Any Duchess Will Do (10 page)

As the jewels found the dips and hollows of her collarbone, Pauline stared into the looking glass, amazed. The duchess was right—the amethysts’ color did look well on her. The violet shade set off the golden tones in her hair and put a wash of pink on her cheeks.

Then again, perhaps the flush was born of excitement. She could scarcely believe such a thing was touching her bare skin.

“So my son has offered you a thousand pounds,” the duchess said. “This necklace alone is worth ten times that.”

Holy . . . Ten. Thousand. Pounds. Ten times a thousand pounds. A numeral one with four aughts after it. Hanging around
her
neck.

Fear gripped her with sudden, irrational force. She was terrified to move or breathe. If she even dared tilt her head to one side, perhaps the chain would break and the entire priceless business would slide into a floorboard crack—never to be seen again.

The duchess said, “Keep your eyes on the greater prize, my girl.”

Pauline could do nothing but stare at the silver-haired woman in the looking glass. Odd. She hadn’t pegged the duchess for a madwoman.

“Your grace, it simply won’t work.” She waved at her own reflection. “I’m not what he’d want. Much less what he’d need. He’s the eighth Duke of Halford, and I’m a serving girl. Perfectly wrong. Just listen to me. Look at me.”

“It’s not I who needs a look at you.” The duchess removed the amethyst necklace and replaced it in the tray, then motioned for Pauline to stand. “Come along. We’re going to have an experiment.”

Bemused, Pauline rose from the chair and followed. They went downstairs to the main floor, and the duchess guided her into a large, open salon. As they entered the room, she looked to Pauline and put a finger to her lips for quiet.

The carpets had been rolled back to the edges of the room, and Pauline quickly learned why. The room wasn’t a salon right now, but some sort of gymnasium.

In the center of the floor, the duke and a masked opponent squared off against one another. Each man was clad in thigh-hugging buff breeches, a quilted waistcoat, and an open white shirt. Each man held a slender, shining sword.

Neither noticed them enter the room.

“En garde,”
the masked man said.

Steel clanged in response.

Pauline looked on as the two swordsmen traded feints and thrusts. She was speechless in admiration.

While his opponent wore a mesh helmet to protect his face, the duke’s features were fully visible. She could make out every furrow of concentration and drop of sweat on his brow. The exertion had matted his hair to his skull in dark, curling locks, and his open shirt clung to his torso. His musculature was revealed by the damp white linen, giving him the look of a marble carving come to life. Arms, shoulders, calves, arse—he was beautifully formed, everywhere.

The masked opponent sent a quick thrust toward the duke’s torso, but the duke deflected it with a sharp flick of his own blade before going on attack. His lunges and thrusts had the grace of a dance, coupled with deadly force.

As the two battled on, the walls echoed with the exciting sounds of steel whooshing through the air and blades clanging against each other—and most thrilling of all, two athletic men grunting with the force of their exertion. The whole space hummed with virile energy.

If Pauline had been suffering flutterings since their kiss, this scene ratcheted those sensations to something even more profound. Stirrings? Quakings? She didn’t want to name them.

In the center of the room, the men locked swords. The shining edge was just inches from Halford’s face, and unlike his opponent, he wore no contraption of metal floss to guard it. A flick of the blade and he could be scarred or blinded.

Take care
, she wanted to shout.

The duchess put a hand on Pauline’s arm, restraining her.

Finally, with a primal growl, the two broke apart—each man recoiling several paces backward.

As he swiped at the perspiration on his brow, the duke turned his head in the ladies’ direction, briefly.

Briefly was all it took.

He saw her.

Even from across the room, Pauline felt it the moment his gaze locked with hers. The heated intensity made her skin tingle.

Halford must have felt more than a tingle. While he stood frozen in place, his opponent’s blade nicked his upper arm. A line of red blood quickly soaked through his shirt.

“Oh!” Pauline clapped both hands over her mouth, horrified.

For her part, the duchess made a satisfied noise. “I call that a success.”

Chapter Eight

G
riff growled in pain, dropping his sword and pressing his free hand over the wound. “Damn it, Del.”

“Not my fault. Why’d you stop defending?” His friend pushed back his protective mask and looked about the room. When his gaze found Miss Simms, he smiled broadly. “Hullo. I see for myself now.”

Hullo, indeed.

Pauline curtsied, and Griff gave her a brisk nod.

He shouldn’t have been so surprised. It was just that he hadn’t seen her since the library last night, where they’d spent that time talking. Then embracing. Then kissing like lovers who’d been imprisoned in separate cells for ten years and were headed for the gallows at dawn.

Good God. Good God.

Today, he’d resolved to find her and have a brief, businesslike chat to set matters straight, assure them both it wouldn’t happen again—but the talk wasn’t supposed to happen like this. They were meant to be alone, but only to a safe degree. When he was too exhausted from hours of vigorous fencing to even contemplate lust, and when she was . . . not looking like that.

Are you all right?
she mouthed.

No. No, he wasn’t all right. He was devastated.

Yesterday she’d turned his head with impropriety and all those sparkling sugar crystals. Now she didn’t sparkle any longer. She wore a frock of white so sheer and pure, the sun-burnished warmth of her skin shone through.

