Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

“Nothing,” he said. “I wouldn’t change a single thing. You’re perfect.”


Her heart wrenched in her chest. At last, that word again. And it didn’t come when she was dressed in a silk gown and draped with jewels, but just here. Here, when she lay naked beneath him in the full light of morning. Nothing hidden, nothing concealed. Nothing between their bodies but musk and heat.

It was worth the whole week’s wait, to hear it now.

She slid her hands to his back and arched her hips, drawing him deeper. “Take me hard. Hold nothing back. I want to be sore. I want to feel you for days.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. He did as she asked, lifting her legs and guiding them around his hips so he could ride her hard and well. Her br**sts danced to his rhythm. His thighs smacked against hers with every deep, penetrating stroke.

She raked her fingernails down his back, scoring his flesh—so that he’d feel her for days, too. She rode the wave of his deep, forceful thrusts.

He pressed his brow to hers. “I don’t want to withdraw. I want to be deep inside you when I come.”

She was stunned. “Griff, no. The risk is too great.”

“I want the risk.” He kissed her lips. “I never thought I’d say that again, but I want it. I want you, always.”

He was talking madness. Lust had addled his brain. She had to leave; he must stay. They were both completely unprepared to deal with those consequences. But some crazed, unthinking part of her wanted the same. The decision would be made. No undoing it. He couldn’t shut her out of his life. And how wonderful it would feel, to someday place a cooing, healthy infant in his arms. Her heart melted at the idea.

She could make him so, so happy.

He paused above her, tensing every muscle. And when he began to thrust again, she sensed a now-familiar shift in his rhythm. His peak was near.

“Don’t stop me.” He pumped hard and fast. “I can’t let you go.”

“Griff . . .”

“Take me,” he breathed, driving deep. “Take everything. Just love me.”

“Yes.” Her own climax broke, sending her into a place beyond thought or reason. “Yes.”

The door crashed open.

Pauline shrieked. They jolted apart, and she burrowed under the bed linens, still shuddering with the last tremors of orgasm.

Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God.

Griff cursed and flipped onto his back, drawing her into a protective embrace. The hard, frustrated ridge of his c**k throbbed against her hip. “What the devil?”

Lord Delacre stood framed in the entryway. He lifted a hand to shield his view. “It’s worse than I thought. My eyes.”

“I thought the door was locked,” Pauline whispered, clutching the bedsheets to her chest.

“It was locked,” Griff said through gritted teeth.

“I broke it in,” Delacre said. “This is urgent, Halford. Do you know this girl you’ve been squiring all around the ton is a bloody barmaid?”

Oh, Lord. Pauline’s face blazed with humiliation.

Griff’s arm slipped from its protective perch around her shoulders. She felt his erection flagging, too. He slowly sat up in bed, rubbing his face with both hands.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Everyone knows,” Delacre answered. “Eugenia Haughfell ferreted out the truth, and now it’s all over Town.”

She should have known. Those cursed Awfuls.

“No doubt this week has been quite the lark for you, Miss Simms. But it’s at an end.” He walked a few paces into the room, plucked Griff’s discarded breeches from the floor and flung them at him. “You’ve had some narrow scrapes, Halford, and I’ve seen some brazen fortune-hunting schemes in my time. But this beats all. Seduced by a barmaid in the ancestral bed.”

Calm and silent, Griff collected the breeches. He turned aside—away from Pauline—and slid his legs into them one at a time. His back was to her as he stood and yanked the breeches to his waist.

Farewell, she thought wistfully. Farewell, finest arse in Creation.

This was it, then. She’d known they were down to their last few hours of bliss, but this was a mortifying ending.

She wanted to disappear under the mattress.

Delacre went on, “At least no one can expect you to marry the girl. The gossip will deem her just another of your debauched larks. Toss her a bit of money and send her off. But I hope you’ve been careful not to get a brat on her. She probably hid it from you, but there’s imbecility in the bloodline.”

Griff paused in the act of fastening a button on his breeches falls. He looked up at Delacre for a brief moment.

“Del,” he said, in a low, easy voice, “it will take me about ten seconds to button these. That’s how much time you have to run.”

Lord Delacre shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere until I’m certain this—”