Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(19)

He’d wanted to, more than he’d wanted his next breath.

Sweet heaven.

Bloody hell.

He’d thought he was done with this. For months now he’d ignored invitations and innuendos from women all over Town. A mud-spattered, sugar-dusted, smart-mouthed serving girl in drab linsey-woolsey could not prove his complete undoing.

As he nudged the horse into a canter, he realized he hadn’t laid out a very good strategy for living the rest of his life as the New, Not-Truly-Improved, Just-Vastly-Less-Interesting Griffin Eliot York. For the past several months he’d been too absorbed by other emotions to feel any sensual deprivation. Any mild stirrings of unrest were quelled by routine physical exercise or the occasional halfhearted frig.

In retrospect, it seemed ridiculous to believe he—he!—could remain celibate for the remainder of his years. He should have known it would be coming: that day when his neglected c**k did perk with interest, rise up and wave in a jaunty, “Ho, there—remember me?”

As his luck would have it, that day was today.

There was something about Pauline Simms that had him fascinated. She was so defiantly proud of her common origins, yet so hungry for approval.

This was a business arrangement, he reminded himself. He’d hired the girl to bedevil his mother, not to bewitch him. Her cleverness and lively, cat-tipped eyes should not be temptations. They were a desirable set of skills she brought to her post. Similar to the way one sought out a stonemason with brawn and foresight and steady hands.

The thought of employees helped him turn his mind toward mundane tasks. He’d need to warn the house staff that the duchess would be bringing a guest. Fortunately, his housekeeper, Mrs. Thomas, was scarily efficient. A few words, and everything would be readied in advance of Miss Simms’s arrival: room, maid, meals, bath.

God, yes. The girl needed a bath.

A proper bath. Not just a quick dousing to rinse away that glittering sweetness. A bath hot enough to soak those calluses from her hands and curl the short hairs at her temples. With a fresh cake of scented soap for scrubbing, and thick, downy towels to wrap her sleek, glistening limbs.

The image that came to his mind was so vivid, so lushly detailed in every texture of skin and soap and slickness . . . He had to pull the horse to a halt in the center of the road and recover himself.

The hard drumming of hoofbeats had ceased, but his ribs pounded with the furious thunder of his pulse.

Why her? Why now?

But as was the case with all the whys and wherefores he’d addressed to the darkness in recent months, no answers came back. Only one thing was clear. This just wouldn’t do. Perhaps he could outride temptation tonight, but by the morrow, temptation would be living under his roof.

There was only one thing for it. He must pay a visit on his way back to Town.

He adjusted his position in the saddle, leaning over the gelding’s neck to urge the beast faster. Midway on his journey through Kent, he turned his horse off the main road and instead took a winding, familiar spur.

He approached the village in the first gray whisper of morning—a tight cluster of cottages, wreathed in fog. A dew-glittered meadow offered some bluebells and primrose for the picking. Griff turned the horse out to graze and stretched his legs, gathering what twiggy wildflowers he could find. They weren’t much, but it seemed poor form to show up empty-handed.

As dawn broke over the green horizon, he realized he was stalling. Stupid, to be anxious.

He walked past the white-steepled church, to the walled area behind it. The rusted churchyard gate swung inward with a whine of hinges, and he walked to the third row of monuments. He found the simply marked grave.

He remained there several minutes, silent and unmoving, before crouching to place his meager bouquet before the limestone cross.

When he tried to stand, he couldn’t. Grief seized him with a savage, crippling pain. Like an auger drilling straight on his heart. It hollowed him out, left a round, aching hole—one he knew would never be filled.

This is what comes of indulging your desires.

After long minutes he could breathe again. Before he rose to leave, he kissed his fingertips, then laid them to the cool, grainy stone.

There. Temptation conquered.

Chapter Five

“Miss Simms,” the duchess said. “Your nose will wear a hole in that windowpane. Duchesses do not gawk.”

Pauline sat back on the carriage seat, chastened.

After traveling all night, they’d reached the bustling environs of London by early afternoon. It then took them three more hours to navigate the busy bridges and streets, making their way to Halford House. Her nose had been glued to the coach window for all of it, as she stared wide-eyed at the urban scenery. So much glass. So much brick. So much soot.

And so very many people.

Eventually the coach turned into an area of finer homes, many of them fronting wide green squares with immaculately trimmed hedges. They must be nearing the duke’s house.

Pauline had been in fine houses before. Well, one fine house at least—Summerfield, the home of Sir Lewis Finch. Sir Lewis’s housekeeper sometimes hired extra help to clean house at Christmas or Easter. Summerfield was a grand manor, sprawling over several wings and filled with curiosities of every stripe. Every dusty old bit of bric-a-brac was priceless—at least, hired girls were expected to handle them like treasures.

By the time the coach rolled to a halt before Halford House, Pauline had convinced herself it would be well within the range of her experience.