Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

“This is my mother’s friend, Miss Simms. She is looking to acquire some books for her personal library. I believe you made her acquaintance earlier this week.”


Snidling’s gaze flicked to Pauline and his tongue darted out in a reptilian manner. “Er . . . I’m afraid I don’t recall, your grace. Please forgive me.”

“I understand. This is a busy shop.”

“Yes, yes. So many people come and go, you see. I can’t possibly remember each face.”

The snake. Pauline knew he recognized her. His gaze kept darting in her direction, and his face was showing hints of crimson.

It was on the tip of her tongue to confront his lies. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not now, with a duke at her side. This time, she would stand up for herself.

But Griff’s hand pressed against her back, relaying an unmistakable message: Allow me.

“So you do not remember Miss Simms?” he asked the shopkeeper once again.

“I’m afraid not, your grace.”

“Let me shake your recollection,” the duke said, imbuing the word “shake” with the crisp ring of a threat. His voice was smooth, aristocratic, commanding, and honed to a blade-sharp edge.

Pauline thought it was the most arousing thing she’d ever heard.

“You had a conversation with her,” he continued evenly. “About oranges, Leadenhall, the Queen of Sheba, and chasing vermin off with brooms.”

The man’s stammering became a violent tremor—nearly as violent as the bloodred flush of his cheeks. “Your g-g-grace, I humbly and abjectly apologize. I had no idea the young lady—”

“It is not I who deserves your apology.”

“Of course not, your grace.” The scaly man turned to Pauline. He barely met her eyes. “Miss Simms, please accept my profoundest apologies. I didn’t realize. I am deeply sorry if you interpreted my remarks in any way that offended you.”

“Well?” The duke turned to her. “Do you accept his apologies, Miss Simms?”

Pauline glared at the shopkeeper. His was the worst, most insincere apology possible. To say “I’m sorry you were offended” was not the same as apologizing for the offense. She didn’t believe he was sorry in the least, and if she’d been alone and feeling brave, she would have told him so.

But she was here with Griff, and he’d meant this to be a pleasant errand. Part of her fairy tale.

So she said quietly, “I suppose.”

“Very well, then.” Griff clapped his hands together. “Let’s begin an order. Take a list, Snidling.”

The shopkeeper’s relief was plain. He scurried behind the counter and turned his ledger to a fresh sheet before dipping his quill in ink.

Griff began to dictate, rattling off titles and authors with an arousing tenor of authority. “We’ll start with all of Mrs. Radcliffe and Mrs. Wollstonecraft. All the modern poets, as well. Byron and his ilk. The Monk, Moll Flanders, Tom Jones, a good translation of L’École des Filles . . . Fanny Hill. Make it two copies of that last.”

Snidling looked up. “You did say these are for the young lady’s library, your grace?”

“Yes.”

“Your grace, might I suggest—”

“No,” Griff clipped. “You may not offer suggestions. You will continue to write down the titles that I name.”

Her mouth dried. Good heavens. If he’d torn every scrap of clothing from his body and held the shopkeeper at the point of a glimmering sword, every muscle flexed in anger—she could not have found him more attractive than she did right now.

He went on listing titles and dictating names. They were all a muffled stew in her ears.

When the list filled an entire page, front and back, he said, “I suppose that will make a start. Now, for the bindings.”

Griff turned to Pauline and waved her over to view samples of leather. As she neared him, her heart began to pound. Last night he’d skimmed his rough, hungry touch over her br**sts, filled her with his wicked fingers. But nothing—none of the previous night’s exhilaration—could compare to this moment.

She stood next to him, buffeted by the full, soul-rattling force of her adoration. How could he fail to notice? How could the world not have changed around them? She’d been struck by lightning, and he just went on speaking in that same, even tone.

“You must have Morocco bindings, of course. It’s the best. Gold leaf embossing for the title and the spine. Do you have a favorite color?”

“Favorite color?” She was lost in his dark, inquisitive stare. “I . . . I like brown.”

“Brown?” he scoffed. “That’s too commonplace.”

“If you say so.” Pauline ran a loving touch over the scrap of fawn-colored leather she’d admired the other day. Just as butter soft as it appeared, but wholly impractical. She tried to focus her attention to the samples of Morocco he’d suggested.

“I should think red,” she decided. “Red, for all of them.” She lifted a scrap of supple crimson kidskin. “Red is the best color for naughty books, don’t you think?”

“Indubitably.”