Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(48)

She went on, “I grew up on a farm, see. A small one. A poor one. It was always one of my chores to mind the chickens. Now, newly hatched chicks are the sweetest, downiest, most innocent looking creatures on earth—but they’re savage little beasts. They’ll peck their own brothers and sisters to death if they sense a weakness.”

As he listened to her, Griff felt his own defenses softening.

“It’s the same with places like this,” she went on. “There’s always a pecking order. The big will torment the small, and the small will torment the smaller, and on down the line. It’s the nature of chicks, and it’s the nature of children, too. Don’t dream it will change. You’ll never be able to pummel every bully, and no amount of prayer or patience will convince them to change their ways. Just keep your head up and get what’s yours. Your food, your schooling. Whatever they give you, don’t squander it. All bread goes straight in your belly, and all the learning you can gather goes here.” She tapped a fingertip against her temple. “Stash it away. Because once it’s in you, it’s yours. No one can take it from you. No schoolyard bully, no mean-tempered lessons master . . .”

Nor an abusive father, Griff silently added. He pictured her, a lock of hair dangling over her smudged cheek as she furtively memorized bits of etiquette and poetry between farm chores. Reading the same words again and again, until they were stashed away. Safe inside, where no one could rob her of them.

“Not even a duke,” she finished.

Hubert eyed her silk day dress, with its flounce of lace. “You, my lady? You raised chickens on a farm?”

“I did. And as a child, I took more than my share of licks. But I got mine, just like I told you. It’s how I’ve come this far. And if you find me impressive now . . . ?” She rose to her feet and patted the boy on the shoulder. “Come visit me next week. I’ll be living wealthily ever after.”

With a fiery glance at Griff, she left the room.

He started off in pursuit, somewhat hobbled by his aching . . . everything. God’s teeth, what this woman was doing to him. He trailed her clipped footsteps down the corridor, catching up to her at the building’s main entrance.

“Listen,” he said, snaring her arm at the top of the steps. “About this morning. I wasn’t trying to be the savage chick, or the pecking bully, or whatever it is you’ve likened me to.”

“Don’t apologize, please. Then I might feel compelled to apologize for hitting you, and I don’t want to be sorry in the least.”

“I’m not apologizing. Just explaining. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Simms. But if the damned things are really so fragile, you shouldn’t let me anywhere near them. I told you, I’m no prince.”

She squared her shoulders, apparently reaching some decision. “You’re right. You did warn me. And I shouldn’t care what you think.”

No, wait, he stupidly felt like contradicting. I take it back. You should care. Please care.

Because he could see it on her face—just like that, she’d decided she didn’t need him. She would take her own advice to Hubert: complete her week’s employment, take his thousand pounds, and never think of him again.

He wanted her to think of him. Not just this week, but always.

What an ass he’d been, baiting her with all those compliments she might hope to hear. Griff saw himself clearly now. He was the one yearning for approval. Long after this week was over, he wanted her to remember him as the beneficent, handsome duke who’d whisked her away to London and changed her life. No matter what other disappointments he added to his family legacy, he could console himself with the knowledge that there was a shopkeeper at the arse-end of Sussex who worshipped him. Who believed he had a heart of pure, chivalric-grade gold—or at least sterling—hidden beneath the arrogance and vice.

She was meant to be the one good thing he’d done.

And now she looked at him like something that slithered.

“You’re right,” she said. They exited through the front gates, where she drew to a halt in the drive. “Of course you’re right. I’ve been a fool, wanting you to like me, approve of me. If you found anything in me to approve, you wouldn’t have hired me in the first place.”

“That’s not true.”

Now that they were out of the orphanage, he could breathe again. There were too many people about to do what he truly wished—which was to pull her into his arms for an embrace that might comfort them both. He settled for righting her sleeve.

“You don’t understand, Simms.”

She looked at his touch on her sleeve. “Oh, I understand you perfectly. You have good, generous instincts, but they’re all smothered under that aristocratic phlegm. You’re so choked with it, you’re afraid to care about anything. Or at least, you’re afraid to show that you do.”

It started to rain then. Cold, fat drops struck the pavement with audible force. In moments the damp had flattened her clothing to her back and plastered locks of hair to her face, making her look small and alone.

“Simms.”

She flinched from his touch. “What, Griff? What? Did you have something to say to me here? In the midst of a busy street, with people nearby—not in a darkened garden or locked room?”

“I . . .” He set his teeth. “Very well. I like you.”