Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(66)
Author: Tessa Dare

He slid an arm beneath her torso, lifting her as he drew himself tall. Her back fell against his chest. He held her up with that strong, powerful arm, and his other hand burrowed under bunched petticoats until his fingertips grazed her pearl. A shiver of ecstasy had her trembling on her toes.

“Look up at me,” he rasped. “Kiss me.”

She did as he bade, and gladly, turning her head and stretching to press her lips to his. His tongue plundered her mouth, and his c**k filled her sex, and his fingertips worked her just where she needed it. He had her wrapped in strength and adoration.

She didn’t want to come. She didn’t want this to ever end. This was the purest bliss she’d ever known.

But he was wicked and skillful and so cursed efficient. Within moments her whole body was racked by waves of pleasure.

His thrusts quickened, lost their elegance. Once again that coiled power in his thighs had her toes lifting off the ground. He broke the kiss and buried his face in her hair. Profane, inarticulate mutterings rained on her ear, making her pulse drum even harder.

“I don’t forget who you are,” he whispered. “And it’s you I want. So . . . damned . . . much.”

He withdrew, finishing with a few last thrusts between her thighs. His primal growl gave her a thrill of satisfaction.

And then he held her so tightly it grew difficult to breathe. But she didn’t mind.

“Well,” he said finally, hoarsely. “I hope that’s settled.”

“Quite.”

He slumped into the armchair and pulled her into his lap. They sprawled there, tangled and sweaty, filling the silence with ragged breaths. He lazily stroked her hair with one hand.

She pressed her face to his shirtfront. “Griff, that was . . .”

“I know,” he said. “I know. It was. I don’t mind saying I’m rather proud of it.”

“You should be.”

His chest rose and fell with a deep, satisfied sigh. “I feel like jaunting over to Piccadilly to wait for someone in passing to ask me, ‘How do you do?’ Simply so I could reply, ‘Just had the best sexual encounter of my life, thanks for asking.’ ”

She laughed, imagining that exchange. “Best of your life?” she couldn’t help but ask. “Truly?”

“Until later tonight, at least.” He nuzzled her neck. “Pauline. Every time with you is the best of my life.”

And how many more times would they have left? Too few, too few.

Ding . . . ding . . . ding . . .

As if it were some fateful portent of their time growing short, a nearby timepiece chimed the hour. Pauline looked over at the side table. She recognized it as the clock he’d been tinkering with all week.

“You were able to repair it,” she said.

He shushed her, and his breath warmed her earlobe. “Watch.”

From a little window in the front, a tiny couple emerged. A soldier and a lady. In halting, mechanical motions, they bowed to one another, twirled in a little waltz, then parted and retreated back into the clock.

“Oh, that’s charming.”

“I always loved watching it when I was a boy.”

A hint of melancholy deepened his voice. No doubt he’d hoped his own offspring would one day love watching it, too. Now he believed he would never have someone to share it with.

At least she could share it with him now. She slid an arm around his back, hugging him tight. Listening to the last chimes of the clock and the fierce thump of his heart.

“I was thinking I’d donate it to the Foundling Hospital,” he said. “I thought perhaps the children in the infirmary would enjoy it.”

“I’m sure they would.”

“Well, then. I’ll have my mother take it when she visits next.”

She twisted in his lap and peered up at him. “I have a better idea.”

Chapter Twenty-two

The plan might have been Pauline’s idea, but Griff quickly took control of it. This wouldn’t be any namby-pamby Ladies’ Auxiliary tour of the establishment. If he was going to visit a foundling home, he was going to do it his way. The dissolute ducal way.

With authority, extravagance, and unabashedly wicked intent.

His arrival was unannounced—all the best, most dramatic appearances were. He led a parade of servants through the gate, each of them laden with treasures: sweets, oranges, playthings, competently knitted caps—and at Pauline’s suggestion, storybooks.

By the time they marched this bounty straight into the central courtyard, the entire place was in upheaval, with brown-clad children pouring out from every classroom and dormitory.

The matrons were not pleased. Their already dour expressions reached new excesses of sternness—many a new wrinkle would be carved that day. But the matrons had no recourse, unless they wished to refuse the thousands he gave them per annum.

It was good to be a duke.

Once all the children were assembled, Griff called out, “Where’s Hubert Terrapin?”

The lad shuffled forward. He was easy to spot—the smallest in his queue.

“Hubert, I’m appointing you quartermaster,” he said.

“What’s that mean, your grace?”

“You’re to supervise distribution of all this. It’s quite a job. Can you manage it?”

The youth pulled himself tall. “Yes, your grace.”

“Good. The rest of you, fall in line. Youngest first.”

The file moved painfully slowly. As good-natured, oft-slighted children are, Hubert was painfully fair in his apportionments, solemnly counting out sweetmeats and sections of orange.

“He’s so conscientious,” Griff whispered to Pauline. “We’ll be here until tomorrow.”

“It’s dear, isn’t it? But I’m not surprised. Squabbling over too little is just human nature. But it says a great deal about a person, what they do with abundance.” She put a boiled sweet in his hand. “Something to chew on.”

He smiled to himself as she drifted away. Apparently, she’d found time this week for duchess lessons in subtlety, or lack of it. But she was wrong if she thought these few hours of spontaneous generosity were some sort of saintly exercise on his part. Whether he bestowed it on charity or lost it at the card table, parting with money had never been a trial for him.

Parting with her, on the other hand . . . God, he couldn’t even think about it yet. The hours remaining before her inevitable departure were growing too few. He needed a task to occupy himself or he’d go mad.

“Hubert,” he said, “pass me one of those oranges. Let me give you a hand.”