Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

She didn’t reply.

“I’m supposed to deem your little water-goblet tune more enchanting than any Italian aria. Proclaim your wholesome country manners a breath of fresh air in my sin-clouded life.” He laughed. “What else? Perhaps you’re hoping to hear that your purity is the most intoxicating and rare of perfumes. Your hair smells like hedgerows and your eyes are like chips of wide-open sky, and God above, you make me feel things. Things I haven’t felt in years. Or ever.” With his free hand, he clutched his chest dramatically. “What is this strange stirring in my breast? Could it possibly be . . . love?”

She stared at his waistcoat button, refusing to look at him.

Somewhere in his brain a fragment of reason shouted that he was being a bastard and cocking everything up. But he wasn’t acting on logic right now. He was torn between two impulses: the need to push her away from that raw, aching wound she kept poking, and the impossible desire to draw her close, possess her completely.

Most of all, he needed to leave this place before he went blind and mad with grief.

“I employed you for a reason, Simms. I’m not looking for a fresh-faced girl to teach me the meaning of love and give me purpose in life. And if you’re looking for a well-heeled gentleman to make a fetish of your feisty spirit . . . perhaps you could find one here in London, but it won’t be me.”

“What a speech,” she whispered, drawing close. “I’d be inclined to believe it, if it weren’t for the way you kissed me last night.”

Her angry warmth was palpable. Arousing.

“Oh, Simms. What kind of shoddy libertine do you take me for? I’ve kissed a great many women without caring for them in the least.”

Hm. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that shade of green.

That was his last coherent thought, staring into her eyes. Then her left fist crashed into his face, and his world exploded with fireworks of bright red pain. He staggered a few steps backward. His skull rang like a bell.

Well. He deserved that.

When his vision focused again, he saw her talking to the boy.

“That’s your first lesson, Hubert.” She crouched before the wide-eyed lad, speaking to him on his level. “Don’t fight fair. Life isn’t fair, especially not life in a place like this. If you have a shot, take it. There’s no call to be sporting about it, not with bullies.”

She went on, “I grew up on a farm, see. A small one. A poor one. It was always one of my chores to mind the chickens. Now, newly hatched chicks are the sweetest, downiest, most innocent looking creatures on earth—but they’re savage little beasts. They’ll peck their own brothers and sisters to death if they sense a weakness.”

As he listened to her, Griff felt his own defenses softening.

“It’s the same with places like this,” she went on. “There’s always a pecking order. The big will torment the small, and the small will torment the smaller, and on down the line. It’s the nature of chicks, and it’s the nature of children, too. Don’t dream it will change. You’ll never be able to pummel every bully, and no amount of prayer or patience will convince them to change their ways. Just keep your head up and get what’s yours. Your food, your schooling. Whatever they give you, don’t squander it. All bread goes straight in your belly, and all the learning you can gather goes here.” She tapped a fingertip against her temple. “Stash it away. Because once it’s in you, it’s yours. No one can take it from you. No schoolyard bully, no mean-tempered lessons master . . .”

Nor an abusive father, Griff silently added. He pictured her, a lock of hair dangling over her smudged cheek as she furtively memorized bits of etiquette and poetry between farm chores. Reading the same words again and again, until they were stashed away. Safe inside, where no one could rob her of them.

“Not even a duke,” she finished.

Hubert eyed her silk day dress, with its flounce of lace. “You, my lady? You raised chickens on a farm?”

“I did. And as a child, I took more than my share of licks. But I got mine, just like I told you. It’s how I’ve come this far. And if you find me impressive now . . . ?” She rose to her feet and patted the boy on the shoulder. “Come visit me next week. I’ll be living wealthily ever after.”

With a fiery glance at Griff, she left the room.

He started off in pursuit, somewhat hobbled by his aching . . . everything. God’s teeth, what this woman was doing to him. He trailed her clipped footsteps down the corridor, catching up to her at the building’s main entrance.

“Listen,” he said, snaring her arm at the top of the steps. “About this morning. I wasn’t trying to be the savage chick, or the pecking bully, or whatever it is you’ve likened me to.”