Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

Apparently it had. He cleared his throat with a loud harrumph, then searched for a way to amend his statement. “Good,” he pronounced, clearing his throat again. “I said good.”


A pretty flush rose on Pauline’s cheeks. Still, she bit her lip, looking hesitant. “What kind of good?” she asked. “ ‘Good’ as in ‘rather bad,’ which aids our purpose? Or ‘good’ as in ‘actually good,’ and you’re displeased?”

Griff sighed inwardly. What was he to say? “Good” as in “Good God, you are the most radiant, lovely thing I’ve seen in all my life, and I’m a speechless, shuddering fool before you.” Does that clear matters?

“Good as in good,” he said. “I’m not displeased.”

Her mouth pulled to the side. “Then that’s . . . good.”

This was now officially the most inane conversation in which Griff had ever been a participant—and that included a drunken debate with Del over ostrich racing.

“The color isn’t too awful?” She twisted a fold of the skirt. “The draper called it ‘dewy petal,’ but your mother said the shade was more of a ‘frosted berry.’ What do you say?”

“I’m a man, Simms. Unless we’re discussing ni**les, I don’t see the value in these distinctions.”

Her lips pursed into a chastening pout.

“Whatever shade it is, it looks well on you.” Too well. He tugged his black evening gloves on and gathered his hat from Higgs. “Let’s be going.”

The carriage was readied and waiting. He turned to Pauline. She obviously needed help, what with those ungainly skirts. Without hesitation, she took the hand he offered and clutched it tightly, borrowing his strength. The warm clasp of her satin-clad fingers nearly undid him. He was unsteady himself as he made his own way into the coach and sat across from her on the rear-facing seat.

He turned his head to the window. He needed to bring himself under control. They were only just leaving the house, and the whole evening lay ahead.

When they reached the place for the river crossing and alighted from the coach, twilight had descended. The air was heavy with wisps of fog and shadow. An air of romantic mystery lingered, despite all Griff’s attempts to discredit it.

“We’re going to cross the river in boats?” she asked, eyeing the boat launch with alarm. Her grip tightened on his arm.

He nodded. “It’s the only way to Vauxhall. Eventually there’s to be a bridge, but it isn’t complete.”

“I’ve never been in a boat. Not in my whole life.”

“Never? But you live by the sea.”

“I know. It’s absurd, isn’t it? Sometimes the ladies go boating, but I never had a reason to join in.”

“Don’t be frightened.” He reached for her. “Here.”

Helping her into the boat was even more precarious than handing her into the carriage had been. Griff went first, wedging his boots fast against the floorboards and steadying his balance.

Pauline accepted his hand and took a cautious step onto a seat near the bow. But just then the waterman launched the boat. She stumbled. Griff had to catch her by both arms as she fell against his chest.

“Oh, bollocks.” She struggled to correct herself, and the boat lurched.

His stomach nearly capsized. He had a vision—a brief, waking nightmare of a thought—in which she tumbled straight into the black water and all those heavy, embellished skirts dragged her straight to the depths.

“Don’t move,” he told her, tightening his grip. “Not yet.”

He held her close and tight. For long moments they stood absolutely still—swaying in each other’s arms while the boat regained its equilibrium.

“Are you well?” he whispered.

She nodded.

“Your heart is racing,” he said.

“So is yours.”

He smiled a little. “Fair enough.”

When the boat finally steadied, he helped her onto the seat and motioned to the waterman, who ferried them across the Thames in smooth, even strokes.

“See?” he murmured, keeping her close. “There’s nothing to fear. Just imagine we’re traveling through that crystal cabinet in the poem. On our way to another world. Another England. Another London with its Tower. Another Thames and other hills.”

She relaxed against his shoulder. “A little lovely moony night.”

“Exactly so.” There she went again, enchanting him.

Griff had never been the fanciful sort, even as a boy. When he was with Pauline, the world was different. She forced him to see things through fresh eyes. Suddenly his library was the eighth wonder of the world, and Corinthian columns merited blasphemy. A ferry across the Thames was an epic journey, and a kiss . . . a kiss was everything.

Deep down, beneath the overworked, sharp-tongued serving girl, he saw a woman who craved the poetry in life. She’d never been given anything—not even favorable odds. But there was a liveliness in her spirit that fed on simple possibility—soaked it up like a wick and shone the brighter for it.

And tonight? Griff tilted his head westward and regarded the setting sun. Less than an hour from now her world was going to explode with brilliant possibility.