Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

That was entirely new.

The surge of emotion he felt—it wasn’t just the usual triumph of bringing a woman pleasure. An unbearable font of tenderness welled in his chest. Mingled with protectiveness, fondness. The impulse to not just pleasure her, but cherish her, guard her. He pressed kiss after kiss to the crown of her head, as if he could expel this painful excess of emotion.

“It wasn’t you,” he whispered, nuzzling the delicious lobe of her ear. “Whoever he was, he was a fool. Or a boor. Or just too damned young to know what the hell he was doing. But it wasn’t you. Understand?”

She clung to his shirtfront for long moments, breathing hard. Finally, she looked up at him. “Will you take me upstairs?”

He’d never wanted anything so much. To simply take her upstairs, let his world explode, and then contend with the rubble later.

“I wouldn’t expect anything,” she rushed on. “I’m not asking for promises. I just want to know what it’s like when it’s good. And I might go my whole life without another chance. I’m not a lady with a reputation to guard. There’s no one to care.”

Damn it, he cared.

He cared, and he could no longer deny it. He’d brought her into his house, taken her under his protection. Lady or not, he wanted to treat her well.

Her hands slid up his chest, then trailed down his arms. She pressed a light kiss to his neck. “Griff, please.”

His c**k throbbed in eager agreement.

Her, his stupid heart whispered. I’ll take her.

But beneath all this, his veins ran cold with a deep, dark current of fear. It was too great a risk for them both. He couldn’t take her like this when she’d never be his for the keeping. That way lay danger and months of despair.

“I can’t.” He stroked her hair. “It isn’t you. I want you more than you could possibly know, in ways you couldn’t even fathom. But I just can’t.”

He released her with abruptness—because that was the only way he could do it at all.

Chapter Fourteen

Pauline came late to breakfast. She considered skipping the meal entirely—pleading headache or fatigue—but she didn’t want to invite any questions.

She wasn’t sure how she’d even look at the duchess this morning. The woman had the perception of a hawk. She would have to mind her every move, word, and glance to avoid giving anything away.

As she neared the breakfast room, she stopped in the corridor and took a moment to compose herself.

She could hear voices from within—both the duchess’s and Griff’s.

Drat.

He wasn’t supposed to be awake this early. How was she going to manage this?

The same way he managed it, she supposed. After their encounter in the dining room the previous morning, she knew Griff would have no difficulty. He would barely acknowledge her presence, no doubt.

In fact, that was probably why he’d come to breakfast at all—because he worried that she would blurt out over toast that she’d shamelessly thrown herself at him mere hours ago. He wanted to quell any speculation.

Just pretend nothing happened, she told herself. You were not alone with him in the library. He did not gather you in the most tender, needing of embraces. He most especially did not lift your skirts and give you delicious pleasure while whispering the most tender, arousing words to ever caress your ear.

The memory was so acute, she bit her knuckle to keep her reactions in check.

When she had her resolve firmly in place, Pauline turned the corner and entered the breakfast room. She kept her eyes downcast.

“Beg pardon for my tardiness, your graces. I slept rather—”

The scrape of chair legs interrupted her. The sound froze the blood in her veins.

Oh no. Surely he hadn’t.

She looked up in horror.

He had.

The eighth Duke of Halford had come to his feet when she entered the room. Without thinking, apparently, because he couldn’t possibly have meant to do such a thing. Gentlemen rose to their feet when ladies came in. They did not rise for servants.

No man had ever stood for Pauline. Not once in her life. It was the best, most thrilling sensation. But when it came to the cause of discretion, this was complete disaster.

And then he made it worse—he inclined his handsome, dark head in a sort of bow. “Miss Simms.”

Up went the duchess’s eyebrow. “Well.”

That one syllable spoke volumes. Her grace knew everything. At least, she knew something had happened. Pauline could only pray the details remained a rough sketch in her imagination.

“Be seated, Miss Simms,” Griff said.

She shook her head. “You first, your grace.”

“Both of you, remain as you are,” the duchess said. She rose from her own chair. “I was just about to leave for the morning room, and now I’ve saved you the trouble of rising twice.”

“Do we have lessons this morning, your grace?”