The Making of a Duchess by Shana Galen

and a woman who was probably the housekeeper entered. Sarah sent up a prayer of thanks. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but Cook needs to see you."
       "Oh?" The duchesse stood. "I'm so sorry, Serafina. I will return in a just a moment."
       Sarah stood as well. "Please, take your time."
       A moment later, the duchesse was gone, and Sarah was alone in the ornate drawing room. She turned this way and that, afraid to touch anything. Oh, how she hated all of this lying and playacting! But the faster she completed this mission, the sooner she could return to life as a governess. Perhaps she could find the evidence Sir Northrop wanted now, and then she would be able to tuck Anne and Edmund into bed tonight.
       With new purpose, she moved about the room, looking for a desk or table with a drawer—anything that would hold or conceal papers. She passed a large painting of an Italian noblewoman and then halted and whipped back around. Was that a—no.
       She leaned closer. Was that a Titian?
       Oh, Lord. Oh, my. Just how wealthy was this family? An actual Titian! And then another thought occurred to her—with wealth came power. What would happen if the Valères discovered she was not who she claimed? Would she be thrown in prison?
       Even worse, what if the duc de Valère was a spy? If he realized she had found him out, he might see the need to be rid of her. Permanently.
       She put a hand to her belly to still its roiling. She could not worry about that right now. She had to keep her chin up and her wits about her. She tried focusing on the Titian.
       She wished she could put on her spectacles in order to read the signature, but The Widow had forbidden her to do so unless absolutely necessary. So Sarah squinted and leaned in close, lifting one hand toward what looked like a scribble.
       "I wouldn't touch that if you want to keep my mother's favor," a deep voice said from behind her.
       Sarah swung around, knocking a bowl off a nearby
    side table. It shattered loudly when it hit the gleaming wood floor.
       "Oh!" She looked from the shattered bowl to the man standing in the drawing room's entrance.
       It was him. She knew it.
       This was the duc de Valère. The spy. The traitor. The man who might kill her if he knew what she had been sent to do.
       Her stomach clenched again, and grabbing the vase nearest her, she promptly cast up her accounts.

Five

    Mon Dieu.
       Julien stared as Mademoiselle Serafina Artois was sick in his mother's blue and white Ming vase. The thing had cost him a fortune, and now his future wife was using it as a chamber pot.
       Probably as a good a use as any for the vase, but now what was he supposed to do?
       "Grimsby!" he bellowed. "Get up here!"
       Mademoiselle Serafina raised her head, her face pale and waxy. Julien figured he'd better go to her—he'd better do something.
       "I'm sorry," she moaned. "Oh, this is humiliating."
       "Nonsense. You were very ladylike." With a flick of his wrist, he loosened his cravat and handed it to her. She frowned at the cloth. "It's the best I can do on short notice," he said.
       She grimaced and put the white linen to her mouth. Julien prayed Luc would not see this.
       He reached down and put a hand on her elbow. "Let's get you to the sofa. You can lie down."
       She didn't protest, just allowed him to help her
    to her feet. She wobbled slightly, and he put an arm around her slim waist. At his touch, she inhaled sharply and glanced at him.
       As he had noted before, she was tall, the top of her head reaching just below his nose. And he could see now that she had eyes not the color of chocolate but of creamy tea, long eyelashes, and—he inhaled slowly—ripe, full lips.
       He looked away quickly, trying not to notice how the swell of her breast felt where it brushed his chest. They reached the sofa, and he settled her on it, both relieved and annoyed to release