Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

She lifted an eyebrow at Griff, and it was as though he could hear her teasing, You didn’t kiss my hand.

But I saved you from falling on your face, he retorted with a quirked brow of his own.

For a moment they began to share a smile. And then it was though they both remembered the kisses that had followed said rescue—not to mention the implied intimacy of conversing in eyebrow quirks while other people looked on.

Her throat flushed. Griff looked away.

“Don’t be worried about him, Miss Simms,” said Delacre. “We’re expert swordsmen, the two of us. Best in London. We have to be.”

“And why’s that?” she asked.

“Because we’re the two greatest rakes.” Del winked at her. “A reputation for expert swordsmanship is the best defense against being called out in a duel. No man, no matter how enraged, would put the choice of weapon in our hands.” He set his practice blade aside. “Have you been long in London, Miss Simms?”

“Only since yesterday, my lord.”

The duchess put in, “Miss Simms’s parents have been unable to expose her to society, so I’ve offered to give the girl some polish here in Town.”

“Judging by the slice in Halford’s arm, I’d say you’re off to a promising start,” Delacre said. In a lowered voice, he told the duchess, “I know what you’re up to. And as one blood-sworn to defend him against all marriage traps, I ought to object. But for once, your grace, I think we may be allies. There’s no denying he’s been a monk all season. Only less amusing.”

“I heard that,” Griff said curtly.

Del ignored him, still addressing the duchess in confidential tones. “Of course, we’re not entirely aligned. You’re his mother. You want to see him married. As his friend, my goal is different. I’d settle for getting him—”

“Del.”

“—out,” Delacre finished, clapping a hand to his breast in innocence. “Getting him out. Of the house. What did you think I meant to say? You have a filthy mind, Halford. Positively diseased.”

Annoyed, Griff swung his sword in idle threat, testing his wounded arm. With friends like these . . .

“This is excellent.” Delacre clapped his hands. “Miss Simms needs an introduction to Town. Halford’s been needing to use his—”

“Del.”

“—legs.” Delacre raised his hands in innocence. “Obviously, we all need to attend the Beaufetheringstone crush this evening.”

His mother sighed. “I will speak these words just once in my lifetime, I’m sure. Delacre, you make an excellent suggestion.”

“It’s a terrible suggestion,” Griff muttered.

“Until this evening, then.” Delacre gathered his things and sketched a quick bow. “I must be going. I like to wear out at least three welcomes before teatime. Otherwise, the day feels wasted.” From the doorway, he leveled a finger at Griff. “You can thank me for this later.”

Oh, I will gut you for this later.

“But I just arrived in Town,” Pauline said. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

The duchess raised a brow. “Girl, you have so little faith in me.”

Griff knew better. He put nothing past his mother when she had a goal in mind. But even if she managed to make Miss Simms look the part of a young lady, she couldn’t remedy the girl’s accent, education, woeful etiquette, and utter lack of genteel accomplishment. Not in a single day’s time.

He wasn’t worried.

Much.

A few hours later Pauline understood why the duke might price a week’s maternal diversion at one thousand pounds and still think it a good value. The duchess could spend that sum in one afternoon, twice.

They visited the modiste first—an aging, turbaned woman who appeared better suited to fortune-telling than mantua-making. She surveyed Pauline with dramatic, kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Oh, your grace,” the woman said, in a tone of despair. “What is this you’ve brought me?”

“She needs a week’s full wardrobe,” the duchess said. “Altered samples will do for today, but we need better for tomorrow. Morning, walking, and evening dress. A ball gown by Friday night. And she must look ravishing beyond compare.”

“Ravishing? This?” The modiste clucked her tongue. “You ask too much.”

The duchess lifted a brow and fixed the woman with a severe look. “I’m not asking.”

The room froze over with an icy, tense silence.

Finally, the modiste clapped her hands, and a bevy of assistants rushed forward.

Pauline played scarecrow for hours, standing with her arms spread to either side while flitting seamstresses circled her. They measured every bit of her with tapes, from wrists to ankles, and draped her with lengths of shimmering fabric.