Free The Making of a Duchess by Shana Galen Page A

proposal. Your mother could have done that via the post."
       "What do you—" Understanding flashed through her like the sun through clouds. The duc and his mother had assumed she was coming with the intention of marrying Valère. Perhaps all had even been arranged in the letters exchanged between the duchesse and the Foreign Office.
       But, no. She had seen the correspondence. No mention of marriage had been made. No overt mention—that would be vulgar. But there had been
    allusions, veiled allusions.
       She could kill Sir Northrop and The Widow for not having foreseen this possibility or instructing her how to respond. Perhaps she should have accepted?
       The duc was still watching her, irritation making his dark brows a slash over those magnetic blue eyes.
       "I-I…" Her mind raced for the correct response, but her thoughts were a muddle. His features darkened, and she took a step back. Why had she not gone to her room when she had the opportunity?
       "But perhaps you never had any intention of accepting my proposal," the duc said now, voice icy. "Perhaps you had other motivations for coming."
       She raised her brows. "I did?"
       "Did you?"
       "No." None besides snooping through his personal items and determining whether or not he was a spy. Her gaze traveled to his desk again. She might not be a professional spy, but she had seen the letter with the French markings on it. If only she had been alone, she could have pocketed it, and this nightmare would be over.
       "Perhaps you want to survey the field before you make any commitments."
       She blinked, dragging her gaze from his desk. "Survey the field?"
       He gave her a look that said he knew she understood every word he said. She wanted to laugh, He thought she was being difficult, when in reality, she had simply not been paying attention.
       "The other eligible bachelors in the ton ," he said, voice edged with steel.
       "Oh, no." She shook her heard violently. "I don't want to do that." Too late she realized such a firm denial would probably confirm his suspicions.
       "Not to worry. You'll have your opportunity tomorrow night at Lord Aldon's ball. I'll chaperone you, of course. Introduce you to London's finest." He reached for the door handle and pulled the door open.
       "But I'm not interested in London's finest," she protested, envisioning having to dance with half a dozen men. "I don't even want to go to the ball."
       But he was not listening. He stalked through the vestibule and up the marble stairs. Sarah watched until he disappeared. She sighed, already weary of playing Mademoiselle Serafina, but she was not so weary as to forget about the letter she had seen on his desk.
       Heart pounding, she turned back to it and hurried across the room. Her gaze scanned the desk quickly. Where was it? Where was it? Oh, if only she had her spectacles—
       "Mademoiselle, is there anything you require?"
       Sarah let out a short squeak and whirled about. The butler, Grimsby, was standing in the doorway, keys in hand. Valère must have sent him back to lock the door.
       Sarah cleared her throat. "No. I was just going up to my room."
       "Shall I light your way?"
       She shook her head. "I'll manage."
    ***
    The next day was a blur of primping and preparation. The rest of Serafina's clothing arrived first thing in the morning, and Sarah was awakened by Katarina, her Italian lady's maid, unpacking the trunk and shaking wrinkles out of the gowns.
       When Sarah poked her head out of the bedclothes, Katarina began babbling away in Italian. Sarah nodded, pretending to understand. Not long after, the duchesse descended. Intent on playing her part, Sarah was still in bed, sampling from a tray of coffee and scones the housekeeper had set on her bedside table a few moments before.
       The duchesse entered, did not bat an eye that Sarah was still abed, and ordered her to take a hot bath. Then she