Any Duchess Will Do

Page 25

“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.
Except 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.”
The shopkeeper scribbled greedily in the margins. Pauline could tell he was already tallying up the outrageous profits he’d turn on this one order alone.
“May I view the list?” the duke said.
“But of course, your grace.” Snidling turned the ledger so the duke might view the page.
Griff ran his finger down the list, nodding with approval.
Then he grasped the page and ripped it from the ledger. “Thank you,” he said, folding the paper in two and creasing it smartly. “This will prove helpful when we place the order with your competitor.”
The shopkeeper flashed a nervous smile. “Your grace, I don’t understand.”
“Really? Don’t you? Then permit me to make it clear.” He approached the man until the difference between their heights was evident. “Perhaps Miss Simms accepts your measly, insulting apologies. I do not.”
“B-But, your grace—”
“I would offer you a farewell, but I don’t bother with insincerity. I hope you fare very ill indeed.”
Pauline wanted to cheer and applaud. Kiss him, in full view of everyone. Or at least stand there and gloat a few moments longer.
But Griff was eager to leave.
He ushered her out the door. “Don’t worry. We’ll find another shop.”