Any Duchess Will Do (16 page)

Just this,
he told himself.
Just touching.

He would allow himself this much, and no more.

He worked the knot of the sash free and divided the edges of her robe, exposing the crisp white shift beneath it. This one was new—not nearly so frail and translucent as the one she’d worn the first night. But he found it arousing as hell anyway.

He slid his hands up and down her body, cupping her breasts through the chemise, then stroking downward to her hips and thighs. The linen softened and heated under the friction, molding to her form. He found her nipples and claimed them with his thumbs, teasing and rolling them to tight peaks. He slipped a button free, then another. Just enough so he could push the fabric aside, bend his knees, and finally—
finally
—suckle her the way he’d yearned to in that darkened garden.

As he kissed his way back up her neck, he sent one hand downward, arrowing straight for her sex.

He worked his fingers between her thighs, massaging the linen until he could cradle her sex in his palm. Even through the fabric, she was warm for him. Wet for him.

Dear God, he could have her so easily. Undo a few trouser buttons, push up her shift, and glide straight home. He could be in her in seconds.

“Nothing but your pleasure,” he vowed to them both, stroking her with the heel of his hand and pressing his fingertips through the linen, dampening the fabric with her body’s moisture. “You have my word. I don’t mean to take from you. Only give.”

He supposed he should have carried her to the divan or laid her down on the carpet, but he was selfish. He wanted all of her, all for himself. All of her weight in his arms, all of her heat against his body. He did not want to share her with a sofa or a carpet, or even something so slight as a chair.

Wrapping his arm tight about her middle, he bound her to him. With his other hand, he coaxed and explored her sex. Desperate for her secrets.

There were few things that gave him more satisfaction in life than bringing a woman pleasure. In so many ways, it was like solving a puzzle. Each woman had the same anatomy. But the crucial bits came in all shapes and sizes, fit together in different ways, and each responded to a unique set of strokes and caresses. The same techniques might not work from one woman to the next. The process of discovery was humbling and intoxicating.

But when he triumphed—when he found just the right touch to apply in just the right place for just as long as she needed it—ah, the sweet thrill of success. Victory was a heady drug. He loved feeling a woman come undone in his arms. Loved feeling the taut ring of her sex soften and melt for him, then grasp him tighter than a fist. He loved learning each little expression and sound that heralded her orgasm. Some women sighed, some wept, some laughed, some whimpered, some begged, some screamed. Some were wickedly grateful in the aftermath, and others grew endearingly bashful.

He didn’t know what Pauline would be like when she reached her peak. But he knew he must find out. Deep inside, he expected transcendence. Something utterly different than anything he’d experienced before.

He gathered a handful of her shift and drew the fabric upward.

“You can say no,” he murmured.

“I don’t want to.”

Thank heaven. He slid his hand beneath the linen, skimming a slow, patient touch up her thigh. When he reached her cleft, his patience left him. He had to be inside her, somehow. He parted her folds and plunged a single finger into her tight, wet heat.

She gasped. Her hands clutched at him. The delicious bite of her fingernails made him wild.

“Are you frightened?” he asked, holding still. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Yes, I’m a bit frightened.” She looked up at him and swallowed hard. “And no, I don’t want you to stop.”

He kissed her again, thrusting his tongue in rhythm with his touch. Slowly in, then out. When he felt she was ready, he added a second finger. Her intimate muscles stretched and contracted around the combined girth, gripping him tight. His cock throbbed vainly in his trousers, trapped in a painful state of arousal.

She nestled close to him, and her belly pressed against the aching ridge of his erection. It wasn’t nearly all that he desired, but the friction provided some relief.

She broke the kiss and rested her head on his shoulder, slack-jawed and breathing hard. Her hips writhed as she worked herself against his hand, grinding against him in the way that pleased her most.

He began to whisper against her ear. He knew she’d passed the point of coherence, so he said any foolish thing that came to mind. How lovely she was in the moonlight, and how proud he was of her courage. How she’d enchanted him that very first night, and he still hadn’t found his way back through the magic cabinet. How he adored her neck and her sharp green eyes. How sweetness clung to her, and how he fantasized spending blissful hours slowly lapping it up with his tongue.

“Here,” he whispered, skimming his thumb up and down her crease. “I’d taste you here. You’d be so sweet. And then . . .”

He pushed his fingers deep, driving them to the hilt. With his thumb, he worried the swollen nub at the crest of her sex.

