Any Duchess Will Do

Page 27

She was a hardworking girl, and she’d been hired for a reason. To be a comprehensive catastrophe.
“Colin. Colin, something terrible has happened.”
Colin Sandhurst, Lord Payne, looked up from the letter he was writing. His wife stood in the doorway of his study—as always, an enticing vision of dark hair and plump, kissable lips.
But her lovely eyes had gone grim behind her spectacles.
He rose from his desk at once. “Good God, Min. What is it?”
“We must do something,” she said.
“Of course we will, darling.” He crossed the room to her. “Of course we will. I could crash through the window this instant, if you asked. Or pen a strongly worded letter to The Times. But the actions we take will be more effective if you explain to me first what’s going on.”
He took her by the shoulders and guided her to the divan.
“It’s that horrid, debauched friend of yours,” she said. “From before we married.”
He chuckled. “That description fits a shocking number of people, I’m afraid. You’ll have to narrow it down.”
“The duke. That grabby, disgusting duke from Winterset Grange.”
“Halford?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He’s got Pauline Simms. Our Pauline, from the Bull and Blossom. And he’s holding her hostage here in Town.” She shuddered. “God knows what he’s done to the poor thing. Probably made her his sordid love puppet.”
Colin struggled not to laugh. “Minerva, I’m trying to follow you, but you’re making it quite difficult. Perhaps you can start again and tell me what actually happened today.”
“I saw them together. I was going to the bookshop to . . .” She blushed a little. “To see if any more copies of my book had been sold. I can’t help it.”
“And had they?”
“Yes,” she said proudly. “Three.”
“Excellent, Min. That’s brilliant.” Colin had only purchased two of them himself.
He knew she’d throttle him for buying them up, but he couldn’t help it. The market for geological treatises wasn’t especially robust. But she was so damned adorable when she was pleased with herself—and especially creative in bed. His motives were entirely selfish.
“Anyhow, as I was approaching the bookshop, I saw the two of them leaving it. The Disgusting Duke of Halford and Pauline Simms. Clear as day.”
Colin sighed. He hated to prod at a sore spot, but this was too much to be believed. “Were you wearing your spectacles?”
She gave him an offended look. “Of course I was.”
“Still. I think you must have been mistaken.”
“I’m not. I know I’m not, Colin. Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe, without a doubt, that you believe you saw them.” He clasped one of her sweet little hands in his and stroked it soothingly. “But I still think it a great improbability.”
“It’s true that two more different people never existed,” Minerva agreed. “That duke is vile and debauched. And Pauline is so well-meaning.”
“Well. Opposites do occasionally attract. And Spindle Cove women ‘abducted’ by rakes are not always so unwilling as the observer might suspect.”
She smiled. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Before we go haring off on a rescue mission, let’s consider a few bits of information. From all evidence, Pauline had no means of traveling to London. Secondly, I know Halford. The man would never be near a bookshop. And last”—he placed a light, affectionate touch to her nose—“you have been complaining that your spectacles need new lenses. A mistake seems the most likely explanation.”
“Colin—”
“However,” he added, “I will do all I can to set your mind at ease. Today, I’ll ask around at the clubs. See what gossip there is of Halford.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll pay a call on Susanna and Lord Rycliff. If anything were amiss in Spindle Cove, they would have heard.”
“Excellent. And if our little fact-finding investigations turn up nothing, we’ll perform an experiment. We’ll call at Halford House tomorrow.”
She nodded. Her eyes misted with tears.
“Darling Min.” He stroked her cheek. “Are you truly that concerned?”
“No,” she said. “Oh, Colin. I’m just so proud.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re using the scientific method.”
Chapter Sixteen
Griff kept busy for the rest of the day. He had a full slate of appointments that afternoon, all related to the business of his estates.
It still wasn’t enough. All his meetings with solicitors and land agents and secretaries . . . They were like cannonballs stuffed in a crate. They were weighty, and they took up space—but they didn’t make the crate truly full. Thoughts of Pauline slipped in to fill every void, like a million grains of sand.
Or crystals of sugar, it might be more appropriate to say.
Somehow he made it to late afternoon, when he surrendered to the attentions of his valet. He emerged an hour later—smooth-shaven, fully dressed, and completely unprepared for the vision coming down the staircase.
Good Lord.
One look at her and Griff knew it was over. The evening was a failure before it began. No one would ever believe her to be a common serving girl. Not tonight, not looking like this.
She wore a gown in deep, lush pink, with gauzy layers of skirts billowing out from a fitted, off-the-shoulder bodice. Matching elbow-length gloves. Her hair was curled, looped, and pinned—but all in a way that managed to look effortlessly lovely and elegant. Quite a trick, that. Fleur deserved a rise in wages.
She carried herself well, too. Her neck was a pale, slender column, and her bare shoulders . . . ah, her shoulders looked sculpted from moonlight. Delicate and serene, mysterious and feminine. A rope of pale amethysts dipped sensuously above her décolletage, catching the light with a thousand facets.
