from this indignity.
She had actually cast up her accounts in front of a duc! Could anything be worse?
Well, she supposed having sharp needles stuck in her eyes would be worse, but not much.
And he was a handsome duc. Why hadn't The Widow deigned to mention that little fact? The man was a veritable god. Sarah closed her eyes, but she could not strike his image from her memory.
He was tall—that was her first problem. She adored tall men, men who made her feel small and petite beside them. Not that she had ever known a man like that, but a girl could dream. When the duc de Valère had helped her to her feet and put his arm around her, Sarah had felt slight and dainty.
Not only was he tall, he was muscular. His chest was broad, his arms like steel, his shoulders square.
And his neck. When he had removed his cravat, she had seen a good deal of the solid bronze flesh beneath. She liked the way his black hair curled against it. She had rarely seen a nobleman with hair longer than his collar, but she could not stop thinking about the way the duc's hair swept back from his forehead and fell softly until it grazed his collar.
He was obviously no typical nobleman. He had not shaved that day and possibly not the day before. His square chin was shadowed, giving him a slightly dangerous look that Sarah was willing to argue contributed to her nervousness. But what had really done her in were his eyes. They were so blue—and so penetrating. She was certain he could look straight through her and know she was never, and would never be, Mademoiselle Serafina Artois.
Sarah tossed off the bedclothes and lay staring at the ceiling. She had humiliated herself in front of a duc, tossed her accounts in what was probably an expensive vase, and broken a porcelain bowl. She hoped it had not been Sévres.
A disastrous start. But that did not mean this scheme was doomed. For her own sake, she must become Mademoiselle Serafina. She could not afford to fail, and that meant no more nervousness, no more casting up of accounts, and no more mistakes!
There was a tap on the door, and Sarah steeled herself. Slowly, she pulled the bedclothes back into place and composed her expression. "Come in."
The duchesse and her housekeeper entered, the latter carrying a silver tray with two linen-covered dishes. "How are you feeling?" the duchesse asked. "Do you think you could keep down a little soup?"
Sarah gave what she hoped was a stately smile. "Yes. I'm much better now. Thank you for bringing dinner to my room." Especially as she didn't think she could have made it through a formal dinner. Not tonight.
"There's soup and bread and butter. If you feel hungry later, just ring, and Mrs. Eggers will bring more."
"Thank you. This is more than generous."
"Nonsense." The duchesse waved a hand. "I'm sure you're used to far finer."
Sarah gave her a vague smile.
"I do hope you are over this indigestion tomorrow," the duchesse added as the housekeeper set the tray on the bedside table. Sarah was careful not to thank her. "We've been invited to a ball hosted by Lord Aldon, and I so want to introduce you to everyone. Several of the guests are French émigrés and will have known your parents from before the revolution."
Sarah swallowed and stubbornly pushed down the fear that threatened to erupt again. "A ball?" she said as though that were all she had ever desired in the world. "How wonderful."
"I do hope your luggage will arrive in time. If not, perhaps we can find something of mine that will suit you."
Now this truly was unexpected. "Again, Your Grace, you're more than generous."
"Call me Rowena. After all, you'll be here several months, and I anticipate that we shall become great friends."
Sarah sensed the duchesse would have preferred if she tried out the new name immediately, but she simply could not do it. Not yet. Still,
She had actually cast up her accounts in front of a duc! Could anything be worse?
Well, she supposed having sharp needles stuck in her eyes would be worse, but not much.
And he was a handsome duc. Why hadn't The Widow deigned to mention that little fact? The man was a veritable god. Sarah closed her eyes, but she could not strike his image from her memory.
He was tall—that was her first problem. She adored tall men, men who made her feel small and petite beside them. Not that she had ever known a man like that, but a girl could dream. When the duc de Valère had helped her to her feet and put his arm around her, Sarah had felt slight and dainty.
Not only was he tall, he was muscular. His chest was broad, his arms like steel, his shoulders square.
And his neck. When he had removed his cravat, she had seen a good deal of the solid bronze flesh beneath. She liked the way his black hair curled against it. She had rarely seen a nobleman with hair longer than his collar, but she could not stop thinking about the way the duc's hair swept back from his forehead and fell softly until it grazed his collar.
He was obviously no typical nobleman. He had not shaved that day and possibly not the day before. His square chin was shadowed, giving him a slightly dangerous look that Sarah was willing to argue contributed to her nervousness. But what had really done her in were his eyes. They were so blue—and so penetrating. She was certain he could look straight through her and know she was never, and would never be, Mademoiselle Serafina Artois.
Sarah tossed off the bedclothes and lay staring at the ceiling. She had humiliated herself in front of a duc, tossed her accounts in what was probably an expensive vase, and broken a porcelain bowl. She hoped it had not been Sévres.
A disastrous start. But that did not mean this scheme was doomed. For her own sake, she must become Mademoiselle Serafina. She could not afford to fail, and that meant no more nervousness, no more casting up of accounts, and no more mistakes!
There was a tap on the door, and Sarah steeled herself. Slowly, she pulled the bedclothes back into place and composed her expression. "Come in."
The duchesse and her housekeeper entered, the latter carrying a silver tray with two linen-covered dishes. "How are you feeling?" the duchesse asked. "Do you think you could keep down a little soup?"
Sarah gave what she hoped was a stately smile. "Yes. I'm much better now. Thank you for bringing dinner to my room." Especially as she didn't think she could have made it through a formal dinner. Not tonight.
"There's soup and bread and butter. If you feel hungry later, just ring, and Mrs. Eggers will bring more."
"Thank you. This is more than generous."
"Nonsense." The duchesse waved a hand. "I'm sure you're used to far finer."
Sarah gave her a vague smile.
"I do hope you are over this indigestion tomorrow," the duchesse added as the housekeeper set the tray on the bedside table. Sarah was careful not to thank her. "We've been invited to a ball hosted by Lord Aldon, and I so want to introduce you to everyone. Several of the guests are French émigrés and will have known your parents from before the revolution."
Sarah swallowed and stubbornly pushed down the fear that threatened to erupt again. "A ball?" she said as though that were all she had ever desired in the world. "How wonderful."
"I do hope your luggage will arrive in time. If not, perhaps we can find something of mine that will suit you."
Now this truly was unexpected. "Again, Your Grace, you're more than generous."
"Call me Rowena. After all, you'll be here several months, and I anticipate that we shall become great friends."
Sarah sensed the duchesse would have preferred if she tried out the new name immediately, but she simply could not do it. Not yet. Still,
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