Any Duchess Will Do (19 page)

Always the generous host, Griff famously opened his door to any and all guests—especially the pretty, female variety. Days were for sleeping. Nights were for gambling, drinking, and other vices of the flesh.

The Grange had become such an institution that when Griff failed to open the house last winter, rumors of his insolvency had circulated.

He hadn’t been broke, of course. Just broken.

“You
are
opening the Grange this year, aren’t you?” Martin asked.

“I hadn’t decided,” Griff replied. “Perhaps not.”

“Oh, come along, Hal. You
must
. Last winter I was forced to go home to Shropshire. A crashing bore, I tell you. The old man’s after me to join the Church.”

“Second sons and their problems.”

Griff wasn’t interested in opening his house just so Martin and Delacre and every other overgrown adolescent in England could come laze barefoot on his furniture and organize drunken billiard tournaments that lasted three days and three nights straight. It had been good fun when they were youths, but now . . . He supposed his patience and his generosity had run out.

Or been redirected.

He could see himself opening that house for one reason only—and her name was Pauline.

As soon as the idea flickered through his skull, his mind pounced on it. He knew she had her dream of opening a bookshop in Spindle Cove. But perhaps she dreamed of that simply because she couldn’t conceive of more.

He
could give her more.

She turned to him then, as though she could feel the force of these new, visceral intentions. Sidling her way through the crowded booth, she made her way to his side.

“Lord Delacre has asked me to dance,” she whispered. “I haven’t the faintest idea of the steps. If I time my stumble at
just
the right moment, I think I can take us both into the punch bowl. Will you give me a ten-pound bonus?”

He smiled despite himself. “Twenty.”

He watched her as she drifted away on Del’s arm, headed out to join the colorful whirl of dancers.

Oh, he couldn’t marry her. He couldn’t marry at all. But he could take care of her, see that she never struggled again. At the age of twenty-three, she’d worked enough for a lifetime. She shouldn’t have to toil anymore. She deserved to be spooned delicacies, pampered with the softest linens, waited on by a dozen maids, and bathed in deep copper tubs.

Delacre swung her through the dance. In that blush-pink gown, her light figure was a dream. He hoped she was enjoying herself, at least a little. In a more just world, she would have been given her own coming-out ball, with dozens of admirers queuing for her hand. Then again, he could admire her enough for dozens of men. He couldn’t take his eyes from her now.

The dancers turned a corner, and Griff caught a glimpse of her face.

Damn.

He recognized that expression she was wearing. He didn’t like it.

Before he’d even decided on a course, his feet were in motion. He had to get to her, immediately.

Something was wrong.

Chapter Seventeen

“H
ow long have you known the duke?” Lord Delacre led her capably through the dance. He was so elegant a dancer, she scarcely had the opportunity to misstep.

“Only this week,” Pauline answered truthfully. “And you, my lord?”

“We were at Eton together. Close friends ever since.” He fixed her with an unreadable gaze. “We have a pact, you know.”

“A pact?”

“Yes. A pact, blood-sworn on our crossed blades. To protect one another in the face of all threats—treachery, betrayal . . .”

“Death?” Pauline finished.

“No, worse. Marriage.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “How old were you when you swore this pact?”

“Nineteen. But it never lapses, you know. It automatically renews.”

“I see.” She tried to look thoughtful. “Lord Delacre, if a duke wishes to avoid matrimony, isn’t he capable of protecting himself?”

He shook his head. “You really are new in London, aren’t you? A man like Halford needs a trusted friend to watch his back at all times. The
ton
is rife with fortune-hunters. And as fortune-hunting goes, his fortune is the elusive white tiger’s pelt. The greatest prize to be had. There are women in this town who’d stoop to poisoned darts and mantraps just to bag him.” He arched one brow and swept a playful look around the crowd.

His gaze returned to her. “You never know when they’ll strike.”

“So you think I’m one of those women,” Pauline concluded. “A fortune-hunter like the rest. My lord, let me assure you—I have no designs on the duke. No sharpened arrows or slingshot in my reticule. I possess no qualities that could remotely tempt a man like Halford into marriage.”

Where was that punch bowl anyway? She didn’t feel like explaining her bargain with Griff to Delacre, but acting it out might serve the same purpose. Surely he wouldn’t view her as a marital threat once he was drenched in arrack punch.

“You’re aware of Halford’s reputation, I hope,” Delacre said. “Fling your favors at him all you like, but he won’t marry you.”

“What makes you think I’d ‘fling my favors’ at anyone?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Simms,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t intend any such implication.”

Liar. He’d meant exactly what he’d said. As though he could look at her—without having any knowledge of her humble, common origins—and just know she was
that
sort of girl.