He was a duke and a libertine, he reminded himself. He’d seen many a beautiful woman in his life. Finer gowns than this, more lavish jewels than these. Rationally, he knew that Pauline Simms could not eclipse everything and everyone who had come before her. And yet, somehow she did.
There wasn’t any one feature he could point to, or any particular gesture she made. It was just . . .
Her. I’ll take her.
“Well?” she prompted.
Finally, he looked her in the eyes—those bright green, cat-tipped, intelligent eyes, set in a heart-shaped face. They were anxious tonight, and transparently vulnerable.
Lord above. She had no idea. She had him enraptured to the point of drooling incoherence, and she had absolutely no idea.
She lifted an eyebrow.
She’s waiting for your reaction. React. But not too much. Only the appropriate amount. A well-chosen word or two.
What he said was, “Guh.”
Oh, hell. Had that unformed syllable actually escaped his throat?
Pauline blinked at him. “What?”
Apparently it had. He cleared his throat with a loud harrumph, then searched for a way to amend his statement. “Good,” he pronounced, clearing his throat again. “I said good.”
A pretty flush rose on Pauline’s cheeks. Still, she bit her lip, looking hesitant. “What kind of good?” she asked. “ ‘Good’ as in ‘rather bad,’ which aids our purpose? Or ‘good’ as in ‘actually good,’ and you’re displeased?”
Griff sighed inwardly. What was he to say? “Good” as in “Good God, you are the most radiant, lovely thing I’ve seen in all my life, and I’m a speechless, shuddering fool before you.” Does that clear matters?
“Good as in good,” he said. “I’m not displeased.”
Her mouth pulled to the side. “Then that’s . . . good.”
This was now officially the most inane conversation in which Griff had ever been a participant—and that included a drunken debate with Del over ostrich racing.
“The color isn’t too awful?” She twisted a fold of the skirt. “The draper called it ‘dewy petal,’ but your mother said the shade was more of a ‘frosted berry.’ What do you say?”
“I’m a man, Simms. Unless we’re discussing nipples, I don’t see the value in these distinctions.”
Her lips pursed into a chastening pout.
“Whatever shade it is, it looks well on you.” Too well. He tugged his black evening gloves on and gathered his hat from Higgs. “Let’s be going.”
The carriage was readied and waiting. He turned to Pauline. She obviously needed help, what with those ungainly skirts. Without hesitation, she took the hand he offered and clutched it tightly, borrowing his strength. The warm clasp of her satin-clad fingers nearly undid him. He was unsteady himself as he made his own way into the coach and sat across from her on the rear-facing seat.
He turned his head to the window. He needed to bring himself under control. They were only just leaving the house, and the whole evening lay ahead.
When they reached the place for the river crossing and alighted from the coach, twilight had descended. The air was heavy with wisps of fog and shadow. An air of romantic mystery lingered, despite all Griff’s attempts to discredit it.
“We’re going to cross the river in boats?” she asked, eyeing the boat launch with alarm. Her grip tightened on his arm.
He nodded. “It’s the only way to Vauxhall. Eventually there’s to be a bridge, but it isn’t complete.”
“I’ve never been in a boat. Not in my whole life.”
“Never? But you live by the sea.”
“I know. It’s absurd, isn’t it? Sometimes the ladies go boating, but I never had a reason to join in.”
“Don’t be frightened.” He reached for her. “Here.”
Helping her into the boat was even more precarious than handing her into the carriage had been. Griff went first, wedging his boots fast against the floorboards and steadying his balance.
Pauline accepted his hand and took a cautious step onto a seat near the bow. But just then the waterman launched the boat. She stumbled. Griff had to catch her by both arms as she fell against his chest.
“Oh, bollocks.” She struggled to correct herself, and the boat lurched.
His stomach nearly capsized. He had a vision—a brief, waking nightmare of a thought—in which she tumbled straight into the black water and all those heavy, embellished skirts dragged her straight to the depths.
“Don’t move,” he told her, tightening his grip. “Not yet.”
He held her close and tight. For long moments they stood absolutely still—swaying in each other’s arms while the boat regained its equilibrium.
“Are you well?” he whispered.
She nodded.
“Your heart is racing,” he said.
“So is yours.”
He smiled a little. “Fair enough.”
When the boat finally steadied, he helped her onto the seat and motioned to the waterman, who ferried them across the Thames in smooth, even strokes.
“See?” he murmured, keeping her close. “There’s nothing to fear. Just imagine we’re traveling through that crystal cabinet in the poem. On our way to another world. Another England. Another London with its Tower. Another Thames and other hills.”
She relaxed against his shoulder. “A little lovely moony night.”
“Exactly so.” There she went again, enchanting him.
Griff had never been the fanciful sort, even as a boy. When he was with Pauline, the world was different. She forced him to see things through fresh eyes. Suddenly his library was the eighth wonder of the world, and Corinthian columns merited blasphemy. A ferry across the Thames was an epic journey, and a kiss . . . a kiss was everything.