Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(31)

The duchess released her, turned, and lifted a necklace of light purple stones and gold filigree from the velvet-lined tray. As she draped the jewels about Pauline’s neck, she said, “This is your stone. Amethyst. Rare, regal, yet sweet enough for a younger woman.”

As the jewels found the dips and hollows of her collarbone, Pauline stared into the looking glass, amazed. The duchess was right—the amethysts’ color did look well on her. The violet shade set off the golden tones in her hair and put a wash of pink on her cheeks.

Then again, perhaps the flush was born of excitement. She could scarcely believe such a thing was touching her bare skin.

“So my son has offered you a thousand pounds,” the duchess said. “This necklace alone is worth ten times that.”

Holy . . . Ten. Thousand. Pounds. Ten times a thousand pounds. A numeral one with four aughts after it. Hanging around her neck.

Fear gripped her with sudden, irrational force. She was terrified to move or breathe. If she even dared tilt her head to one side, perhaps the chain would break and the entire priceless business would slide into a floorboard crack—never to be seen again.

The duchess said, “Keep your eyes on the greater prize, my girl.”

Pauline could do nothing but stare at the silver-haired woman in the looking glass. Odd. She hadn’t pegged the duchess for a madwoman.

“Your grace, it simply won’t work.” She waved at her own reflection. “I’m not what he’d want. Much less what he’d need. He’s the eighth Duke of Halford, and I’m a serving girl. Perfectly wrong. Just listen to me. Look at me.”

“It’s not I who needs a look at you.” The duchess removed the amethyst necklace and replaced it in the tray, then motioned for Pauline to stand. “Come along. We’re going to have an experiment.”

Bemused, Pauline rose from the chair and followed. They went downstairs to the main floor, and the duchess guided her into a large, open salon. As they entered the room, she looked to Pauline and put a finger to her lips for quiet.

The carpets had been rolled back to the edges of the room, and Pauline quickly learned why. The room wasn’t a salon right now, but some sort of gymnasium.

In the center of the floor, the duke and a masked opponent squared off against one another. Each man was clad in thigh-hugging buff breeches, a quilted waistcoat, and an open white shirt. Each man held a slender, shining sword.

Neither noticed them enter the room.

“En garde,” the masked man said.

Steel clanged in response.

Pauline looked on as the two swordsmen traded feints and thrusts. She was speechless in admiration.

While his opponent wore a mesh helmet to protect his face, the duke’s features were fully visible. She could make out every furrow of concentration and drop of sweat on his brow. The exertion had matted his hair to his skull in dark, curling locks, and his open shirt clung to his torso. His musculature was revealed by the damp white linen, giving him the look of a marble carving come to life. Arms, shoulders, calves, arse—he was beautifully formed, everywhere.

The masked opponent sent a quick thrust toward the duke’s torso, but the duke deflected it with a sharp flick of his own blade before going on attack. His lunges and thrusts had the grace of a dance, coupled with deadly force.

As the two battled on, the walls echoed with the exciting sounds of steel whooshing through the air and blades clanging against each other—and most thrilling of all, two athletic men grunting with the force of their exertion. The whole space hummed with virile energy.

If Pauline had been suffering flutterings since their kiss, this scene ratcheted those sensations to something even more profound. Stirrings? Quakings? She didn’t want to name them.

In the center of the room, the men locked swords. The shining edge was just inches from Halford’s face, and unlike his opponent, he wore no contraption of metal floss to guard it. A flick of the blade and he could be scarred or blinded.

Take care, she wanted to shout.

The duchess put a hand on Pauline’s arm, restraining her.

Finally, with a primal growl, the two broke apart—each man recoiling several paces backward.

As he swiped at the perspiration on his brow, the duke turned his head in the ladies’ direction, briefly.

Briefly was all it took.

He saw her.

Even from across the room, Pauline felt it the moment his gaze locked with hers. The heated intensity made her skin tingle.

Halford must have felt more than a tingle. While he stood frozen in place, his opponent’s blade nicked his upper arm. A line of red blood quickly soaked through his shirt.

“Oh!” Pauline clapped both hands over her mouth, horrified.

For her part, the duchess made a satisfied noise. “I call that a success.”

Chapter Eight

Griff growled in pain, dropping his sword and pressing his free hand over the wound. “Damn it, Del.”

“Not my fault. Why’d you stop defending?” His friend pushed back his protective mask and looked about the room. When his gaze found Miss Simms, he smiled broadly. “Hullo. I see for myself now.”

Hullo, indeed.

Pauline curtsied, and Griff gave her a brisk nod.

He shouldn’t have been so surprised. It was just that he hadn’t seen her since the library last night, where they’d spent that time talking. Then embracing. Then kissing like lovers who’d been imprisoned in separate cells for ten years and were headed for the gallows at dawn.