What was worse, he was right, to a point. In her youth, she hadn’t guarded her “favors” as closely as she should have. But Griff knew about that, and he never made her feel lesser for it.

Pauline looked about, growing desperate to end this. She wanted to get back to Griff.

Aha. There it was. A vast silver tub of punch, shaped like an open clamshell. As soon as they reached the far end of the dance floor, she’d ask Lord Delacre for some refreshment. They’d approach the bowl . . . he’d lean over to dip with the ladle . . .

And from there, just one good push would do the trick.

“Lord Delacre, your friend is in no danger from me.” Mentally, she added,
You, on the other hand . . .

“I’d like to take you at your word, Miss Simms.” Delacre’s eyes wandered to a spot beyond her shoulder. “If only Halford himself weren’t about to prove you wrong.”

“What?”

“That’ll be enough.” Griff appeared out of nowhere and stopped them in the middle of the dance. “I’ll take it from here.”

Delacre resisted. “Oh, come along, Halford. Let us get through one dance. We’re having a conversation.”

Griff gripped his friend’s lapel, pulled him away from Pauline and lowered his voice to a growl. “I said, she’s mine.”

Delacre raised his hands. “Very well. She’s yours.”

With a little bow—and a wary look in Pauline’s direction—Delacre disappeared.

As Griff took her in his arms and resumed the dance, Pauline stared at him, amazed. “Why did you cut in? I was on the cusp of brilliant disaster.”

He shrugged. “I decided I didn’t care to watch you dive in the punch bowl. Someone worked too hard on that gown you’re wearing. And on the punch. Not to mention, there’s a breeze this evening. You might catch cold.”

Might catch
cold
?

“You do realize,” she whispered, “that for our bargain to work, sooner or later you
will
have to let me stumble.”

“Well, it won’t be tonight. Tonight, I’m here for you. And I will not let you fall.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I could see you were upset, Pauline.”

Her heart twisted. The fact that he’d been able to tell from all that distance—and wasted no time coming to her side—it warmed her deep inside. She didn’t care what anyone said about his past or reputation. This was a good man.

She clutched his shoulder tight.

“It’s all right.” He firmed his hand against her back. “Just follow my lead.”

He danced her to the side of the pavilion—the one opposite his friends’ booth. Instead of rejoining the party, he steered her away from the orchestra and onto a dimly lit path. Once they left the crowds behind, he turned her to face him.

“What happened?” he asked, bracing his hands on her shoulders and searching her face. “Was it something Del said? I can easily kill him for you.”

Pauline smiled weakly. “Please don’t.” Even though Delacre had insulted her, she knew he was trying—in his own, warped way—to be a good friend to Griff. She didn’t want to be caught in the middle.

“Did someone else insult you? Are you ill?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“You’re homesick, then.”

“I am homesick.” It wasn’t a lie. “This place has me awestruck. Everywhere I turn, I think, ‘Daniela would love to see this.’ And from there . . .”

He drew her close. “Another landslide.”

She nodded.

“It will pass. A walk will help.”

He offered his arm, and she took it. Together they ambled away from the orchestra and into a darkened grove. Once again she found herself wondering how he understood her feelings so completely. Almost as if they were his own.

“May I ask you something?” she said.

“Only if it’s nothing to do with cataclysmic smelting.”

She smiled. “It’s about my sister. You were perfect with her. Just perfect. Do you have someone like Daniela in your family?”

“No,” he answered. “I have no siblings at all. Not anymore.”

So he
had
lost someone. She squeezed his arm. “Griff. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not like you’re thinking. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. My mother bore four children, but I’m the only one who lived longer than a week. I have no clear memories of my brothers and sister.” He moved a low-hanging branch out of Pauline’s way, and she ducked under it. “I found Daniela charming. You’re lucky to have her.”

“I am. I didn’t always know it. But I am.”

Pauline wasn’t a saint, and neither was Daniela. Like any sisters, they had their episodes of bickering and resentment. And there’d been that shameful day in their girlhood when they traveled to market with Father. Pauline, perhaps eight years old, had run off to make new friends, steal a bit of joy from someone else’s life. And when Daniela caught up with their merry group, Pauline had been embarrassed.

“Is that dummy your sister?” a boy had sneered.

“Lud, no,” she’d replied. “Never saw her before in my life. Make her go away.”

Even now she could still see her sister’s horror-stricken face. The guilt had crushed her like a millstone. She’d known, in that moment, she’d denied the only person who loved her most in the world. And for what? To impress a few children at market? She had dashed after Daniela, begging forgiveness. They’d clasped each other tight and cried and cried. It was a painful memory, but one she didn’t dare forget.

