Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

“Where are the naughty ones?” She tilted her head back, peering into the farthest upper recesses of the room. “I suppose they’d be on a high shelf. Or did you have a locked cabinet somewhere?”


He laughed. “If I did possess a secret section of my library that consists entirely of books inappropriate for young ladies, you could hardly expect me to direct you to it.”

“Why not? I’m no lady. Not that innocent, either.”

Don’t say that.

“It’s very late, Simms.”

“Very early, more like.”

“Suffice it to say, it’s very dark. And you’re very unclothed, and we’re much too alone.” For the two of them to begin a perusal of erotic literature atop it . . . ? That fragile shift of hers wouldn’t survive the hour. “I’ve no noble impulses, remember?”

Her cheeks flushed. “At least help me make a list?”

He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Moll Flanders, Fanny Hill, The Monk, a good translation of L’École des Filles. Those are a start.”

She closed her eyes. “Done.”

“You don’t want to write them down?”

“I don’t need to. I have a good memory.”

She leaned heavily to one side as she scanned the shelf, seeming to float above him. Griff was nearly reduced to panting by the nubile shadow of her silhouette and the swirled-brandy fall of her hair. Yes, he’d perused his share of naughty books. None of them had affected him like this. He was hard as the mahogany desktop.

“Aha. Here’s one I’ll take to bed with me.” She plucked a book from the shelf. “Methods of Accounting and Bookkeeping.”

“Now that should put you right to sleep.” He chuckled. “But it’s a good idea. Keep excellent written records, even if you do have a good memory. Don’t accept credit. If you lend, always require a deposit. Few can match the aristocracy when it comes to shirking financial obligations.”

She sent him a wary glance. “You don’t shirk your debts, do you?”

“Last I heard, I’m the fourth-richest man in England. I never have a need to.”

“Oh. Good.” She clutched the bookkeeping tutorial to her chest and bent her head, inhaling deep. When she noticed his stare, she looked sheepish. “I like the way books smell. Is that odd?”

“Yes. A little.”

But he found it oddly endearing, too. This had gone beyond a midnight chat in the library and progressed to something bordering on flirtation. Perhaps even a strange sort of friendship—on his side, edged with fierce, carnal attraction.

Whatever it was between them . . . it ended here, and it ended now.

He set aside the dismantled clockwork and rose from his chair, trusting the shadows to hide his arousal. “Upstairs with you, Simms. It’s late, and I’m sure my mother has a full schedule of exercises in futile ambition planned for the morrow.”

“Don’t worry. I’m prepared to be a catastrophe.”

“Very good.”

She extinguished the lamp and descended two risers of the ladder. “Just to prove it, I shan’t even curtsy when I leave this room.”

“An excellent start. If you wanted to be truly shocking, you could start calling me Griff.”

She looked to him. “Truly?”

He winced. A miscalculation on his part. He’d suggested it as a stroke of impropriety, but her flattered expression reminded him—familiarity of that sort could prove dangerous.

Speaking of danger . . .

“Take care,” he warned. “The last rung is rather—”

She gasped and faltered. “Oh, bollocks.”

Chapter Six

Time slowed. A fraction of a second showed Griff just how the accident would occur. Her toes would miss the last rung. She’d drop the book. She would make a desperate swipe with her hand, perhaps graze the ladder rail with her fingertips—but it wouldn’t be a proper grasp. Her momentum would carry her forward.

And then she would fall to the ground, face first.

Granted, the fall was a matter of only a few feet, and she’d no doubt survive it whole and unharmed. But by the time his mind had reached the end of the scenario, his body was already in motion.

Putting one hand to the sofa back, he vaulted the thing in one swift motion. That obstacle cleared, he hurdled a leather ottoman in a single leap. Flinging his arms wide, he came to a skidding halt directly in front of the ladder.

Just in time to break her fall.

She fell heavy against his chest. He caught her in his arms.

And then—even when all was safe—he couldn’t seem to put her down.

“Oh my,” she breathed, looking at the room he’d just traversed. “That was quite an athletic feat.”

“It was nothing.”

The only manly reply, naturally. In truth, he suspected he’d pulled a muscle somewhere between vaulting the sofa and playing Jack Be Nimble with the ottoman . . . but he’d worry about the pain later. Other sensations demanded his attention now.

Good God. Just seeing her form had been a delight, but it was a pale shadow compared to the thrill of feeling her. Her ni**les were every bit as assertive as her personality, jabbing at him through the frail, tissue-thin fabric of her night rail. They demanded his notice. More than mere notice—they wanted respect.