“Griff,” she pleaded.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s right.”

She gave a few charming little hitches of breath. Like an ascending scale on the pianoforte. And then she came with one perfect sighing, shuddering moan.

A lovely sound, that moan. Her intimate muscles contracted deliciously around his fingers. But all in all, her orgasm was not quite the epic, transcendent experience he’d expected.

What stunned him breathless was his own reaction.

That was entirely new.

The surge of emotion he felt—it wasn’t just the usual triumph of bringing a woman pleasure. An unbearable font of tenderness welled in his chest. Mingled with protectiveness, fondness. The impulse to not just pleasure her, but cherish her, guard her. He pressed kiss after kiss to the crown of her head, as if he could expel this painful excess of emotion.

“It wasn’t you,” he whispered, nuzzling the delicious lobe of her ear. “Whoever he was, he was a fool. Or a boor. Or just too damned young to know what the hell he was doing. But it wasn’t you. Understand?”

She clung to his shirtfront for long moments, breathing hard. Finally, she looked up at him. “Will you take me upstairs?”

He’d never wanted anything so much. To simply take her upstairs, let his world explode, and then contend with the rubble later.

“I wouldn’t expect anything,” she rushed on. “I’m not asking for promises. I just want to know what it’s like when it’s good. And I might go my whole life without another chance. I’m not a lady with a reputation to guard. There’s no one to care.”

Damn it,
he
cared.

He
cared
, and he could no longer deny it. He’d brought her into his house, taken her under his protection. Lady or not, he wanted to treat her well.

Her hands slid up his chest, then trailed down his arms. She pressed a light kiss to his neck. “Griff, please.”

His cock throbbed in eager agreement.

Her
, his stupid heart whispered.
I’ll take her.

But beneath all this, his veins ran cold with a deep, dark current of fear. It was too great a risk for them both. He couldn’t take her like this when she’d never be his for the keeping. That way lay danger and months of despair.

“I can’t.” He stroked her hair. “It isn’t you. I want you more than you could possibly know, in ways you couldn’t even fathom. But I just can’t.”

He released her with abruptness—because that was the only way he could do it at all.

Chapter Fourteen

P
auline came late to breakfast. She considered skipping the meal entirely—pleading headache or fatigue—but she didn’t want to invite any questions.

She wasn’t sure how she’d even look at the duchess this morning. The woman had the perception of a hawk. She would have to mind her every move, word, and glance to avoid giving anything away.

As she neared the breakfast room, she stopped in the corridor and took a moment to compose herself.

She could hear voices from within—both the duchess’s and Griff’s.

Drat.

He wasn’t supposed to be awake this early. How was she going to manage this?

The same way he managed it, she supposed. After their encounter in the dining room the previous morning, she knew Griff would have no difficulty. He would barely acknowledge her presence, no doubt.

In fact, that was probably why he’d come to breakfast at all—because he worried that she would blurt out over toast that she’d shamelessly thrown herself at him mere hours ago. He wanted to quell any speculation.

Just pretend nothing happened,
she told herself.
You were not alone with him in the library. He did not gather you in the most tender, needing of embraces. He most especially did not lift your skirts and give you delicious pleasure while whispering the most tender, arousing words to ever caress your ear.

The memory was so acute, she bit her knuckle to keep her reactions in check.

When she had her resolve firmly in place, Pauline turned the corner and entered the breakfast room. She kept her eyes downcast.

“Beg pardon for my tardiness, your graces. I slept rather—”

The scrape of chair legs interrupted her. The sound froze the blood in her veins.

Oh no. Surely he hadn’t.

She looked up in horror.

He had.

The eighth Duke of Halford had come to his feet when she entered the room. Without thinking, apparently, because he couldn’t possibly have meant to do such a thing. Gentlemen rose to their feet when ladies came in. They did not rise for servants.

No man had ever stood for Pauline. Not once in her life. It was the best, most thrilling sensation. But when it came to the cause of discretion, this was complete disaster.

And then he made it worse—he inclined his handsome, dark head in a sort of bow. “Miss Simms.”

Up went the duchess’s eyebrow. “Well.”

That one syllable spoke volumes. Her grace knew everything. At least, she knew
something
had happened. Pauline could only pray the details remained a rough sketch in her imagination.

“Be seated, Miss Simms,” Griff said.

She shook her head. “You first, your grace.”

