Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(37)

“Don’t.” She clutched his arm, holding it still. “You’ll rip the whole seam. My gown will fall apart.”

He turned to her then, and gave her an intense, thoughtful look.

No. He wouldn’t actually do it.

Pauline glanced around the ballroom. She and the duke had been standing here in quiet, linked-arm conversation for a solid minute now, and people were noticing. Everyone was watching them—especially the ladies. Some looked envious, as though they wished to be the woman on Griff’s arm. Yet more of them wore possessive expressions—as though they’d once been the woman in his bed.

No matter which group they belonged to, she was certain of one thing. They’d love nothing more than to see her brought low.

She knew humiliation was the aim of the evening, but that would be . . .

“You wouldn’t,” she said.

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “When I rip a woman’s clothes off, I almost always prefer to do it in private.” He tilted his head toward a set of doors across the ballroom. “We’ll make for the gardens and sort this out.”

Arm linked tight with Pauline’s, he began leading her back across the room they’d just traversed. However, this time they couldn’t make their way unimpeded. Other guests kept slowing their progress, drawing the duke aside for a word of greeting or two.

Or three or four or five.

Pauline limited herself to monosyllabic answers and polite, shy smiles, not wanting to prolong conversation. What was most maddening, the less she spoke or interacted, the more favorably the ladies and gentlemen seemed to respond.

“You really must cease that,” Griff said, drawing her away from a nattering pair of sisters.

“Cease what?”

“Being demure.”

“I’m just trying to be brief,” she replied.

“Yes, but that’s where you’ve gone wrong. There’s nothing like silence to ingratiate yourself with self-important people. It leaves them so much space to discuss themselves.”

“Halford!” A ruddy-faced gentleman appeared out of nowhere, stopping them in their tracks.

Good heavens. How was it possible they’d made so little progress? Those doors to the garden were still some twenty yards away.

The man pumped Griff’s free arm vigorously. “Haven’t seen you for ages, old devil. Rumor had it you’d finally succumbed to the pox.” He shot a toothy smile in Pauline’s direction. “Who’s this?”

“Miss Simms, of Sussex. She’s in Town as my mother’s guest. Miss Simms, this is Mr. Frederick Martin.”

The gentleman bowed and gave Griff a conspiratorial wink. “Rather possessive of her, aren’t you?”

“She’s new in London. Just getting her feet.”

In the corner, the small orchestra struck up the first strains of a waltz.

“Surely you’ll allow me to steal her for one dance.” Martin extended a white-gloved hand and bowed over it. “Miss Simms, may I have the pleasure?”

Panic jumped in Pauline’s chest. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Halford won’t mind. When it comes to the ladies, he’s always generous.”

Pauline wasn’t sure what the man meant by that remark, but she was certain she didn’t like it.

“She’s not dancing with you.” The duke gave a heavy sigh. He sounded as though even he couldn’t believe the words he was about to speak. “She’s promised this dance to me.”

With that, he pulled her away from Mr. Frederick Martin and led her onto the dance floor.

Pauline tried not to let fear show on her face. “What? Wait. I don’t even know how to—”

“Just follow my lead. It’s the only way to make a quick escape.”

They waltzed their way around the ballroom. Because of the way his sleeve was caught on her gown, Griff had to hold his arm jutting out like a chicken wing. Without his hand on her back, he couldn’t lead her properly. Pauline was left to chase him across the dance floor in tiny, tiptoeing steps.

At last they reached the doors to the garden.

“I’ve never seen that waltz before,” an elderly matron remarked.

“A Hungarian variation, madam.” He held open the door for Pauline. “All the rage in Vienna.”

She couldn’t stop giggling as they stumbled into the garden. “That was resourceful. I’ll give you that.”

“Now give me my freedom,” he said. “Get me loose.”

“You act as though this is my fault. It’s your button. And it only snagged because you were too protective. If you’d allowed me to stumble a bit, we could have been on our way home by now.”

She reached between them with her free arm, but quickly realized the situation could only be adequately inspected if her fingers were bare.

She thrust her hand out to him. “My glove. Help me off with it.”

He loosed the ribbon garter at her elbow first, then set to work on the dozen tiny buttons stretching from her elbow to her wrist. It had taken ten minutes of struggling with fingers and teeth to close them earlier that evening.

He had them undone in ten seconds.

She lifted a brow. “Something tells me you’ve done this before.”

“A time or two.”