She
glowed
.

He’d always loved this: a woman’s elemental effect on him, as a man. He used to live for these moments of raw, instinctual attraction. When a source of celestial-grade femininity wandered into the room, and his internal compass recalibrated. It was a sublime shift from internal chaos to single-minded determination. The difference between
Ye gods, what next?
and . . .

Her. I’ll take her.

Damn. He wanted her. He had from the first. He understood it now, that some deadened part of him was kindling back to life.

But this was the worst possible time, and she was the least possible woman, and whatever effect she had on him, Griff knew he must make absolutely sure that no one in the room—not his mother, not his friend, not Pauline Simms—had any clue.

Well, aside from the bleeding.

Turning away, he used the edge of his sword to shear a strip of linen from his shirt and used it to bind his wound.

“Your grace.” Del stretched one leg forward and made a deep, courtly bow to the duchess.

“Lord Delacre.” His mother inclined her head.

“Will you do me the honor of introducing your lovely friend?”

Don’t start,
Griff silently warned.
Not with her.

He and Del had a long history of locking horns over conquests. In their most callow, youthful years they’d even made a sport of it, with wagers and a complex system of points. Griff had long outgrown such things, but there was no telling, where Delacre was concerned. He might still be keeping a tally somewhere.

“This is my guest,” the duchess said. “Miss Simms, of Sussex.”

“Well, Miss Simms of Sussex. It’s a true pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Lord Delacre, of wherever I’m least wanted.” He lifted Pauline’s hand and kissed it.

She lifted an eyebrow at Griff, and it was as though he could hear her teasing,
You didn’t kiss my hand.

But I saved you from falling on your face
, he retorted with a quirked brow of his own.

For a moment they began to share a smile. And then it was though they both remembered the kisses that had followed said rescue—not to mention the implied intimacy of conversing in eyebrow quirks while other people looked on.

Her throat flushed. Griff looked away.

“Don’t be worried about him, Miss Simms,” said Delacre. “We’re expert swordsmen, the two of us. Best in London. We have to be.”

“And why’s that?” she asked.

“Because we’re the two greatest rakes.” Del winked at her. “A reputation for expert swordsmanship is the best defense against being called out in a duel. No man, no matter how enraged, would put the choice of weapon in our hands.” He set his practice blade aside. “Have you been long in London, Miss Simms?”

“Only since yesterday, my lord.”

The duchess put in, “Miss Simms’s parents have been unable to expose her to society, so I’ve offered to give the girl some polish here in Town.”

“Judging by the slice in Halford’s arm, I’d say you’re off to a promising start,” Delacre said. In a lowered voice, he told the duchess, “I know what you’re up to. And as one blood-sworn to defend him against all marriage traps, I ought to object. But for once, your grace, I think we may be allies. There’s no denying he’s been a monk all season. Only less amusing.”

“I heard that,” Griff said curtly.

Del ignored him, still addressing the duchess in confidential tones. “Of course, we’re not entirely aligned. You’re his mother. You want to see him married. As his friend, my goal is different. I’d settle for getting him—”

“Del.”

“—out,” Delacre finished, clapping a hand to his breast in innocence. “Getting him out. Of the house. What did you think I meant to say? You have a filthy mind, Halford. Positively diseased.”

Annoyed, Griff swung his sword in idle threat, testing his wounded arm. With friends like these . . .

“This is excellent.” Delacre clapped his hands. “Miss Simms needs an introduction to Town. Halford’s been needing to use his—”

“Del.”

“—legs.” Delacre raised his hands in innocence. “Obviously, we all need to attend the Beaufetheringstone crush this evening.”

His mother sighed. “I will speak these words just once in my lifetime, I’m sure. Delacre, you make an excellent suggestion.”

“It’s a terrible suggestion,” Griff muttered.

“Until this evening, then.” Delacre gathered his things and sketched a quick bow. “I must be going. I like to wear out at least three welcomes before teatime. Otherwise, the day feels wasted.” From the doorway, he leveled a finger at Griff. “You can thank me for this later.”

Oh, I will gut you for this later.

“But I just arrived in Town,” Pauline said. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

The duchess raised a brow. “Girl, you have so little faith in me.”

Griff knew better. He put nothing past his mother when she had a goal in mind. But even if she managed to make Miss Simms look the part of a young lady, she couldn’t remedy the girl’s accent, education, woeful etiquette, and utter lack of genteel accomplishment. Not in a single day’s time.

He wasn’t worried.

Much.

A
few hours later Pauline understood why the duke might price a week’s maternal diversion at one thousand pounds and still think it a good value. The duchess could spend that sum in one afternoon, twice.

They visited the modiste first—an aging, turbaned woman who appeared better suited to fortune-telling than mantua-making. She surveyed Pauline with dramatic, kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Oh, your grace,” the woman said, in a tone of despair. “What is this you’ve brought me?”

“She needs a week’s full wardrobe,” the duchess said. “Altered samples will do for today, but we need better for tomorrow. Morning, walking, and evening dress. A ball gown by Friday night. And she must look ravishing beyond compare.”

