Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

When they alighted from the carriage, they joined a small crowd of fashionable people spilling out the front door of the grand house.

“What’s happening?” she whispered to the duke, trying to see around the horde of well-dressed people. “Why are we standing here?”

“It’s a crush. We’re all waiting to enter the ballroom and be introduced by the majordomo.”

“He’s going to announce me by name?”

“Of course,” the duke replied.

“But . . . I’ve been serving ladies in Spindle Cove for the past several years. They all know my name. What if any of them are here tonight?”

“Simms is a common name. Sussex is a large place.”

“They have eyes as well as ears. What if someone recognizes me?”

“Then the truth would be out, the game would be up, and we’d all have a jolly laugh at my mother’s expense.” He straightened his coat. “But truly, as you are tonight? No one will recognize you.”

He sized her up with a leisurely, possessive sweep of dark eyes. And for the first time all evening, Pauline had an unhurried, well-lit look at him.

Good heavens.

They were well into the third day of their acquaintance. Could this truly be the first time she’d seen him freshly bathed, shaven, and properly dressed?

Apparently so. And one wouldn’t think basic grooming could add so much to his masculine allure, but it did. It did. His black tailcoat and bone-colored breeches fit him like skin, hugging every contour of his broad shoulders and muscled thighs. The little touches of elegance—his smooth-shaven jaw, tamed hair, and exquisite sculpture of a cravat—only served as contrast to the raw strength ranging beneath the refinement.

He looked better than ever. And he smelled . . . oh, he smelled like an arousing, fevered dream. As he drew closer, she breathed him in. That intoxicating musky cologne—his valet must use it when pressing his shirts—mingled with the scents of soap and clean male skin.

Most affecting of all was the glint of hunger in his gaze as he looked her over. As though he were a beast sizing up his prey. Judging the softest joint into which to sink his teeth.

Had he eaten anything today? she suddenly—absurdly—wondered. But she stopped herself from asking aloud. It seemed a very caretaking thing to inquire, and she wasn’t here to care for him. No matter how tempting it was.

Remember that, Pauline.

“How is your arm?” she took the chance to whisper. She couldn’t help caring that little bit.

“It’s fine. It was nothing.”

“But you were bleeding. I saw it.”

He dismissed her words with a brisk wave of his hand. “Never mind my arm, Simms. We need to talk about your br**sts.”

Her cheeks went hot as coals. She looked around to make sure no one had overheard.

“They seem to have swollen to twice their proper size.” He appraised them frankly. “I should call for a doctor. That can’t be healthy.”

Pauline’s face suffused with heat. “You know very well it’s only a corset. I’m in perfect health.”

Except for these pesky flutterings all through her chest. And the sudden trouble breathing in his presence.

He clucked his tongue. “Your conduct had better be deplorable.”

No difficulty there.

When they at last entered the fine house, a waiting footman offered glasses of ratafia from a tray. Pauline revised her resolution not to imbibe any liquids this evening. She accepted one and downed a hasty swallow.

That hasty swallow kicked her in the ribs. Someone had liberally seasoned the punch with brandy.

“Cor,” she sputtered, choking on the strong aftertaste.

The room hushed. All through the entrance hall fashionably dressed people turned to stare.

“Corinthian,” the duchess filled in, craning her neck to stare at the ceiling above. “I do believe you’re right, Miss Simms. These columns are Corinthian.”

Conversation slowly returned to normal, but Pauline didn’t think anyone was fooled.

A well-dressed lady in middle years approached, flanked by two younger copies of herself. Daughters, obviously. All three women eyed the duke with rapacious interest before settling their keen gazes on Pauline.

“Your graces,” the matron said. “Such a delight to see you this evening. Pray tell, who is your charming new friend?”

The duchess answered. “Miss Simms, this is Lady Eugenia Haughfell and her daughters.”

Pauline curtsied. “Delighted, Lady Haughfell. Misses Haughfell.”

Just those few words, and she was given away. The two fashionable daughters tittered with laughter behind their fans. If they would laugh to her face, she could only imagine what they’d say when her back was turned.

“Wherever did you come from, Miss Simms?” their mother asked.

“Sussex, my lady.”

“And who are your people?”

“Her father owns land,” the duchess cut in. “Her parents have been unable to send her to Town, so I’ve invited her for a visit.”

“Oh, your grace.” Lady Haughfell twisted her lips at Pauline. “You do have such a heart for charity.”