Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(38)
Author: Tessa Dare

A wealthy man with a strong, handsome profile. And no more hat to shield his dark, touchable hair from her view.

He cut her a sudden, sideways glance.

“Aren’t you going to put it on?” she asked, nodding at the green “cap” in his hands. “It was a trade.”

He scowled at it. “Probably writhing with fleas.”

“Impossible,” the duchess insisted. “This institution has strict standards of cleanliness.”

“Their standards are lacking,” he muttered. “This is unacceptable. I know they’re penniless, cast-off scamps without a possession in the world, but they must be permitted some pride.”

Pauline’s stomach twisted as she looked to the duchess, knowing the parcel the older lady carried beneath her arm was probably crammed with similar travesties of yarn—all misshapen, all rather useless. But every one of them the products of hope and motherly love.

Griff’s insults might be unintentional, but surely they had to wound her. That hurt must go deep.

Twin smudges of color appeared on the duchess’s high, aristocratic cheekbones, but that was the only reaction she showed.

She said, “We are not here to quibble with the fashion sense of foundlings. Today, we are here to tour the nursery. Come along.”

The nursery?

At that, Griff balked. “No.”

His mother turned. “What?”

“I said, no. A man must draw a line somewhere, and my line is definitely between this particular bit of flooring”—he gestured at the tile directly beneath his boots—“and the nursery door.”

“Don’t you like infants, your grace?” Miss Simms asked.

“Not especially. Noisy and noisome things, in my limited experience. I believe I’ve had enough touring the facility for one day.”

“We’ve nearly walked the perimeter of this wing,” the duchess said. “If your goal is to leave, it’s faster if we go through the nursery.”

He leveled a hard stare at his mother. “I know exactly what you’re doing. You plan to take me in that room and pop a squalling, sticky creature in my arms. Because you think that experience will leave me vibrating with desire to make a squalling, sticky creature of my own. Perhaps there are men that ploy would work on. But I tell you, it won’t work on me.” He began a backward stroll. “I’ll be in the carriage.”

“Wait.” With a quick curtsy in the duchess’s direction, Pauline joined him. “I’ll go, too. I’ve had a sneeze or two this morning, and I don’t want any babies catching cold.”

“Simms, you should stay with my mother.”

“So should you.” She paced him down the corridor, taking three steps for his every two. “You truly don’t like being here, do you?”

“No. I truly don’t.”

“You could be a little more agreeable.” She shook her head. “I’m starting to understand the duchess’s frustration with you. And sympathize.”

“My family has supported this establishment since its inception. I have no intent to discontinue that tradition.”

“But you could be giving more.”

“Very well. I’ll donate an extra sum toward proper autumn apparel.” He shook the green cap in his hand. “We can’t have this sort of thing occurring.”

“You needn’t be so snide, you know.” She took the cap from him. “It’s ugly, yes. But clearly it was made with love.”

“Made with love? That? That was made with incompetence, if not outright malice.”

She sighed. “You don’t understand. You’re missing my point, and your mother’s. When I say you could be donating more, I mean more than money. You could give your time and attention.”

He shook his head. “The doctors and matrons who run this establishment want nothing from me but a timely bank draft.”

“They seem happy to have your mother’s involvement. She makes regular visits and brings . . . things.”

As they moved back toward the main hall, they passed an empty room. Pauline noticed a familiar-looking face cowering in the corner.

“Hubert,” the duke said. “That’s you again?”

The boy approached them, mournful and hatless.

“What happened to your fine new hat?” Pauline asked. But the fresh split in the boy’s lip told the story well enough. “An older boy took it from you, did he?”

The lad nodded.

She pulled Griff aside and whispered to him. “Griff, this is exactly what I mean. You can do something for him.”

He showed his empty hands. “I don’t have another hat.”

“No, no. You made an impression on that boy earlier, and it had nothing to do with the hat. You spoke with him, treated him like a person worth something. Talk with him now. Give him some manly advice, or teach him to fight. It might be beneficial for you, too. It’s good to feel useful now and then.”

He cast a wistful glance toward the exit. “Simms, you seem to have forgotten that you are my employee. I hired you to distract my mother, not to give me advice.”

“Well, then. Consider it a bonus.”

Good God. Did her impertinence know no bounds?

“You’re a powerful man,” she went on. “And it’s not only to do with your money or your title. You have the ability to make people feel valued, when you’re not making them feel like rubbish.”

She didn’t understand. He wanted to help the lad. He truly did. But he wasn’t in any condition to offer benign encouragement right now. This place had his viscera in turmoil. All the little footsteps pattering right over his heart . . .

“Sorry,” he said curtly. “I just don’t have the time.”

Oof.

The punch seemed to come out of nowhere, though rationally he knew it must have originated at the end of her right arm. There was no doubt about where it landed—square in his gut.

He fell back a step, reeling.

“Hubert,” she said, her eyes never leaving Griff’s, “since his grace can’t spare the time, you’re getting your fighting lessons from me.”

“Simms, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious.” She tugged off her gloves with her teeth and cast them aside. She circled him with raised fists, taunting. “What? You’re not going to fight back?”

“You know very well I can’t hurt a woman.”