The Making of a Duchess Read Online Free PDF Page B

that."
       Stover held up his hands. "You and I and the rest of the ton know your mother hopes you'll ask the chit to marry you."
       "I'm the one to bend a knee." He rose. "And I'll make that decision."
       "You'll do it." Rigby sighed. "Duty and all that."
       "Try it sometime."
       Rigby frowned. "What's that mean?"
       "How long has your family been trying to match you with Miss Wimple? She's rich, has land adjoining yours, and blushes every time you speak to her."
       "She has horse teeth." Rigby wrinkled his nose.
       Stover laughed. "And you have big ears."
       Rigby's hands flew to his ears. "Do not!"
       With a laugh and a shake of his head, Julien strode away.
       He did not go straight home. He walked until he tired his brain enough that he thought it would finally allow sleep. Three hours later, he stood in front of his town house in Berkeley Square. The sun was just breaking through the clouds, penetrating the thick fog that shrouded the night and engendered damp and cold even this late in May. He hated the English damp. It made his foot throb, the pain like a persistent
    adversary after all these years.
       He stood in front of the house, leaning against the door, watching the last of the carriages rattling along the road. He supposed the occupants were returning from some lord or lady's ball. Had his mother gone? Was he supposed to have attended?
       Behind him, the door opened and Luc, his valet, stuck his head out. "Monsieur le Duc, do you intend to stand out here all night?" he asked, voice thick with his French accent.
       Julien turned to squint at Luc. "What are you doing up?"
       "Eh! Mon Dieu! Look at that cravat." Luc gestured desperately at the vestibule. "Come inside, s'il vous plaît . Are you certain you are part French? No Frenchman would treat his accoutrements in this fashion." He lifted the wilted cravat with two fingers. " Au secours! It is ruined, no?"
        Ruined was an exaggeration. The cravat was undone and had a small stain on it, but Julien wasn't going to argue the point. Once inside, he dropped into a pink and white striped satin Sheraton chair, waving away his valet. "I'll buy another."
       Luc frowned then bent to remove the neck cloth. "That is what you always say."
       "This time he means it."
       Julien looked up and saw his mother standing at the top of the steps. Rowena, dowager duchesse de Valère, descended, the train of her yellow morning gown trailing over the steps after her. She was a beautiful woman. Not quite five and forty, her hair was still black, her figure still trim, and her smile
    still sad.
       Once when he and Stover were too far in their cups, Stover had described her as ethereal. Julien could see that now. The grief that accompanied losing two sons and a husband had not robbed her of her beauty, but it had transformed that beauty into something fragile and poignant.
       She seemed so delicate now, not the same woman who had scaled a chateau and fought off angry peasants with a pitchfork.
       She reached the marble landing and held out a hand. "I missed you at the ball."
       So he had been expected to attend. "I was with Rigby and Stover."
       "Ah."
       "Monsieur Bruyere, leave us, please."
        "Oui, Duchesse." The valet bowed deeply, and taking the wilted cravat with him, retreated.
       She extended a hand. "Come, have tea with me." Julien thought of her with tea cup and saucer, stirring cream and sugar into the cup. She never seemed so English as she did when she took tea. Of course, she was English, and she never tired of reminding him that he was half English. She often said he might as well consider himself fully English as the French certainly did not want their kind back.
        "Ma mère, je suis fatigué." Julien spoke the French stubbornly. He would not disavow his origins. A look of sadness crossed her features, and he regretted his words immediately. "Never mind,