The Duchess and Desperado by Laurie Grant

a curling iron. If only Thierry were here with me, then I should not be so nervous. She smiled at the thought of the handsome, tawny-haired Frenchman with his thin, elegant mustache, resplendent in his uniform as an officer of Louis Napoleon’s cavalry, escorting her to the reception tonight She wondered what he was doing right now, back home in England. Perhaps he was attending some ball in London, at the side of his exiled emperor, Louis Napoleon?
    Thierry had told her he despised such events because of the fuss dowagers with marriageable daughters made over him, when he had much rather be with her. Soon, my love, she had promised. At the end of my journey we will be man and wife, and then you will be forever out of the reach of the matchmaking mamas, my poor darling.
    â€œYour grace is in prime looks tonight,” her dresser said fondly from behind her, meeting her eyes in the mirror
    â€œThank you, Celia,” Sarah murmured, studying her reflection critically. The gown of light blue grosgrain, with its vandyked bertha, opened in front over a white lace underwaist confined by a cluster of white satin roses, and showed off slender white shoulders and a hint of cleavage beneath a necklace of pearls with a rectangular blue topaz pendant. Matching topaz stones gleamed from her ears.
    â€œYour grace’s gems set off your eyes.”
    â€œThey do, don’t they? They’ve always been my favorite set of Mama’s. Papa said I have her eyes,” Sarah said, and then found herself wondering what Morgan Calhoun would think of her appearance. The thought of his eyes straying toward the shadowy hint of cleavage made her pulse quicken.
    The thought startled her. Why was she, a woman in love, thinking that way about a man she had hired to perform a service?
    And what would Thierry say if he knew she had hired a bodyguard? He should be glad, if he could not be there to protect her, right? Instinctively, though, she knew that if the Count of Châtellerault had met Morgan Calhoun, he would be jealous, not glad.
    Thierry de Châtellerault’s only fault, really, was his jealousy. Sarah had never been a flirt, had never given him cause to be insecure about her affections, but she could tell Thierry wasn’t happy whenever a well-favored lord conversed with Sarah or asked her to dance at a ball. They’d talked about it, and Thierry had claimed to understand the need for such subterfuge until their surprise marriage was a fait accompli, but each time, his face looked like a thundercloud.
    Morgan Calhoun was just an employee, not a social equal, but Thierry was a very perceptive man. If Thierry had been present, he would have sensed that Morgan Calhoun had a certain effect on Sarah—and he would have been on the alert.
    Just then, through the door of her bedroom, she heard the muffled knock on the outer door of her suite, and the sound of footsteps as Donald went and let in the knocker.
    â€œOh, it’s you, Calhoun,” she heard her uncle say, and her heartbeat quickened. He had come. Morgan Calhoun was here, and now, officially, her bodyguard. “What, you’re not dressed yet? Good God, man, we must leave within moments!”
    â€œNow, just hold your horses,” she heard Calhoun drawl. “I got a suit of clothes right here on my arm, but I didn’t want to wear it ridin’ over here, and end up smellin’ like my horse, so I brought it in my saddlebags instead. Give me a coupla minutes and a room to change in, and I’ll be ready.”
    Celia’s eyes met Sarah’s again in the mirror. “Doubtless Mr. Calhoun’s clothes will need pressing,” she informed her mistress primly. “Unless there’s something else your grace would want me to do, perhaps I’d better go put the iron on the fire. I’ll summon you, ma’am, when all is finally in readiness for our departure.”
    â€œI believe I’m ready as I am,” Sarah