Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

The boy shrank from him, clutching one hand to his head and shielding his face with the other. He probably assumed that defensive posture often. He was a smallish child, Pauline noted. Pale and thin, with a fading bruise on his left jaw. Bullied by the larger boys, no doubt.

“You don’t want to give it up? Fine.” Halford removed his own brimmed felt beaver and held it out. “Here.”

“Wh-What?” the boy stammered.

“I’m offering you an even trade. My fine, tall new hat for your . . . thing.”

The perplexed boy removed his knitted headgear, and the two of them made the exchange.

“Go on, then,” the duke said, once the boy had the beaver in hand. “Put it on.”

The boy obeyed, placing the duke’s hat on his head. The thing came down to his ears, but by tipping the brim back and peering in the glass of a nearby window, he was able to survey his reflection.

It was probably because he was craning on tiptoe, but . . . Pauline could have sworn the boy looked three inches taller. A dangerous pang snatched at her heart.

“What’s your name?” the duke asked.

“Hubert. Hubert Terrapin.”

“Did they give you that name here, too?”

The boy nodded glumly.

“Well, at least the hat suits you,” said the duke. He balled the tangle of green yarn in his hand. “Chin up, then. I know you’re a foundling, but surely things aren’t as bad as this.”

The duchess cleared her throat with impatience, and their group continued down the corridor.

As they walked, Pauline couldn’t help but steal glances at the duke. It was such a slippery thing, her disgust with him. At the slightest sign of decency on his part, the anger began to wriggle out of her grasp.

She tightened her hand in a fist. So he’d given a foundling his hat. What of it? He had dozens of hats, and could buy dozens more. Throwing money around didn’t make him a good man. It just made him a wealthy man.

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.”