“Both of you, remain as you are,” the duchess said. She rose from her own chair. “I was just about to leave for the morning room, and now I’ve saved you the trouble of rising twice.”

“Do we have lessons this morning, your grace?”

She gave Pauline a strange look. “No. It’s Wednesday. My day to be at home to callers. I expect a great many inquisitive ladies this morning.”

“You don’t want me to sit with you?”

“Best to keep them wondering, I think. If they want another look at you, there’s the fete at Vauxhall Gardens this evening. For now, you may be at your leisure.”

Pauline curtsied as the duchess exited the room.

As soon as the older woman had gone, she whispered to Griff, “What are you doing, standing for me? You shouldn’t stand for me. You saw the duchess’s face just now. How smug she looked. She’ll think something has changed between us.”

“Everything
has
changed between us.”

Everything changed inside her, at that statement. Her internal organs began scouting for new neighborhoods.

He said, “When you’ve finished your breakfast, get your things. We’re going out.”

“We? Out? Where?” Pauline was aware she sounded something like a yipping dog. But her mind was full of questions.

“You and I. Will go out of the house.” He walked his fingers in demonstration. “On an errand. Did you have some other plans for the morning?”

Pauline had just been contemplating an hour or two of reading, followed by a nice long nap.

“I don’t have any plans,” she said.

“Very good. Meet me in the entrance hall when you’ve fetched your wrap.”

She still wasn’t sure what last night meant to him. Or even what it meant to her. But this morning she couldn’t turn down the chance to spend time with him.

She wanted to be with Griff more than she wished to be anywhere else.

In her heart she knew this meant she was on the verge of something emotional and treacherous—and at serious risk of falling in.

Be careful, Pauline. Nothing could come of it.

For today, she decided to ignore the posted warnings and dance on the edge of heartbreak. Surely she could teeter on this brink a few hours longer without falling completely in love with the man.

After all, it was only an errand.

E
xcept that it wasn’t only an errand.

Oh, no. It was something far better. And far worse.

He took her to a bookshop.
The
bookshop.

When the coach pulled up before the familiar Bond Street shop front, Pauline’s heart performed the strangest acrobatics in her chest. It tried to sink and float at once.

The cruel words echoed in her memory.
I’ll chase you off with the broom.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, accepting Griff’s hand as he helped her down from the carriage.

“It’s a bookshop. If you mean to open a circulating library, don’t you need books? They don’t sell very many of those at the fruiterer’s or linen draper’s.” He tugged at her hand. “Come, we’ll buy up every naughty, scandalous, licentious volume in the place.”

He pulled her toward the shop entrance, but Pauline held back.

Griff looked bemused. “If you’re too proud to accept a gift, I can deduct it from your thousand pounds.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

She chided herself for her reluctance. He meant well. He meant more than well. He’d brought her here for the express purpose of making her dreams come true.

“Isn’t there another bookshop in London? A bigger one, with a larger selection? This one looks rather small.”

“Snidling’s is the best. My family has patronized this shop for generations. They offer bindings done to order, of the finest quality. That’ll be important for your circulating library. You’ll want the books made to last.”

Her heart ached at all the evidence of how much thought he’d given this. This was the extravagant shopping trip her heart yearned for—not a whirlwind of pink in the dressmaker’s shop, or hours spent poring over trays of gold and jewels. And the fact that he understood it meant he knew
her
.

“You were right yesterday,” he said, more softly. “About Hubert and the hat. I can’t just hand you a thousand pounds, brush the gold dust from my hands and walk away. If this is your dream, I want to be sure you’ll make a go of it.”

Oh, Griff.

“I can’t go in there,” she blurted out.

“But of course you can.”

“No, I mean I’m . . . I’m not welcome there.”

His face went serious. “What makes you say that?”

There was nothing for it but to tell him the truth. As Pauline related the tale, he received it with a stony, impassive expression. It hurt to own up to the humiliation. But if she were going to refuse his help, he deserved to know why.

“So you see, I can’t go in. Not this shop.”

He didn’t answer her. Not in words. When his footman opened the door, Griff ushered her into the bookshop with a firm hand.

The shopkeeper rushed out from behind the counter to greet him with a deep bow. “Your grace. What an honor.”

Griff removed his hat and placed it on the counter.

“How may I serve you this morning, your grace?”

“This is my mother’s friend, Miss Simms. She is looking to acquire some books for her personal library. I believe you made her acquaintance earlier this week.”

