The Making of a Duchess by Shana Galen

of a dance."
       Surprising her, he made a sweeping bow. " Oui, mademoiselle. May I have the pleasure of this dance?"
       She frowned down at him. He was gazing at her through his eyelashes, his eyes daring her to reject him. People were watching them now. She could not very well say no without causing some speculation among the other guests.
       And of course, now that the music began, she remembered that she was a horrible dancer. Oh, why had she encouraged him to ask her in such a way? She should have pled a headache and hid in the ladies' retiring room the rest of the evening!
       Now she had no choice but to accept. "Of course."
       He rose, made a grand gesture of offering his arm, and escorted her onto the dance floor. They took their place among the other couples, he across from her. She smiled at the others in their set, then leaned over and hissed, "Are you certain you want to dance,
    Your Grace?"
       The couple beside him looked from her to Valère. Valère smiled at them, then her, tightly. The dance was already beginning. The first couple moved down the set. "I asked you to dance, and I escorted you here, so yes, I'm certain I want to dance."
       "Oh." She watched the second couple, trying to memorize the forms. Was it a turn to the left and then a step or a turn-step-turn?
       He was looking at her dubiously. "Why do you ask?"
       The couple beside them began to repeat the forms, and Sarah felt her heart pump faster. Oh, how she regretted not having practiced dancing more.
       He reached for her, and she stepped on his toe. "Oh, no reason."
       He turned one way, and she went the other. Oh, how mortifying. But she would keep her chin up and get through this. It was no less than the Academy expected.
       Valère tightened his grip on her hand. "It's a turn and then a step," he instructed. "Just listen to me."
       She did. It was embarrassing that he had to tell her the forms, but she completed them successfully. She even began to smile. She was dancing. With Valère's help, she was actually doing this.
       Despite the Italian and the dancing, she might get through this night yet.
       And then at the edge of the crowds, frowning at her, she saw Sir Northrop. He held up ten fingers then walked away.
       Sarah missed the next step.

Eight

    "I'm so sorry," Sarah said for the tenth time as the duc de Valère escorted her from the ballroom. "My father has been ill for some time, and I have not wanted to dance. I'm afraid I'm out of practice." It was a clever lie, and she actually said it rather smoothly. But at that moment she would have given anything to be a better dancer than liar. The duc was limping—very slightly, but she noticed.
       "It's fine," he said.
       "No, it's not. You're limping."
       He gave a surprised look. "Old injury. Nothing to do with you." He paused just at one of the doors of the ballroom, not caring that he was blocking the exit. Sarah squeezed into a corner with a potted plant to make more room. "Would you like me to fetch you a glass of champagne?"
       He was still acting the perfect chaperone. Despite the fact that she had tread on his toes half a dozen times, he was going to fetch her a refreshment as was the custom. Obviously the duc could affect good manners when the moment called for them.
    "No, thank you. I don't drink champagne."
    "Well, I do." And he limped off.
    So much for affecting good manners.
       But his departure did give her a moment to think. During the dance, Sir Northrop had held up ten fingers. What could that mean? Ten o'clock? She glanced at the longcase clock across the room. It was quarter of ten now. But how would she know where to meet him?
       If she were a spy—a real spy—where would she plan to meet? The terrace? The library? The conservatory? Did this house even have a conservatory?
       She would start with the terrace. The French doors leading outside were just past the row of potted