Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)

After a few moments’ surreptitious investigation, she turned down a narrow corridor. She passed near a clashing, steamy din that must have been the palace kitchen. When she spied a footman returning with a tray of empty glasses, she knew she needed to proceed in the direction he’d come.

Pauline traversed a passageway with stairs. At the top, she listened for the sounds of chatter and music. Turning toward the noise, she rounded a corner . . .

And reeled to a halt when she nearly collided with a finely dressed man.

“I’m sorry,” she started to apologize. “I—”

When she swept a look from his boots to his face, she gasped.

Oh, bollocks.

Fitted tailcoat. White gloves. An angry red line running down his left cheek.

“Lord Delacre.”

Griff had been right—that wound would probably leave a scar. Not a disfiguring one. Just a thin, indelible reminder.

Good.

“I knew I saw you here,” he said.

“Please excuse me.”

When she tried to move past him, he grabbed her arm. “I won’t let you do this. I’ve known Halford all his life, and I know what’s best for him even when he doesn’t.”

Her heart jumped. Did that mean Griff was here?

She pulled against Delacre’s grasp. “Let me go.”

Delacre didn’t frighten her—but he was a man, much larger and more powerful than she. Moreover, this was his native environment. His friends at this event numbered in the hundreds. She could count hers on one hand and still have a good many fingers left over.

She was outsized, outranked, outclassed. And unless she figured out a way around him, she would remain outside that ballroom forever.

“Is it money you want?” He released her arm and slid a bank note from his breast pocket. She could just make out the writing on it.

Five pounds.

He waved it at her. “Take it, then. And use the servants’ exit. This isn’t the place for you.”

That’s not for you, girl.

Her cheeks burned. With those words, he wasn’t Delacre anymore. He was every book that had ever been ripped from her hand. Every door that had ever been slammed on her.

She wanted to fight back, throw something. Spit in his face.

But this situation called for a different sort of phlegm.

She pulled her spine straight, lifted her chin and fixed him with a cool, direct look. “Go to hell.”

While he stood sputtering, she dashed past him and rejoined the crowd near the ballroom entry. Before she could lose her nerve, she cut ahead of the queue of waiting guests. Impolite, perhaps. But the gossips already knew her to be a serving girl—it wasn’t as though they could think much worse of her.

She gave her name to the majordomo, and he announced, “Miss Simms of Sussex.”

The ballroom went utterly silent, except for the thunder of her heart. Her hands trembled at her sides.

Breathe, she told herself.

And then: Go.

She let that transparent cord at her navel pull her forward, guiding her as she descended the small flight of stairs. As she walked, her gown caught the light of hundreds of candles and lamps, sending arrows of light in every direction.

Once she reached the bottom of the staircase, she sought refuge behind a cluster of potted palms and scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Where were Minerva and Susanna? She knew she’d resolved to go this alone, but she didn’t feel so brave anymore.

And then—

Griff.

He strode toward her, wearing an immaculate black tailcoat and carrying a wicked gleam in his eye. So assured, so handsome.

Oh, the flutterings. She had flutterings all through her. They were so strong, they just about carried her away.

“I didn’t think you’d attend,” she breathed. “I was hoping, of course. I just wanted to see you again. To tell you I’m sorry, and that you were right. I was afraid. I’m still afraid, to be honest. I don’t think I can do this at all. But if you—”

He didn’t let her finish. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She was seized by a pulse of pure terror. It didn’t matter to her if the rest of the gathering scorned her. But if even Griff would cast her out . . .

He didn’t cast her out.

He took her by the hand.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, more gently this time. “The most beautiful woman in the room does not belong in the corner with the potted palms. Come out from there. Or else Flora did all this for nothing.”

She pulled up short and stared at him. “You. It was you. You sent Flora. And the gown. You didn’t sack her at all.”

A little smile played about his lips. “You wouldn’t have come if I’d asked.”

Of all the tricks. She couldn’t believe it. “I thought you were furious with me.”

“I was furious with you. For about . . . ten minutes. Perhaps a full quarter hour. Then I came to my senses.” He tugged her forward. “Come. We have a bargain to complete. There’s someone to whom you should be properly introduced.”

Not the Prince Regent, she prayed.

Worse.

He steered her straight toward the Haughfells. All three of them—mother and daughters—were united by the grim sets of their mouths and their refusal to even look at Pauline.