Snidling’s gaze flicked to Pauline and his tongue darted out in a reptilian manner. “Er . . . I’m afraid I don’t recall, your grace. Please forgive me.”

“I understand. This is a busy shop.”

“Yes, yes. So many people come and go, you see. I can’t possibly remember each face.”

The snake. Pauline knew he recognized her. His gaze kept darting in her direction, and his face was showing hints of crimson.

It was on the tip of her tongue to confront his lies. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not now, with a duke at her side. This time, she would stand up for herself.

But Griff’s hand pressed against her back, relaying an unmistakable message:
Allow me.

“So you do not remember Miss Simms?” he asked the shopkeeper once again.

“I’m afraid not, your grace.”

“Let me shake your recollection,” the duke said, imbuing the word “shake” with the crisp ring of a threat. His voice was smooth, aristocratic, commanding, and honed to a blade-sharp edge.

Pauline thought it was the most arousing thing she’d ever heard.

“You had a conversation with her,” he continued evenly. “About oranges, Leadenhall, the Queen of Sheba, and chasing vermin off with brooms.”

The man’s stammering became a violent tremor—nearly as violent as the bloodred flush of his cheeks. “Your g-g-grace, I humbly and abjectly apologize. I had no idea the young lady—”

“It is not I who deserves your apology.”

“Of course not, your grace.” The scaly man turned to Pauline. He barely met her eyes. “Miss Simms, please accept my profoundest apologies. I didn’t realize. I am deeply sorry if you interpreted my remarks in any way that offended you.”

“Well?” The duke turned to her. “Do you accept his apologies, Miss Simms?”

Pauline glared at the shopkeeper. His was the worst, most insincere apology possible. To say “I’m sorry you were offended” was not the same as apologizing for the offense. She didn’t believe he was sorry in the least, and if she’d been alone and feeling brave, she would have told him so.

But she was here with Griff, and he’d meant this to be a pleasant errand. Part of her fairy tale.

So she said quietly, “I suppose.”

“Very well, then.” Griff clapped his hands together. “Let’s begin an order. Take a list, Snidling.”

The shopkeeper’s relief was plain. He scurried behind the counter and turned his ledger to a fresh sheet before dipping his quill in ink.

Griff began to dictate, rattling off titles and authors with an arousing tenor of authority. “We’ll start with all of Mrs. Radcliffe and Mrs. Wollstonecraft. All the modern poets, as well. Byron and his ilk.
The Monk
,
Moll Flanders, Tom Jones
, a good translation of
L’École des Filles
. . .
Fanny Hill.
Make it two copies of that last.”

Snidling looked up. “You did say these are for the young
lady’s
library, your grace?”

“Yes.”

“Your grace, might I suggest—”

“No,” Griff clipped. “You may not offer suggestions. You will continue to write down the titles that I name.”

Her mouth dried. Good heavens. If he’d torn every scrap of clothing from his body and held the shopkeeper at the point of a glimmering sword, every muscle flexed in anger—she could not have found him more attractive than she did right now.

He went on listing titles and dictating names. They were all a muffled stew in her ears.

When the list filled an entire page, front and back, he said, “I suppose that will make a start. Now, for the bindings.”

Griff turned to Pauline and waved her over to view samples of leather. As she neared him, her heart began to pound. Last night he’d skimmed his rough, hungry touch over her breasts, filled her with his wicked fingers. But nothing—none of the previous night’s exhilaration—could compare to this moment.

She stood next to him, buffeted by the full, soul-rattling force of her adoration. How could he fail to notice? How could the world not have changed around them? She’d been struck by lightning, and he just went on speaking in that same, even tone.

“You must have Morocco bindings, of course. It’s the best. Gold leaf embossing for the title and the spine. Do you have a favorite color?”

“Favorite color?” She was lost in his dark, inquisitive stare. “I . . . I like brown.”

“Brown?” he scoffed. “That’s too commonplace.”

“If you say so.” Pauline ran a loving touch over the scrap of fawn-colored leather she’d admired the other day. Just as butter soft as it appeared, but wholly impractical. She tried to focus her attention to the samples of Morocco he’d suggested.

“I should think red,” she decided. “Red, for all of them.” She lifted a scrap of supple crimson kidskin. “Red is the best color for naughty books, don’t you think?”

“Indubitably.”

“And people will know at a glance they came from my library. It will be a good advertisement.”

“Red it is, then. With marbled endpapers and gold leaf. Write that down, Snidling.”