Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(32)

Good God. Good God.

Today, he’d resolved to find her and have a brief, businesslike chat to set matters straight, assure them both it wouldn’t happen again—but the talk wasn’t supposed to happen like this. They were meant to be alone, but only to a safe degree. When he was too exhausted from hours of vigorous fencing to even contemplate lust, and when she was . . . not looking like that.

Are you all right? she mouthed.

No. No, he wasn’t all right. He was devastated.

Yesterday she’d turned his head with impropriety and all those sparkling sugar crystals. Now she didn’t sparkle any longer. She wore a frock of white so sheer and pure, the sun-burnished warmth of her skin shone through.

She glowed.

He’d always loved this: a woman’s elemental effect on him, as a man. He used to live for these moments of raw, instinctual attraction. When a source of celestial-grade femininity wandered into the room, and his internal compass recalibrated. It was a sublime shift from internal chaos to single-minded determination. The difference between Ye gods, what next? and . . .

Her. I’ll take her.

Damn. He wanted her. He had from the first. He understood it now, that some deadened part of him was kindling back to life.

But this was the worst possible time, and she was the least possible woman, and whatever effect she had on him, Griff knew he must make absolutely sure that no one in the room—not his mother, not his friend, not Pauline Simms—had any clue.

Well, aside from the bleeding.

Turning away, he used the edge of his sword to shear a strip of linen from his shirt and used it to bind his wound.

“Your grace.” Del stretched one leg forward and made a deep, courtly bow to the duchess.

“Lord Delacre.” His mother inclined her head.

“Will you do me the honor of introducing your lovely friend?”

Don’t start, Griff silently warned. Not with her.

He and Del had a long history of locking horns over conquests. In their most callow, youthful years they’d even made a sport of it, with wagers and a complex system of points. Griff had long outgrown such things, but there was no telling, where Delacre was concerned. He might still be keeping a tally somewhere.

“This is my guest,” the duchess said. “Miss Simms, of Sussex.”

“Well, Miss Simms of Sussex. It’s a true pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Lord Delacre, of wherever I’m least wanted.” He lifted Pauline’s hand and kissed it.

She lifted an eyebrow at Griff, and it was as though he could hear her teasing, You didn’t kiss my hand.

But I saved you from falling on your face, he retorted with a quirked brow of his own.

For a moment they began to share a smile. And then it was though they both remembered the kisses that had followed said rescue—not to mention the implied intimacy of conversing in eyebrow quirks while other people looked on.

Her throat flushed. Griff looked away.

“Don’t be worried about him, Miss Simms,” said Delacre. “We’re expert swordsmen, the two of us. Best in London. We have to be.”

“And why’s that?” she asked.

“Because we’re the two greatest rakes.” Del winked at her. “A reputation for expert swordsmanship is the best defense against being called out in a duel. No man, no matter how enraged, would put the choice of weapon in our hands.” He set his practice blade aside. “Have you been long in London, Miss Simms?”

“Only since yesterday, my lord.”

The duchess put in, “Miss Simms’s parents have been unable to expose her to society, so I’ve offered to give the girl some polish here in Town.”

“Judging by the slice in Halford’s arm, I’d say you’re off to a promising start,” Delacre said. In a lowered voice, he told the duchess, “I know what you’re up to. And as one blood-sworn to defend him against all marriage traps, I ought to object. But for once, your grace, I think we may be allies. There’s no denying he’s been a monk all season. Only less amusing.”

“I heard that,” Griff said curtly.

Del ignored him, still addressing the duchess in confidential tones. “Of course, we’re not entirely aligned. You’re his mother. You want to see him married. As his friend, my goal is different. I’d settle for getting him—”

“Del.”

“—out,” Delacre finished, clapping a hand to his breast in innocence. “Getting him out. Of the house. What did you think I meant to say? You have a filthy mind, Halford. Positively diseased.”

Annoyed, Griff swung his sword in idle threat, testing his wounded arm. With friends like these . . .

“This is excellent.” Delacre clapped his hands. “Miss Simms needs an introduction to Town. Halford’s been needing to use his—”

“Del.”

“—legs.” Delacre raised his hands in innocence. “Obviously, we all need to attend the Beaufetheringstone crush this evening.”

His mother sighed. “I will speak these words just once in my lifetime, I’m sure. Delacre, you make an excellent suggestion.”

“It’s a terrible suggestion,” Griff muttered.

“Until this evening, then.” Delacre gathered his things and sketched a quick bow. “I must be going. I like to wear out at least three welcomes before teatime. Otherwise, the day feels wasted.” From the doorway, he leveled a finger at Griff. “You can thank me for this later.”