Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(59)

“Well. Opposites do occasionally attract. And Spindle Cove women ‘abducted’ by rakes are not always so unwilling as the observer might suspect.”

She smiled. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Before we go haring off on a rescue mission, let’s consider a few bits of information. From all evidence, Pauline had no means of traveling to London. Secondly, I know Halford. The man would never be near a bookshop. And last”—he placed a light, affectionate touch to her nose—“you have been complaining that your spectacles need new lenses. A mistake seems the most likely explanation.”

“Colin—”

“However,” he added, “I will do all I can to set your mind at ease. Today, I’ll ask around at the clubs. See what gossip there is of Halford.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll pay a call on Susanna and Lord Rycliff. If anything were amiss in Spindle Cove, they would have heard.”

“Excellent. And if our little fact-finding investigations turn up nothing, we’ll perform an experiment. We’ll call at Halford House tomorrow.”

She nodded. Her eyes misted with tears.

“Darling Min.” He stroked her cheek. “Are you truly that concerned?”

“No,” she said. “Oh, Colin. I’m just so proud.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re using the scientific method.”

Chapter Sixteen

Griff kept busy for the rest of the day. He had a full slate of appointments that afternoon, all related to the business of his estates.

It still wasn’t enough. All his meetings with solicitors and land agents and secretaries . . . They were like cannonballs stuffed in a crate. They were weighty, and they took up space—but they didn’t make the crate truly full. Thoughts of Pauline slipped in to fill every void, like a million grains of sand.

Or crystals of sugar, it might be more appropriate to say.

Somehow he made it to late afternoon, when he surrendered to the attentions of his valet. He emerged an hour later—smooth-shaven, fully dressed, and completely unprepared for the vision coming down the staircase.

Good Lord.

One look at her and Griff knew it was over. The evening was a failure before it began. No one would ever believe her to be a common serving girl. Not tonight, not looking like this.

She wore a gown in deep, lush pink, with gauzy layers of skirts billowing out from a fitted, off-the-shoulder bodice. Matching elbow-length gloves. Her hair was curled, looped, and pinned—but all in a way that managed to look effortlessly lovely and elegant. Quite a trick, that. Fleur deserved a rise in wages.

She carried herself well, too. Her neck was a pale, slender column, and her bare shoulders . . . ah, her shoulders looked sculpted from moonlight. Delicate and serene, mysterious and feminine. A rope of pale amethysts dipped sensuously above her décolletage, catching the light with a thousand facets.

He was a duke and a libertine, he reminded himself. He’d seen many a beautiful woman in his life. Finer gowns than this, more lavish jewels than these. Rationally, he knew that Pauline Simms could not eclipse everything and everyone who had come before her. And yet, somehow she did.

There wasn’t any one feature he could point to, or any particular gesture she made. It was just . . .

Her. I’ll take her.

“Well?” she prompted.

Finally, he looked her in the eyes—those bright green, cat-tipped, intelligent eyes, set in a heart-shaped face. They were anxious tonight, and transparently vulnerable.

Lord above. She had no idea. She had him enraptured to the point of drooling incoherence, and she had absolutely no idea.

She lifted an eyebrow.

She’s waiting for your reaction. React. But not too much. Only the appropriate amount. A well-chosen word or two.

What he said was, “Guh.”

Oh, hell. Had that unformed syllable actually escaped his throat?

Pauline blinked at him. “What?”

Apparently it had. He cleared his throat with a loud harrumph, then searched for a way to amend his statement. “Good,” he pronounced, clearing his throat again. “I said good.”

A pretty flush rose on Pauline’s cheeks. Still, she bit her lip, looking hesitant. “What kind of good?” she asked. “ ‘Good’ as in ‘rather bad,’ which aids our purpose? Or ‘good’ as in ‘actually good,’ and you’re displeased?”

Griff sighed inwardly. What was he to say? “Good” as in “Good God, you are the most radiant, lovely thing I’ve seen in all my life, and I’m a speechless, shuddering fool before you.” Does that clear matters?

“Good as in good,” he said. “I’m not displeased.”

Her mouth pulled to the side. “Then that’s . . . good.”

This was now officially the most inane conversation in which Griff had ever been a participant—and that included a drunken debate with Del over ostrich racing.

“The color isn’t too awful?” She twisted a fold of the skirt. “The draper called it ‘dewy petal,’ but your mother said the shade was more of a ‘frosted berry.’ What do you say?”

“I’m a man, Simms. Unless we’re discussing ni**les, I don’t see the value in these distinctions.”

Her lips pursed into a chastening pout.