The Making of a Duchess by Shana Galen Read Free Book Online Page A

was white with black shutters, and it towered over her—over all of London it seemed. Sir Northrop had told her only the duc and his mother lived here. So much space for only two people! Why, the entire Academy could have been housed here and still had space for the Valères.
       The interior of the home did nothing to quell her astonishment. The vestibule was black-and-white marble, and it gleamed from the foot of the door all the way up the curved stairs that led to the drawing room on the first floor.
       She looked up. The chandelier—was that cut crystal?—gleamed. She looked down. The banisters— were they mahogany?—gleamed. She looked to the side. The vase on the small table—was that Sèvres porcelain?—gleamed.
       She looked forward, and even the buttons on the butler's coat gleamed.
       Sarah looked down at her own ungleaming self and felt a burning rise in her throat. She had been in many aristocratic homes, but none this grand nor this impressive.
       "This way, my lady," the butler said and indicated those gleaming steps.
       She took a deep breath and, on wobbly legs, followed. You are Mademoiselle Serafina Artois. She swallowed. Chin up!
       The Italian maidservant Sir Northrop had sent with her was being led in another direction, probably up the servants' stairs, and though Sarah had just met the girl a half hour before, she had the urge to latch on and follow her. The servants' stairs seemed far less intimidating than the marble mountain in front of her.
       But Sarah was not certain how much the maidservant, who Sir Northrop had called Katarina, knew about this scheme. Did she know that Mademoiselle Serafina Artois was really Sarah Smith? No matter. No daughter of a comte would sleep in a cot in a bedroom the size of a cupboard.
       The butler had paused and was waiting for her to follow. Once again, Sarah had the urge to turn and run the other way. Would life on the streets really be so horrible?
       A picture of garbage and rats and men drunk with gin flashed in her mind. The duc's home was certainly superior to that image.
       The butler was still waiting, and Sarah raised her skirts and rushed to follow. She had taken two steps before she checked herself, lifted her chin a notch, and began to climb the mountain at a leisurely pace.
       Hurrying would not do. That was the kind of mistake that would end with her selling flowers on some street corner. As a governess, Sarah was used to being an outsider. She was not quite a servant and yet, not part of the family. She often had time to observe her "betters." She would have to use the fruits of that observation now.
       Sarah had noticed that the upper classes seemed to enjoy making others wait on them. Not that she intended to be that kind of aristocrat, but she doubted it occurred to most of them that they were not the center of the universe and that others were waiting, sometimes quite impatiently. This butler would be accustomed to waiting.
       Sarah gingerly lifted her skirts, taking one last leisurely look about the vestibule, and then began to climb the mountain. With a nod, the butler continued on ahead of her, and she sighed in relief.
       She could do this. She could do this.
       At the top of the steps, the butler moved forward and paused in front of two towering, white doors. Sarah looked up and up and up. Was this a drawing room or a throne room?
       She shook her head. Serafina would not be impressed.
       With a flourish, the butler swung the doors inward and announced, "Mademoiselle Serafina Artois, daughter of the comte de Guyenne."
       Sarah swallowed and stepped forward, the light from the windows at the front of the room blinding her temporarily. She blinked before being wrapped up in a hard embrace and assaulted by rapid French.
       Caught off guard, it took her a moment to translate.
       "Dear, dear Serafina! How good that you have come," the woman was saying. She