Read Online The Making of a Duchess by Shana Galen - Free Book Online Page A

to the floor, and he saw the shadow darkening the thin slice between the carpet and the closed door.
       Luc? Grimsby?
       Julien did not move. There was a knife in his desk drawer. Should he go for it or wait for the intruder to move first?
       The door handle turned slowly, silently. Julien no longer harbored any illusions that it was his valet or his butler. Both would have knocked before entering.
       The hinges creaked, and the intruder paused on the other side of the half-open door. He carried no light, but the library was darker than the vestibule, and it would take a moment for his eyes to adjust. Julien knew he could use that to his advantage.
       Obviously satisfied he had not been detected, the intruder pushed the door open farther and stepped into the library. He closed the door silently behind him, then without looking right or left, went straight for the desk. The trespasser was short and slight and— wearing a dress?
       What the—
       Julien stared in disbelief as the woman rounded his desk, sat in his chair, and then felt around the surface of the desk for a lamp.
       "The oil burned down," Julien said dryly, the satisfaction of seeing her jump making him smile briefly. "But I can light a candle if you'd like."
       "No," she squeaked. "That's quite alright."
       That voice, that tall, slim figure—Julien closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. "Mademoiselle Serafina?"
       "Who? Oh! Me." She cleared her throat. "Your Grace, I can explain."
       Julien set his book and brandy on the side table, rose, and lit a candle on his desk. The warm light flickered over Mademoiselle Serafina's features, making her brown eyes look large and luminous. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, falling in ribbons of silk down her back. She had not changed out of her blue gown. It was wrinkled and falling off one shoulder but still presentable.
       He put both hands on the desk and gave her a hard look, this woman who was to be his wife. Did she know that was the plan? It had never been discussed.
       He shook his head. Of course she knew. Women always knew.
       She cleared her throat again, the slim white column of her neck drawing his attention. "As I said, I can explain."
       He waved a hand and went back to his seat on the sofa against the wall. Lifting his brandy, he took a long swallow, almost draining it. "Go ahead. Explain."
       "You're not foxed, are you?"
       He raised a brow. "Would that be a problem? After all, I'm in my own home, in my own library. And up until five minutes ago, I was quite alone."
       She swallowed again. Was her face slightly paler?
    "Are you going to be sick again?"
       She straightened her shoulders and notched her chin up, looking slightly offended. "I'm fine. Thank you."
       "There's an empty decanter behind you. Costs a hell of a lot less than the Ming vase you made use of this afternoon."
       She narrowed her eyes at him, obviously annoyed. "A gentleman would not have mentioned that incident again," she said, tone frosty.
       He shrugged, not feeling the least compunction to act the gentleman when she was the one who had invaded his library. He took another drink from his glass and studied her. "You don't have any accent," he said finally.
       "What?" She frowned at him, probably thinking he was foxed.
       "Your English." He sat forward now. "You have no French accent, not even a trace." He was always keenly aware of his own accent, knew no matter how perfect his English, it would always mark him as a foreigner.
       She put a hand to her throat. "Well, I was so young when I left France that—"
       "For Italy."
       "Yes. My parents live in Italy."
       "And yet you have no Italian accent."
       She opened her mouth then closed it again.
       "Say again?"
       "We speak English."
       "Your parents are French, you live in Italy, but you speak English."
       She shrugged, a dainty gesture that caused