Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(47)

She didn’t understand. He wanted to help the lad. He truly did. But he wasn’t in any condition to offer benign encouragement right now. This place had his viscera in turmoil. All the little footsteps pattering right over his heart . . .

“Sorry,” he said curtly. “I just don’t have the time.”

Oof.

The punch seemed to come out of nowhere, though rationally he knew it must have originated at the end of her right arm. There was no doubt about where it landed—square in his gut.

He fell back a step, reeling.

“Hubert,” she said, her eyes never leaving Griff’s, “since his grace can’t spare the time, you’re getting your fighting lessons from me.”

“Simms, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious.” She tugged off her gloves with her teeth and cast them aside. She circled him with raised fists, taunting. “What? You’re not going to fight back?”

“You know very well I can’t hurt a woman.”

“Oh, please. You are entirely capable of hurting a woman. Expert at it, I’d guess.” She feinted a jab to his ribs, then darted away.

Clearly she was angry with him, for reasons that had little to do with hats and foundlings. Griff would gladly let her take swings at him later, but he couldn’t have this discussion right now.

He held up his hands. “I’m done here.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” She dodged in front of him, blocking his only route of escape. “If you’re not brave enough to throw a punch, I’m sure you can find other ways. Call me names, perhaps. Insult my origins. Or I know. Perhaps you could bring out that slow, obnoxious applause.”

“Is that what this is about?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re vexed with me for not cheering your little water-goblet concert?”

“No,” she shot back, defensive. Then she revised, “In part. You were purposely hurtful this morning.”

“We made an arrangement, Simms. You agreed to be a failure. I’m paying you handsomely for the trouble. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Yes, but—”

“If the terms of our bargain are no longer satisfactory, I can send you back to Sussex.”

“I signed on for a week of society’s disdain. Not yours.”

“Well, then. Consider it a bonus.”

“Oh, you—” With a growl, she swung at him again.

This time he was ready. He caught her fist in his hand, enveloping the tight, small knot of knuckles and holding it fast.

“I told you everything last night.” Her whispered words were barbed. “My dreams, my secrets. Everything. And this morning you treated me like nothing.”

He made his voice low. “What is it you want, Simms? What is it you’re wanting to hear? Am I supposed to say you’re the equal of any well-bred lady?”

“Of course not. No. I don’t want to be like those Awful Haughfells or any of their sort.”

“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Now I see. You don’t want to hear that you’re their equal. You want to hear that you’re their better.”

She didn’t reply.

“I’m supposed to deem your little water-goblet tune more enchanting than any Italian aria. Proclaim your wholesome country manners a breath of fresh air in my sin-clouded life.” He laughed. “What else? Perhaps you’re hoping to hear that your purity is the most intoxicating and rare of perfumes. Your hair smells like hedgerows and your eyes are like chips of wide-open sky, and God above, you make me feel things. Things I haven’t felt in years. Or ever.” With his free hand, he clutched his chest dramatically. “What is this strange stirring in my breast? Could it possibly be . . . love?”

She stared at his waistcoat button, refusing to look at him.

Somewhere in his brain a fragment of reason shouted that he was being a bastard and cocking everything up. But he wasn’t acting on logic right now. He was torn between two impulses: the need to push her away from that raw, aching wound she kept poking, and the impossible desire to draw her close, possess her completely.

Most of all, he needed to leave this place before he went blind and mad with grief.

“I employed you for a reason, Simms. I’m not looking for a fresh-faced girl to teach me the meaning of love and give me purpose in life. And if you’re looking for a well-heeled gentleman to make a fetish of your feisty spirit . . . perhaps you could find one here in London, but it won’t be me.”

“What a speech,” she whispered, drawing close. “I’d be inclined to believe it, if it weren’t for the way you kissed me last night.”

Her angry warmth was palpable. Arousing.

“Oh, Simms. What kind of shoddy libertine do you take me for? I’ve kissed a great many women without caring for them in the least.”

Hm. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that shade of green.

That was his last coherent thought, staring into her eyes. Then her left fist crashed into his face, and his world exploded with fireworks of bright red pain. He staggered a few steps backward. His skull rang like a bell.

Well. He deserved that.

When his vision focused again, he saw her talking to the boy.

“That’s your first lesson, Hubert.” She crouched before the wide-eyed lad, speaking to him on his level. “Don’t fight fair. Life isn’t fair, especially not life in a place like this. If you have a shot, take it. There’s no call to be sporting about it, not with bullies.”