien would risk anything to reach him.
He heard a thud outside the library door and tensed, every muscle in his body straining to hear.
All was silent. It was probably just one of the servants. Probably just the house settling.
But Julien did not relax. The image of a whitehaired woman wielding a pitchfork rose in front of him. Julien pushed it away. He really should go to bed. His mind was playing tricks on him.
Then something moved outside the library door. Julien's gaze darted
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