Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(34)

The shopkeeper snorted. “If you’re wanting horrid novels, you can find them down in Leadenhall. I don’t permit girls to stand about gawping.”

“I’m companion to the Duchess of Halford. She’s waiting for me just outside.”

“Oh, truly.” The man laughed. “I suppose the Queen of Sheba had other plans today. Now out, before I chase you off with the broom. This isn’t the place for you.”

She couldn’t move. His words threw her back to an old, hurtful memory. A book ripped from her white-knuckled hands. Pain splitting her head, from one ear to the other. Harsh words adding insult to the ringing in her ears.

That’s not for you, girl.

She wanted to retaliate, stand up to the shopkeeper—but how? She had nothing. No coin to spend. No cultured accent or knowledge to prove his assumptions wrong.

She was visited by a powerful, childish temptation to throw a book at the man, but that would be less dramatic than sugar—not to mention, unkind to the book.

So she simply turned and left, cheeks hot and fingers shaking.

Someday, she promised herself, I will own my own shop filled with lovely books. And it will be a home to me, and to Daniela, and to anyone else who needs it. No one will ever be turned away.

Outside, the Halford coach now resembled a four-layer cake, with boxes and parcels tied to every available surface.

The duchess waved at her from inside the carriage. “Come along, then.”

Pauline obeyed. She’d learned one thing from her quick survey inside the bookshop. She’d seen prices scribbled on the slates, and now she knew for certain . . .

One thousand pounds could purchase a great many books.

It was time to set aside all thoughts of kisses, flutterings, and haunted dukes. She’d been hired for one purpose—to be a disaster—and she simply couldn’t fail.

Chapter Nine

Four petticoats.

Pauline had never dreamed that one woman could wear four petticoats. All at once, no less.

As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she decided it would be more truthful to say the petticoats were wearing her. Her ivory silk skirts flared so dramatically, she didn’t know how she’d fit through the doorway. She’d consider herself lucky if she survived the evening without plowing down any dogs or small children.

God help her if she needed to relieve herself.

As Fleur placed the final touches on her hair, Pauline stared wistfully at a cup of tea. It was going to be a long, thirsty evening.

“Listen to me closely,” the duchess said. “There’s a great deal at stake tonight.”

Pauline nodded.

“If you want to win society’s admiration, everyone must see you. No hiding in the corners or ducking behind the potted palms.”

Note: Make bosom friends with potted palms.

“But though it’s imperative to be seen, it’s less important to be heard. Talk with the ladies, but not too much. That goes double for the gentlemen.”

Which part? The talking, or the not too much?

“Tonight, you’ll appear before the cream of London society. Let them see you as a lovely young lady with a certain freshness about her. A translucent petal, veiled in mystery. Someone they’re dying to claim they’ve met, but don’t truly know at all. Do you understand?”

Oh, yes. Clear as pitch.

In the corridor, her progress was slow. She wasn’t accustomed to walking in such heavy skirts, nor in heeled slippers. Her gait resembled that of a wobbly foal. Perhaps a wobbly foal drunk on cider mash.

As they approached the staircase, her slipper heel snagged on the fringe of the carpet, nearly sending her sprawling. Pauline caught herself on a side table and endured several seconds of sheer agony as a porcelain shepherdess wavered back and forth on her base, deciding whether or not to fall.

“Miss Simms.” Several paces ahead, the duchess whirled about to face her. “Have you forgotten how to walk?”

“I do know how to walk.” She growled at the smiling shepherdess. “Just not dressed in all this.”

“First, stand tall.”

Pauline obeyed, even though she felt like kicking off the nefarious shoes and shrinking back to her bedchamber.

“Stop thinking about your feet. Imagine there’s a string attached to your navel,” the duchess advised. “Now let it pull you forward.”

Amazing.

Simple as it sounded, the duchess’s suggestion worked. When Pauline concentrated on her center, all the other parts fell into place. Her feet moved one in front of the other, and her shoulders just naturally pulled back. She felt taller, more assured. Floating.

As they neared the grand staircase, she felt an anxious twist in her belly. Her mind’s eye supplied a vision—the silliest of fancies, no doubt—that the duke would be standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for them.

Waiting for her.

Oh, she hoped he would be there. She hoped he’d look up and see her—and then watch, enraptured, as she smoothly descended every last one of the two dozen steps like a silken mist. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, he’d take her hand and kiss it with those strong, passionate lips.

And he’d whisper just one hushed, reverent word:

Perfect.

It was a ridiculous fantasy. Completely absurd. And she wanted it to happen so desperately, she could scarcely breathe. After that encounter with the shopkeeper earlier, she could have used a fresh supply of confidence.