She would never let anyone make her feel ashamed. And she would never betray her sister again.

“I am lucky to have her,” she repeated. “And no one else understands that. No one.”

“Perhaps they have siblings to spare. We aren’t all so fortunate.”

With that, he fell quiet.

Pauline stared at him, tracing his handsome features in the lamp-lit darkness. He was a complex man, with a rich family legacy and responsibilities she couldn’t begin to fathom. Who was she—a serving girl, from Sussex—to tell him anything?

But she had to try. There was no one else who could.

She turned to him, placing a hand on his sleeve. “Griff . . .”

“Don’t.” At the new tone in her voice, his eyes narrowed. He backed away, leaning against a nearby tree. “Don’t, Simms. Don’t start this.”

“Don’t start what? I merely said your name.”

“But in that
tone
. I know that tone. You’re embarking on some vain attempt to fix me, mend the brokenness of my life . . . Whatever fool womanly notion you’re entertaining, abandon it now. You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

Good heavens. The man was so transparent, it was like she could look at his waistcoat and see straight through to the tree trunk he leaned against.

If he thought a few boorish words could shake her off, after the way he’d clutched her to him last night . . . the sweet words he’d whispered . . .

“You are being ridiculous,” she said calmly. “So ridiculous, I can’t even be angry with you, so don’t think you’re pushing me away. Griff, I know you’re hurting somehow. I know it. I could feel it, even that first day, and—”

He turned his gaze. “I’m not having this discussion.”

“Fine. Deny it. I don’t care. I don’t know if that’s male pride or aristocratic phlegm. But whatever quality it is, it’s not one I possess. You can pretend you’re not hurting. I can’t pretend not to care.”

She steeled her courage to continue. “I’m not asking to be in your confidence. I can understand why you wouldn’t share your problems with a girl like me, but . . . perhaps you shouldn’t dismiss the idea of marriage entirely. I hate to think of you alone.”

“Who says I’m alone?” he scoffed. “I don’t lack for companionship if I want it.”

“Yes, yes. You’re a great rake and libertine—or so I hear. But I haven’t seen any evidence of it. From my observation, you’re just an impulsively generous, occasionally decent man who roams the house alone at night and tinkers with old clocks.”

His arm shot out and he pulled her tightly to his chest. “Don’t mistake me for a decent man.”

In one swift move he had their positions reversed. His broad chest pressed her against the tree. She struggled just a little, and the gauzy fabric of her dress snagged and caught on the bark.

She would not let him see her trembling.

“You declined to ravage me last night,” she said. “Surely you don’t expect me to fear it now.”

“Not at all.” He leaned forward, until they were nose-to-nose. “I expect you’ll enjoy it.”

He took her mouth in a deep, demanding kiss. His tongue moved against hers, again and again, and he angled his head to slide deeper still. Exploring her, possessing her. Relentless.

And it didn’t stop there. His hand slid to her bodice, claiming her breast.

Oh, sweet heaven.

He cupped the batting-enhanced mound capably, his fingers lifting and stroking. His thumb skimmed back and forth, searching for her nipple. The padding thwarted him. He gave up with a curse and tugged at her off-the-shoulder sleeve, working her neckline downward.

She sucked in her breath. He couldn’t mean to do this
here
.

Or perhaps he could.

With a firm, unapologetic motion, he gathered what there was to gather and lifted, hiking her breast above the border of her corset and exposing it to the cool night air. It was dark, but she felt thrust into a spotlight, vulnerable and quivering.

He kissed her again, exploring her mouth with possessive sweeps of his tongue. As their tongues sparred, he rolled her nipple with his thumb. His masterful caresses destroyed all will, all reason. Somehow, between the delicious sparks and shivers of bliss, one simple, straightforward goal began to coalesce.

This time she wanted to touch him, too.

She slid her gloved hands inside his coat, surveying the ridged, stony muscles of his torso and chest. Even through his waistcoat the power in his body was palpable.

She yanked his shirt free of his waistband and thrust her hands beneath. He growled in encouragement as she ran her flattened palms over the hard cobblestones of his abdominal muscles and traced the light furrow of hair bisecting them. Then she swept her touch upward, grazing over his nipple and centering on the fierce thump of his heart.

Boom.

Something exploded. She felt the concussion of it in her chest, and thought it might have been her heart bursting. Then flashes of sparks from the heavens lit the space between them.

She laughed at herself as the realization dawned.

Of course. “Fireworks.”

With one last brush of his lips against hers, he lifted his head. She held her breath, expecting him to speak. But he didn’t say a word. He just stared down at her, the same way he had that first day in Spindle Cove—as though she were the most wonderful, terrible, puzzling, perfect thing he’d ever beheld.