Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

He waved at the door. “Because I knew how they’d receive it.”


“Precisely. The same way everyone would receive that news. As an impossibility, at best. At worst, something shameful and sordid.”

Pauline understood why he was upset. She felt the same way. The people who’d just visited them were the closest thing they had to mutual friends, and if even they wouldn’t credit a relationship between Griff and her, it was truly hopeless. No one would accept them together. No one.

She sighed. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It didn’t matter what the poems said. There was no other England, no other London with its Tower. There was only this world they lived in, and it was unyielding on matters of class.

“There are thirty-three ranks of precedence between a serving girl and a duchess,” she said quietly. “Did you know that? The chart takes up three pages in Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom. I have it all in my head. Duchesses are at the very top—after the queen and princesses, of course. The order goes duchesses, marchionesses, countesses . . .”

As she recited the ranks, she ticked them off on her fingers. “ . . . then wives of the eldest sons of marquesses, then wives of the younger sons of dukes. Then come the daughters. Daughters of dukes, daughters of marquesses. Next viscountesses, then wives of eldest sons of earls. Then daughters of earls . . .”

“Pauline.”

“ . . . that’s ten ranks already, and I’m not even to baronesses yet. Let alone all the orders of knighthood and the military ranks. And below those, you have—”

He approached her and tipped her face, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Pauline.”

“I’m not even on the chart.” She blinked hard. “A girl like me, Griff . . . I’m so far below you. When we’re alone together, we might be able to forget it. But no one else will.”

“Forget it? You think I forget who you are when we’re together?”

She fidgeted. He must forget, a little. From their very first meeting, he’d afforded her more respect and attention than any nobleman would ever intentionally give a servant. “What matters is, we have to remember ourselves eventually. If we don’t, society will force the point.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Perhaps you’re right. We should remember ourselves.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

He crossed the room, closed the study door, and turned the key in the lock. The tumbler gave an ominous click.

“Clear the desk, Simms.”

“What? I don’t see—”

“Don’t argue,” he clipped. “You’re a serving girl, and you wanted me to recall it. I’m the duke in the room, and I’ve bid you to clear the desk. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Clear tables?”

Is that what he was initiating, then? Playing roles? The libertine duke and the naughty serving girl?

Well . . . After about two seconds’ pause, Pauline decided she could get inspired for that.

She reached for the inkwell and cautiously moved it to a nearby lamp table, where it wouldn’t spill. Then with one hand, she made a broad sweep across the desktop, sending blotter, papers, sealing wax, and more crashing to the floor. “There.”

“Such impertinence.”

“It’s what you like.”

He tugged at his cravat, loosening it as he crossed the room. “You need to learn your place.”

“Is this my place, your grace?” She pushed herself up to sit on the desktop, legs dangling.

“For now.” He sat in the desk chair before her, boots sprawled on either side of her dangling legs, and fixed her with a dark, commanding gaze.

The moment stretched into a thin, brittle thing. Pauline sat very still, just waiting for it to snap.

“Lift your skirts,” he said.

Whoosh.

His words were a starting pistol, and her pulse took the cue to race.

After kicking off one slipper, she toed the other one loose. Both dropped to the floor. She placed her stockinged foot on his thigh and slowly drew the lacy hem of her frock higher, revealing her leg all the way to the knee. “Like this?”

“Higher.”

She dragged her lacy hem upward, inching it along her thigh. Her garter peeked through the edge of her petticoat—a saucy wink of lavender ribbon.

“More.”

She slid her foot to his groin, cupping the growing bulge in his trousers. With slow motions, she teased him harder, rubbing her silky instep up and down the long, firm ridge. Soon, the sounds of labored breathing filled the air. Both his and hers. The smooth friction against the sensitive arch of her foot was a surprising source of pleasure.

And the way he looked at her . . . Unashamed of his rampant arousal, penetrating her with his dark, intense gaze. He had her panting and wet for him, without so much as a kiss.

“Higher,” he demanded, encircling her ankle with his strong grip. “All the way to your waist. Show me everything.”

The dark command in his voice thrilled her. She wriggled on the desk, working her skirts higher. Until cool air rushed over her exposed, aroused cleft.