Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

“You needn’t be so snide, you know.” She took the cap from him. “It’s ugly, yes. But clearly it was made with love.”


“Made with love? That? That was made with incompetence, if not outright malice.”

She sighed. “You don’t understand. You’re missing my point, and your mother’s. When I say you could be donating more, I mean more than money. You could give your time and attention.”

He shook his head. “The doctors and matrons who run this establishment want nothing from me but a timely bank draft.”

“They seem happy to have your mother’s involvement. She makes regular visits and brings . . . things.”

As they moved back toward the main hall, they passed an empty room. Pauline noticed a familiar-looking face cowering in the corner.

“Hubert,” the duke said. “That’s you again?”

The boy approached them, mournful and hatless.

“What happened to your fine new hat?” Pauline asked. But the fresh split in the boy’s lip told the story well enough. “An older boy took it from you, did he?”

The lad nodded.

She pulled Griff aside and whispered to him. “Griff, this is exactly what I mean. You can do something for him.”

He showed his empty hands. “I don’t have another hat.”

“No, no. You made an impression on that boy earlier, and it had nothing to do with the hat. You spoke with him, treated him like a person worth something. Talk with him now. Give him some manly advice, or teach him to fight. It might be beneficial for you, too. It’s good to feel useful now and then.”

He cast a wistful glance toward the exit. “Simms, you seem to have forgotten that you are my employee. I hired you to distract my mother, not to give me advice.”

“Well, then. Consider it a bonus.”

Good God. Did her impertinence know no bounds?

“You’re a powerful man,” she went on. “And it’s not only to do with your money or your title. You have the ability to make people feel valued, when you’re not making them feel like rubbish.”

She didn’t understand. He wanted to help the lad. He truly did. But he wasn’t in any condition to offer benign encouragement right now. This place had his viscera in turmoil. All the little footsteps pattering right over his heart . . .

“Sorry,” he said curtly. “I just don’t have the time.”

Oof.

The punch seemed to come out of nowhere, though rationally he knew it must have originated at the end of her right arm. There was no doubt about where it landed—square in his gut.

He fell back a step, reeling.

“Hubert,” she said, her eyes never leaving Griff’s, “since his grace can’t spare the time, you’re getting your fighting lessons from me.”

“Simms, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious.” She tugged off her gloves with her teeth and cast them aside. She circled him with raised fists, taunting. “What? You’re not going to fight back?”

“You know very well I can’t hurt a woman.”

“Oh, please. You are entirely capable of hurting a woman. Expert at it, I’d guess.” She feinted a jab to his ribs, then darted away.

Clearly she was angry with him, for reasons that had little to do with hats and foundlings. Griff would gladly let her take swings at him later, but he couldn’t have this discussion right now.

He held up his hands. “I’m done here.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” She dodged in front of him, blocking his only route of escape. “If you’re not brave enough to throw a punch, I’m sure you can find other ways. Call me names, perhaps. Insult my origins. Or I know. Perhaps you could bring out that slow, obnoxious applause.”

“Is that what this is about?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re vexed with me for not cheering your little water-goblet concert?”

“No,” she shot back, defensive. Then she revised, “In part. You were purposely hurtful this morning.”

“We made an arrangement, Simms. You agreed to be a failure. I’m paying you handsomely for the trouble. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Yes, but—”

“If the terms of our bargain are no longer satisfactory, I can send you back to Sussex.”

“I signed on for a week of society’s disdain. Not yours.”

“Well, then. Consider it a bonus.”

“Oh, you—” With a growl, she swung at him again.

This time he was ready. He caught her fist in his hand, enveloping the tight, small knot of knuckles and holding it fast.

“I told you everything last night.” Her whispered words were barbed. “My dreams, my secrets. Everything. And this morning you treated me like nothing.”

He made his voice low. “What is it you want, Simms? What is it you’re wanting to hear? Am I supposed to say you’re the equal of any well-bred lady?”

“Of course not. No. I don’t want to be like those Awful Haughfells or any of their sort.”

“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Now I see. You don’t want to hear that you’re their equal. You want to hear that you’re their better.”