her.
"Lie down," he ordered, his voice gruffer than he had intended.
She did as he ordered, lying stiff as a board and staring at him as though he planned to chop her head off.
Grimsby entered, and Julien motioned to the vase. "Clean that."
"Yes, Your Grace."
While Grimsby carried the vase out, Julien crossed to the tea service and poured the chit a cup of tea. "Cream or sugar?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
She was staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified. She shook her head.
He brought her the tea, and she struggled to sit so that she could drink it. Julien pretended not to notice her hands were trembling so badly that the tea cup and saucer rattled loudly.
She was no typical English beauty. Years of life surrounded by those pale, blond creatures had dulled his memory of dark-eyed Gallic women. His mother had told him Delphine, the comtesse de Guyenne, had been ravishing in her day. Obviously, the daughter had inherited her mother's good looks. But there was nothing in her that flaunted that beauty. She seemed almost unaware of it.
She was taller and thinner than most of the women of his acquaintance, but she was far from angular. She was not falling out of her gown, as was a la mode, but she was rounded and curved in all the places a woman should be. Yes, all in all, she was a beautiful package, but he felt something more for her than attraction. He felt longing. His gaze fell to her mouth, her lips poised on the edge of the tea cup.
Those lips gave him ideas.
"What happened?"
Julien turned as his mother and the housekeeper rushed into the drawing room. His mother was beside Mademoiselle Serafina in an instant. "Are you unwell, my dear?" She put a hand to Mademoiselle Serafina's forehead. "You don't feel warm. Come." She urged the girl to stand. "Let's get you to bed."
"That's not necessary," the girl said, her eyes still darting about the room. "I'm fine. I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me."
Julien watched as his mother and the housekeeper escorted the girl from the room. He followed them into the hallway and heard the housekeeper ask, "Where is your luggage, my lady? The footman said there was none in the carriage."
Mademoiselle Serafina stumbled and quickly righted herself. "It's coming. It was—lost."
"Oh, dear!" his mother exclaimed. "What will you do?"
"The—dock… workers are bringing it."
"I see." His mother glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze.
Julien could say one thing for Serafina Artois. She was not boring.
***
Sarah wanted to die. As soon as the duchesse and the housekeeper left her, Sarah dismissed her maid and climbed into the enormous bed. She lay there for a moment, looking about the room. She had made two more mistakes as soon as she set foot in this room. First, she had thanked the housekeeper for showing her the way. Aristocrats did not thank servants, and the woman had given her a quizzical look. The second mistake was asking—twice—if all this were really hers. She had never slept in such a beautiful room, such a large bed, such lavish quarters.
She blinked, certain it would all disappear. But, no, the walls were still lavender, the sheer cream curtains still pulled back from floor-length windows, the white and gold fireplace still crackled with a cheery little fire. Tucked in one corner was a walnut and satinwood armoire, decorated with paintings copied from Greek antiquity and carved with corner finials and rosettes. In another corner was a delicate tulipwood dressing table with a hinged mirror that could be raised when in use. Finally, there was the bed on which she lay—a half tester with matching canopy and bedclothes in blue satin—bedclothes the color of the duc de Valère's eyes.
She pulled the covers over her head and squeezed her own eyes shut.
She was mortified. Humiliated. She was never going to recover
"Lie down," he ordered, his voice gruffer than he had intended.
She did as he ordered, lying stiff as a board and staring at him as though he planned to chop her head off.
Grimsby entered, and Julien motioned to the vase. "Clean that."
"Yes, Your Grace."
While Grimsby carried the vase out, Julien crossed to the tea service and poured the chit a cup of tea. "Cream or sugar?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
She was staring at him, wide-eyed and terrified. She shook her head.
He brought her the tea, and she struggled to sit so that she could drink it. Julien pretended not to notice her hands were trembling so badly that the tea cup and saucer rattled loudly.
She was no typical English beauty. Years of life surrounded by those pale, blond creatures had dulled his memory of dark-eyed Gallic women. His mother had told him Delphine, the comtesse de Guyenne, had been ravishing in her day. Obviously, the daughter had inherited her mother's good looks. But there was nothing in her that flaunted that beauty. She seemed almost unaware of it.
She was taller and thinner than most of the women of his acquaintance, but she was far from angular. She was not falling out of her gown, as was a la mode, but she was rounded and curved in all the places a woman should be. Yes, all in all, she was a beautiful package, but he felt something more for her than attraction. He felt longing. His gaze fell to her mouth, her lips poised on the edge of the tea cup.
Those lips gave him ideas.
"What happened?"
Julien turned as his mother and the housekeeper rushed into the drawing room. His mother was beside Mademoiselle Serafina in an instant. "Are you unwell, my dear?" She put a hand to Mademoiselle Serafina's forehead. "You don't feel warm. Come." She urged the girl to stand. "Let's get you to bed."
"That's not necessary," the girl said, her eyes still darting about the room. "I'm fine. I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me."
Julien watched as his mother and the housekeeper escorted the girl from the room. He followed them into the hallway and heard the housekeeper ask, "Where is your luggage, my lady? The footman said there was none in the carriage."
Mademoiselle Serafina stumbled and quickly righted herself. "It's coming. It was—lost."
"Oh, dear!" his mother exclaimed. "What will you do?"
"The—dock… workers are bringing it."
"I see." His mother glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze.
Julien could say one thing for Serafina Artois. She was not boring.
***
Sarah wanted to die. As soon as the duchesse and the housekeeper left her, Sarah dismissed her maid and climbed into the enormous bed. She lay there for a moment, looking about the room. She had made two more mistakes as soon as she set foot in this room. First, she had thanked the housekeeper for showing her the way. Aristocrats did not thank servants, and the woman had given her a quizzical look. The second mistake was asking—twice—if all this were really hers. She had never slept in such a beautiful room, such a large bed, such lavish quarters.
She blinked, certain it would all disappear. But, no, the walls were still lavender, the sheer cream curtains still pulled back from floor-length windows, the white and gold fireplace still crackled with a cheery little fire. Tucked in one corner was a walnut and satinwood armoire, decorated with paintings copied from Greek antiquity and carved with corner finials and rosettes. In another corner was a delicate tulipwood dressing table with a hinged mirror that could be raised when in use. Finally, there was the bed on which she lay—a half tester with matching canopy and bedclothes in blue satin—bedclothes the color of the duc de Valère's eyes.
She pulled the covers over her head and squeezed her own eyes shut.
She was mortified. Humiliated. She was never going to recover
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