Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(30)

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s appalling! That’s what it is. I don’t even know how it happens. I haven’t done needlework since I was a girl of fourteen. Even then it was crewel work and embroidery. Never knitting. But every night, for the past several months, I sit down for the evening, intending to read or write letters, and three hours later there’s a lumpy, misshapen thing in my lap.”

Pauline stifled a giggle.

“Go ahead, laugh. It’s ridiculous.” The duchess picked up the knitted mess and turned it over in her hands. “Is it a cap for a two-headed snake? A mitten for a three-fingered arthritic? Even I don’t know, and I made the thing. The shame. I can’t let the servants see them, of course. I have to stash them in a hatbox and smuggle them out to the Foundling Hospital on Tuesdays.”

Pauline laughed aloud at that.

“A lifetime of elegance, poise, and jewels, and now I’ve come to this.” She lifted the distorted mitten and shook it at Pauline. “This! It’s absurd.”

“Perhaps you should consult a doctor.”

“I don’t need a powder or a tonic, Miss Simms.” The duchess sank into a chair and pressed the snarl of yarn to her chest. Her voice softened. “I need grandchildren. Little pudgy, wriggling babies to absorb all this affection unraveling inside me. I’m desperate for them, and I don’t know what will become of me otherwise. Some morning, Fleur will come in to wake me and find I’ve been asphyxiated by a yards-long muffler. How gauche.”

Pauline took the knitting from the duchess’s hands and examined it. “This isn’t half bad, in places. I could teach you to make a proper cuff, if you like.”

The duchess grabbed it from her and stuffed it back in her pocket. “I’ll take knitting lessons from you later. This week, you’re taking duchess lessons from me.”

“But, your grace, you don’t understand. I don’t even—”

Pauline shut her mouth. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say, I don’t even want to marry him.

But something stopped her from saying it aloud. An impulse to spare the duchess’s feelings, she decided. No mother would like to hear her son disparaged, and it would be impossible to explain why a serving girl would turn down the chance to marry a duke.

Explanations weren’t necessary, anyhow. The duke in question was never going to propose.

“He’s paying me,” she blurted out. She just couldn’t let the poor woman get her hopes up. Halford hadn’t sworn her to secrecy, after all. “He’s paying me to be a catastrophe. To thwart your every attempt at polish.”

The duchess gave a delicate harrumph. “That’s what he told you because that’s what he’s telling himself. He can’t bring himself to admit that he’s fascinated with you. You’re a proud one as well. If I accused you of being infatuated with him already, you’d deny it.”

“I . . . I do deny it. Because it isn’t true.”

As she spoke the words, Pauline’s heart pounded in her chest.

Liar, liar, liar.

She was infatuated. Stupidly, impossibly infatuated with every little thing about the duke. No, not the duke—the man. The way he’d listened to her with true interest. The way he’d broken her fall, kissed her with such passion. The delicious, addictive way he smelled. Just that morning she’d harbored fantasies of stealing his discarded shirt from the laundry so she could stash it under her pillow.

Oh, ye gods! This was terrible. She even had flutterings.

Fleur reentered the room bearing a velvet-lined tray, which she placed on the vanity table.

Pauline gasped. The tray was covered in jewels of every type and color, sparkling in every conceivable setting—necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings. But they did not come in every size. No, each gemstone was uniformly, alarmingly huge.

“That will be all,” the duchess said, dismissing Fleur once again.

She turned her attention to the tray of jewels. “Not pearls, not today,” she muttered, pushing aside a strand of perfectly matched iridescent orbs. “Topaz would be all wrong. It will be a few years yet before you can carry off diamonds or rubies.”

Diamonds and rubies? The deluded woman kept speaking as if all these jewels would one day be hers. Pauline didn’t know how to convince the duchess of the truth.

“Didn’t you hear me, your grace?” she asked in a loud whisper. “Gri—I mean, the duke—is paying me to fail. He just wants to teach you a lesson, so he’ll never be subject to your matchmaking again.”

The older woman’s hands settled on Pauline’s shoulders. Their gazes met in the mirror. “How much did he promise you?”

“A thousand pounds.”

The duchess seemed unimpressed. She placed her hands on either side of Pauline’s face and pulled upward, elongating her spine until she sat ramrod straight.

“There. When your posture is correct, you have a marvelous neck for jewels.” She tilted Pauline’s head this way and that. “Never let anyone tell you to wear emeralds, simply because your eyes are green. It’s what people with no imagination say. On color alone, your eyes are a closer match to peridot. But peridot always strikes me as lamentably bourgeois.”

“I don’t often have people advising me on jewels, your grace,” Pauline said, her voice muffled by the duchess’s hands bracketing her cheeks. “This would be the very first time.”