Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(42)

This was one woman he would never have.

Chapter Eleven

“Last night was perfection.”

The duchess drizzled a precise spiral of honey atop her buttered toast. Pauline briefly wondered if the older woman had chosen the citrine pendant at her throat to match her breakfast.

But she pushed the query aside, thinking it best to work one puzzle at a time.

“Perfection?” she echoed. “Last night? But it was terrible. I was terrible.”

“My girl, we cannot argue with results.” She waved a hand over a gilt-edged salver heaped with sealed envelopes. “So many invitations already.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. Think of gemstones. Some jewels are prized for their exquisite cut and polish. Others are coveted by collectors, even when riddled with flaws, simply because they are so very rare.”

“But I’m not rare in any way,” Pauline objected. “I’m exactly the opposite. I’m common.”

The duchess made a contrary snort over her bite of toast. “He danced with you.”

“For all of ten seconds. Perhaps fifteen.”

“That was more than enough. You don’t understand. My son never dances. It’s been years since he’s danced with any unmarried lady, for the exact purpose of avoiding this speculation.”

Pauline sighed. “But . . . but he only danced with me to escape his bothersome friend.”

“The two of you disappeared into the gardens, and when you returned his cravat was mussed.”

“We had to remove his stickpin. The duke’s button was caught on my seam, and he couldn’t get loose.”

“Oh, I know he couldn’t get loose.” The duchess teased a folded newspaper out from beneath the heap of envelopes. “Precisely as it’s printed in the Prattler. ‘The Duke of Halford, Snared at Last.’ ”

Oh, no.

Pauline cringed as she scanned the newspaper gossip column. Just as the duchess had said, it was filled with speculation about the duke and “the mysterious Miss Simms.”

Any thrill of overnight fame was lost on her. She was consumed by the common girl’s worst daily fear: that of losing her post.

If the duchess was this happy with the results of last night, Pauline knew one thing.

The duke would not be.

He couldn’t blame her for this scandal sheet, could he? If the evening had ended in anything other than humiliation, it was all his fault. He was the one who’d caught her when she slipped, tangling their clothing. He was the one who’d danced her out into the garden.

He was the one who’d kissed her. Touched her, so sweetly.

The duchess whisked the newspaper aside. “We’ve made excellent progress, but there remains a fair bit of road ahead. And you have your elbows on the table.”

Pauline removed them grudgingly.

“This morning, our task is accomplishment.”

“Accomplishment?”

“The next time you attend a social event, you’ll stay longer than an hour. As is the case with all young gentlewomen in attendance, you may be called on to exhibit.”

“Exhibit?” Pauline laughed.

Oh, this would be a joke. Her worries about accidentally succeeding in this duchess-training endeavor all melted that instant—like so much butter scraped across her warm, evenly browned point of toast. No scorched bread in this house.

“You mean to make me an accomplished lady in one morning? That’s impossible.”

“I mean to find the natural talent you already possess. There must be one.”

Pauline paused, toast halfway to her mouth. “Your grace . . .”

She set the toast aside, suddenly uneasy. The duchess thought she had a hidden talent. Her, Pauline Simms. It was so strange—and rather wonderful—to have someone who believed in her, even this small bit.

Though Spindle Cove was stocked with unconventional ladies, none of them had ever taken much time to know Pauline. Her own mother was a sad, defeated shadow of a woman. She’d never had anyone like the duchess in her life—a guiding feminine presence who not only believed she could be something better than a farm wife or serving girl, but demanded she try.

But the more she came to treasure the duchess’s confidence in her, the more Pauline worried about how this week would end. She hated the idea of watching the older woman’s dreams unravel.

She said, “Please believe me when I tell you, nothing remotely matrimonial is ever going to transpire between me and the duke. It just . . . won’t happen. Nevertheless, your grace, I’m starting to like you. You’ve been kind to me in moments, and I know you have a good heart under all that phlegm. I don’t want you to form lofty expectations, only to have your plans spoiled.”

In response, the duchess only gave a slight smile. She lifted a spoon and tapped at her egg sitting in its enameled cup. A delicate lattice of cracks bloomed over the egg’s smooth shell.

Tap, tap, tap.

Pauline reached out with her own spoon and gave the egg a good, hard crack. She didn’t know how else to make the older woman listen.

“Your grace, you must take me seriously. I’m trying to tell you to give up your hopes of grandchildren—at least, any mothered by me—and you’re calmly eating a boiled egg. Are you losing your hearing?”