Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

“I see.” She tried to look thoughtful. “Lord Delacre, if a duke wishes to avoid matrimony, isn’t he capable of protecting himself?”


He shook his head. “You really are new in London, aren’t you? A man like Halford needs a trusted friend to watch his back at all times. The ton is rife with fortune-hunters. And as fortune-hunting goes, his fortune is the elusive white tiger’s pelt. The greatest prize to be had. There are women in this town who’d stoop to poisoned darts and mantraps just to bag him.” He arched one brow and swept a playful look around the crowd.

His gaze returned to her. “You never know when they’ll strike.”

“So you think I’m one of those women,” Pauline concluded. “A fortune-hunter like the rest. My lord, let me assure you—I have no designs on the duke. No sharpened arrows or slingshot in my reticule. I possess no qualities that could remotely tempt a man like Halford into marriage.”

Where was that punch bowl anyway? She didn’t feel like explaining her bargain with Griff to Delacre, but acting it out might serve the same purpose. Surely he wouldn’t view her as a marital threat once he was drenched in arrack punch.

“You’re aware of Halford’s reputation, I hope,” Delacre said. “Fling your favors at him all you like, but he won’t marry you.”

“What makes you think I’d ‘fling my favors’ at anyone?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Simms,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t intend any such implication.”

Liar. He’d meant exactly what he’d said. As though he could look at her—without having any knowledge of her humble, common origins—and just know she was that sort of girl.

What was worse, he was right, to a point. In her youth, she hadn’t guarded her “favors” as closely as she should have. But Griff knew about that, and he never made her feel lesser for it.

Pauline looked about, growing desperate to end this. She wanted to get back to Griff.

Aha. There it was. A vast silver tub of punch, shaped like an open clamshell. As soon as they reached the far end of the dance floor, she’d ask Lord Delacre for some refreshment. They’d approach the bowl . . . he’d lean over to dip with the ladle . . .

And from there, just one good push would do the trick.

“Lord Delacre, your friend is in no danger from me.” Mentally, she added, You, on the other hand . . .

“I’d like to take you at your word, Miss Simms.” Delacre’s eyes wandered to a spot beyond her shoulder. “If only Halford himself weren’t about to prove you wrong.”

“What?”

“That’ll be enough.” Griff appeared out of nowhere and stopped them in the middle of the dance. “I’ll take it from here.”

Delacre resisted. “Oh, come along, Halford. Let us get through one dance. We’re having a conversation.”

Griff gripped his friend’s lapel, pulled him away from Pauline and lowered his voice to a growl. “I said, she’s mine.”

Delacre raised his hands. “Very well. She’s yours.”

With a little bow—and a wary look in Pauline’s direction—Delacre disappeared.

As Griff took her in his arms and resumed the dance, Pauline stared at him, amazed. “Why did you cut in? I was on the cusp of brilliant disaster.”

He shrugged. “I decided I didn’t care to watch you dive in the punch bowl. Someone worked too hard on that gown you’re wearing. And on the punch. Not to mention, there’s a breeze this evening. You might catch cold.”

Might catch cold?

“You do realize,” she whispered, “that for our bargain to work, sooner or later you will have to let me stumble.”

“Well, it won’t be tonight. Tonight, I’m here for you. And I will not let you fall.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I could see you were upset, Pauline.”

Her heart twisted. The fact that he’d been able to tell from all that distance—and wasted no time coming to her side—it warmed her deep inside. She didn’t care what anyone said about his past or reputation. This was a good man.

She clutched his shoulder tight.

“It’s all right.” He firmed his hand against her back. “Just follow my lead.”

He danced her to the side of the pavilion—the one opposite his friends’ booth. Instead of rejoining the party, he steered her away from the orchestra and onto a dimly lit path. Once they left the crowds behind, he turned her to face him.

“What happened?” he asked, bracing his hands on her shoulders and searching her face. “Was it something Del said? I can easily kill him for you.”

Pauline smiled weakly. “Please don’t.” Even though Delacre had insulted her, she knew he was trying—in his own, warped way—to be a good friend to Griff. She didn’t want to be caught in the middle.

“Did someone else insult you? Are you ill?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“You’re homesick, then.”

“I am homesick.” It wasn’t a lie. “This place has me awestruck. Everywhere I turn, I think, ‘Daniela would love to see this.’ And from there . . .”

He drew her close. “Another landslide.”

She nodded.