Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

“Don’t apologize, please. Then I might feel compelled to apologize for hitting you, and I don’t want to be sorry in the least.”


“I’m not apologizing. Just explaining. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Simms. But if the damned things are really so fragile, you shouldn’t let me anywhere near them. I told you, I’m no prince.”

She squared her shoulders, apparently reaching some decision. “You’re right. You did warn me. And I shouldn’t care what you think.”

No, wait, he stupidly felt like contradicting. I take it back. You should care. Please care.

Because he could see it on her face—just like that, she’d decided she didn’t need him. She would take her own advice to Hubert: complete her week’s employment, take his thousand pounds, and never think of him again.

He wanted her to think of him. Not just this week, but always.

What an ass he’d been, baiting her with all those compliments she might hope to hear. Griff saw himself clearly now. He was the one yearning for approval. Long after this week was over, he wanted her to remember him as the beneficent, handsome duke who’d whisked her away to London and changed her life. No matter what other disappointments he added to his family legacy, he could console himself with the knowledge that there was a shopkeeper at the arse-end of Sussex who worshipped him. Who believed he had a heart of pure, chivalric-grade gold—or at least sterling—hidden beneath the arrogance and vice.

She was meant to be the one good thing he’d done.

And now she looked at him like something that slithered.

“You’re right,” she said. They exited through the front gates, where she drew to a halt in the drive. “Of course you’re right. I’ve been a fool, wanting you to like me, approve of me. If you found anything in me to approve, you wouldn’t have hired me in the first place.”

“That’s not true.”

Now that they were out of the orphanage, he could breathe again. There were too many people about to do what he truly wished—which was to pull her into his arms for an embrace that might comfort them both. He settled for righting her sleeve.

“You don’t understand, Simms.”

She looked at his touch on her sleeve. “Oh, I understand you perfectly. You have good, generous instincts, but they’re all smothered under that aristocratic phlegm. You’re so choked with it, you’re afraid to care about anything. Or at least, you’re afraid to show that you do.”

It started to rain then. Cold, fat drops struck the pavement with audible force. In moments the damp had flattened her clothing to her back and plastered locks of hair to her face, making her look small and alone.

“Simms.”

She flinched from his touch. “What, Griff? What? Did you have something to say to me here? In the midst of a busy street, with people nearby—not in a darkened garden or locked room?”

“I . . .” He set his teeth. “Very well. I like you.”

“You ‘like’ me.”

“I do. In fact, I like you a great deal more than I should. And it’s precisely because you are all wrong.”

She stared at him, pursing those delectable, berry-pink lips. Far too many hours had passed since he’d kissed her.

He cursed. “I’m not explaining it right. I’m not used to making these sorts of speeches. But can’t we call a truce? Find somewhere to have a spot of—”

Before he could finish the thought, a woman in dark, shapeless wool rushed up to him. Like a raven, winging out of nowhere.

“Please, sir. I c-can’t . . .” She sobbed from deep in her chest. “Please.”

She darted away just as quickly, and it took Griff several instants to register that she’d left something behind.

A babe. Wedged into his arms.

Oh, Jesus.

Gray-blue eyes, scratchy little fingers. No nose or neck to speak of. All wrinkles, from head to tiny toes. Christ, why did they all have to look so much the same?

“Oh, goodness,” Pauline said. “That poor woman.”

“Wh—” He held the child slightly out from his body. His arms were frozen with shock. “Where is she? Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She must have meant to surrender the child. Perhaps she was afraid to come inside.”

Griff scanned the busy environs, hoping stupidly for one flash of dark wool to stand out from the dark, woolen crowd. She’d probably stayed nearby. She was likely watching him now—this stiff, useless nobleman she’d trusted to do right by her child—and feeling keen regret.

The infant knew she’d been done wrong. She wailed up at Griff, puckered and red-faced, waving little fists clenched in anger. Drops of rain spattered her face and blanket. She opened her mouth so wide, her lips seemed to thin and disappear. Her toothless gums and little tongue were bright vermilion with rage.

You’re a bloody duke, the babe seemed to shout at him. Near six foot tall, thirteen stone. Do something, you worthless lump. Make it all come out right!

“What should we do?” Pauline asked.