Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(35)
Author: Tessa Dare

“Oh, I know he couldn’t get loose.” The duchess teased a folded newspaper out from beneath the heap of envelopes. “Precisely as it’s printed in the Prattler. ‘The Duke of Halford, Snared at Last.’ ”

Oh, no.

Pauline cringed as she scanned the newspaper gossip column. Just as the duchess had said, it was filled with speculation about the duke and “the mysterious Miss Simms.”

Any thrill of overnight fame was lost on her. She was consumed by the common girl’s worst daily fear: that of losing her post.

If the duchess was this happy with the results of last night, Pauline knew one thing.

The duke would not be.

He couldn’t blame her for this scandal sheet, could he? If the evening had ended in anything other than humiliation, it was all his fault. He was the one who’d caught her when she slipped, tangling their clothing. He was the one who’d danced her out into the garden.

He was the one who’d kissed her. Touched her, so sweetly.

The duchess whisked the newspaper aside. “We’ve made excellent progress, but there remains a fair bit of road ahead. And you have your elbows on the table.”

Pauline removed them grudgingly.

“This morning, our task is accomplishment.”

“Accomplishment?”

“The next time you attend a social event, you’ll stay longer than an hour. As is the case with all young gentlewomen in attendance, you may be called on to exhibit.”

“Exhibit?” Pauline laughed.

Oh, this would be a joke. Her worries about accidentally succeeding in this duchess-training endeavor all melted that instant—like so much butter scraped across her warm, evenly browned point of toast. No scorched bread in this house.

“You mean to make me an accomplished lady in one morning? That’s impossible.”

“I mean to find the natural talent you already possess. There must be one.”

Pauline paused, toast halfway to her mouth. “Your grace . . .”

She set the toast aside, suddenly uneasy. The duchess thought she had a hidden talent. Her, Pauline Simms. It was so strange—and rather wonderful—to have someone who believed in her, even this small bit.

Though Spindle Cove was stocked with unconventional ladies, none of them had ever taken much time to know Pauline. Her own mother was a sad, defeated shadow of a woman. She’d never had anyone like the duchess in her life—a guiding feminine presence who not only believed she could be something better than a farm wife or serving girl, but demanded she try.

But the more she came to treasure the duchess’s confidence in her, the more Pauline worried about how this week would end. She hated the idea of watching the older woman’s dreams unravel.

She said, “Please believe me when I tell you, nothing remotely matrimonial is ever going to transpire between me and the duke. It just . . . won’t happen. Nevertheless, your grace, I’m starting to like you. You’ve been kind to me in moments, and I know you have a good heart under all that phlegm. I don’t want you to form lofty expectations, only to have your plans spoiled.”

In response, the duchess only gave a slight smile. She lifted a spoon and tapped at her egg sitting in its enameled cup. A delicate lattice of cracks bloomed over the egg’s smooth shell.

Tap, tap, tap.

Pauline reached out with her own spoon and gave the egg a good, hard crack. She didn’t know how else to make the older woman listen.

“Your grace, you must take me seriously. I’m trying to tell you to give up your hopes of grandchildren—at least, any mothered by me—and you’re calmly eating a boiled egg. Are you losing your hearing?”

“Not at all. I heard you perfectly.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m smiling because you said ‘spoiled plans’ and ‘boiled egg.’ Not ‘spiled’ or ‘biled.’ ”

Pauline clapped her hand over her mouth, aghast. Drat. The duchess was right. She had said the words correctly. What was happening to her?

She knew the answer to that question.

Griff was happening to her. When the duke kissed her, her head spun, her knees melted . . . and her elocution improved. Limber tongues and all that.

“Bloody hell,” she mumbled into her palm.

The duchess gave a weak sigh and motioned to the servant for more tea. “Your H’s still need work.”

Griff woke up at the crack of . . . half-nine. Hours earlier than usual.

He’d always been the sort of person who felt most himself at night, and in this last year he’d become a veritable vampire. More often than not he went to bed as the sun came up and remained there until well past noon. But yesterday’s debacle had made it clear to him he couldn’t afford to doze though another day of his mother’s scheming.

How had yesterday gone so wrong?

It had started with the frock. That damnable sweet, sheer, innocent white frock. She’d turned his head, and the rest of the day had been one mistake piling atop the next.

If he hadn’t lost his concentration with Del, he wouldn’t have been wounded. If he hadn’t been wounded, he would have never agreed to attend that ball. If they hadn’t attended the ball, he wouldn’t have ended with her in that dark, fragrant garden, sliding his fingers over her tempting curves and contemplating acts of romantic lunacy.

The answer to this situation was plain.

No new frocks.

No attractive ones, anyhow.

No more kisses, either. That was obvious.

And most important of all, no more surprises.

As he walked through the house in search of them, Griff passed an unusual amount of clutter. Strange debris littered every room—all sorts of activities hastily abandoned. As though the house’s occupants had recently fled an erupting volcano.

In the salon, he found various instruments of needlework strewn on the settee and table. In the morning room, an abandoned easel displayed a drippy mess of a watercolor. Nearby a few drawing pencils lay cruelly snapped in half.

He heard a faint melody, so he walked toward the music room. When he arrived, he found it empty of people—but every instrument in the place, from harp to harpsichord, had been stripped of its Holland cloth, dusted, and attempted.

Where were the servants? Why weren’t they putting these rooms back to rights?

And he still heard that strange, slow melody. Like a drunken music box winding into a death spiral.

The tune ended. It was followed by an enthusiastic smattering of applause.

“Brava, Miss Simms,” he heard.