“Ravishing? This?” The modiste clucked her tongue. “You ask too much.”

The duchess lifted a brow and fixed the woman with a severe look. “I’m not
asking
.”

The room froze over with an icy, tense silence.

Finally, the modiste clapped her hands, and a bevy of assistants rushed forward.

Pauline played scarecrow for hours, standing with her arms spread to either side while flitting seamstresses circled her. They measured every bit of her with tapes, from wrists to ankles, and draped her with lengths of shimmering fabric.

Once the seamstresses were finished pricking her with pins, it was on to the linen draper’s, where Pauline learned just how many shades pink came in: scores. The duchess pored over bolt after bolt of satin in shades of blush, rose, berry, and one unpleasant, flaming shade she could only describe as “rash.” The duchess had several fabrics cut and sent to the modiste.

Then it was on to the haberdasher’s. And the milliner’s. Then the glover’s. By the time she’d tried on a dozen pairs of toe-pinching slippers, Pauline came to a realization.

Achieving the look of pampered elegance required a ridiculous amount of work.

While the duchess was directing the footmen in their efforts to secure fourteen parcels and hatboxes atop the coach, Pauline’s attention strayed to a shop next door.

A happy flutter rose in her chest.

It was a bookshop.

She peered through the lattice of diamond-shaped windowpanes, greedily drinking in every detail and committing it to memory. In the window, someone had made a display of geographical titles—the travel memoirs of wealthy gentlemen, mostly. In the center lay an atlas, open to a tinted map of the Mediterranean Sea.

She noted the careful manner in which the unbound volumes were arranged on shelves. The titles were impossible to make out from this distance. Were they sorted alphabetically by title or by author? Or grouped by subject, perhaps? Maybe they were organized by some other method entirely.

Pauline cast a glance at the duchess. She was still wholly occupied with the parcels.

“No, no,” she told the footman. “That one must go on top. I don’t care that it’s the largest. It mustn’t be crushed.”

A pair of ladies emerged from the bookshop, turning to walk down the street in the other direction. Pauline peered through the window again. She saw no other customers within. After scribbling a few lines in a ledger, the shopkeeper disappeared into a back storeroom.

Her curiosity got the better of her common sense. While the duchess saw to the parcels, Pauline opened the door of the bookshop and ducked inside. She would only be a moment.

Oh, but she could have lingered for weeks.

The most glorious smell met her as she entered the establishment. Ink and paste and leather and crisp new parchment—all tinged with just the right amount of mustiness. It was the perfect blend of familiar and new, like the spice-laced comfort of walking into Mr. Fosbury’s kitchen at Christmastime.

Beyond the display she could spy the shopkeeper’s counter, with a slate of titles neatly labeled
NEW PRINTINGS.
Samples of various leather bindings were laid out for customers making a purchase—black, green, red, dark blue, and a scrap of light fawn-hued calfskin as impractical as it was lovely.

She walked to a shelf and let her touch linger on the spine of a book. A poetry volume.

Pauline didn’t have much in common with the ladies who visited Spindle Cove. But she shared their love of the printed word. It seemed any young woman at odds with her place in life—be she a genteel lady or a serving girl—might find a happier home within the pages of a book.

“Who’s that?”

The shopkeeper came out from the storeroom. When his sharp gaze fell on Pauline, she snatched her hand away from the poetry volume, cradling her fingers in her other hand as if they’d been burnt.

The man eyed her with suspicion. “What do you want, girl? If you’re selling pies or oranges, come ’round the back way.”

“No, I . . . I’m not sellin’ anythin’.” The broadness of her accent pained her own ears. Never mind the new frock—she was instantly given away. “Anything,” she repeated, making certain to attach the
G
sound this time. “I only wanted a look at the books.”

The shopkeeper snorted. “If you’re wanting horrid novels, you can find them down in Leadenhall. I don’t permit girls to stand about gawping.”

“I’m companion to the Duchess of Halford. She’s waiting for me just outside.”

“Oh, truly.” The man laughed. “I suppose the Queen of Sheba had other plans today. Now out, before I chase you off with the broom. This isn’t the place for you.”

She couldn’t move. His words threw her back to an old, hurtful memory. A book ripped from her white-knuckled hands. Pain splitting her head, from one ear to the other. Harsh words adding insult to the ringing in her ears.

That’s not for you, girl.

She wanted to retaliate, stand up to the shopkeeper—but how? She had nothing. No coin to spend. No cultured accent or knowledge to prove his assumptions wrong.

She was visited by a powerful, childish temptation to throw a book at the man, but that would be less dramatic than sugar—not to mention, unkind to the book.

So she simply turned and left, cheeks hot and fingers shaking.

Someday
, she promised herself,
I will own my own shop filled with lovely books. And it will be a home to me, and to Daniela, and to anyone else who needs it. No one will ever be turned away.

Outside, the Halford coach now resembled a four-layer cake, with boxes and parcels tied to every available surface.

The duchess waved at her from inside the carriage. “Come along, then.”

Pauline obeyed. She’d learned one thing from her quick survey inside the bookshop. She’d seen prices scribbled on the slates, and now she knew for certain . . .