Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(65)

That couldn’t be right. It had to be saying something else.

Probably, You fool, you fool, you fool.

Somewhere nearby, love was an ominous, gaping hole in the earth, widening every moment. Unless she were very careful, she’d be sure to fall straight in.

“Griff,” she whispered. “You need someone. Everyone needs someone.”

With an impatient motion, he hiked her bodice, covering her breast. Then he stepped away.

“You don’t understand this.” His words were dark and fierce. “Don’t tell me I need someone. My whole life has been an endless string of someones. Another ‘someone’ is exactly what I don’t need. I most especially do not want to stand in a room of pitiful, lackluster young women and hear, ‘It’s your duty to marry, Halford. Just choose someone.’ ”

She reeled away from him, stung. “Oh. I see.”

He cursed. “That’s not what I—”

“No, you’re right.” She edged away in small, hurried steps. “Choosing a lackluster girl from a crowded room. What a nightmare. No good could ever come of a scene like that.”

“Pauline, wait.”

She turned and ran, leaving him in the darkened grove and emerging into an open square where a crowd had gathered to watch the fireworks. She stopped in her tracks, working for breath. All around her, people were laughing and cheering and gasping with joy.

An unseen man bumped into her, hard. The old Pauline would’ve elbowed him back, but she didn’t have the heart for it right now. Instead, she turned to face him, laying her hand to her throat in apology.

Oh, God. Oh no.

He was gone. It was gone.

Griff made his way through the grove, searching for her.

At last he caught sight of her gown on the far side of the crowded green. That throbbing blur of pink, illuminated by gold pulses from above. He felt as though he were watching his own heart, separated from his body.

Then a man emerged from the shadows—and his heart stumbled.

“Pauline!” he shouted.

She didn’t hear him—or didn’t turn, if she had. Instead, she paused for a moment. Then she rucked up her skirts and tore away, darting into the night.

She was chasing someone. He heard her call, “Stop! Stop, you bloody thief!”

Thief?

Griff ran after her, but he still had the crowd to navigate, and she had a formidable lead. He was amazed at how fast she could run in all those skirts. She was giving the villain—whoever he was—quite a chase through colonnades and across lamplit groves.

And as she ran, profanity unfurled behind her like a brightly colored banner. Whatever gains she’d made in elocution this week all disappeared.

“Bastard!” she shouted, jostling past a bemused gentleman Griff recognized as an Austrian ambassador. “Stop, you black-’earted devil!”

Well, if she’d wanted a disastrous public spectacle—she had it. No punch bowl necessary.

“I’ll ’ave your bollocks, you filthy whoreson!”

Griff made an apologetic No, no, not you grimace in the direction of the royal booth, not daring to slow down long enough to explain. He would have laughed if he weren’t so breathless—and so worried for Pauline.

They reached the borders of Vauxhall and plunged out into the surrounding neighborhood—a jumble of factories and shipping merchants’ homes and tenements. None of the streets were lit. God only knew what dangers lurked in the alleyways.

Still, she charged on.

What was she thinking? Whatever the brigand had taken, it wasn’t worth risking her life.

She was losing ground on the thief, but Griff was gaining on her.

“Pauline!” he shouted, digging deep for breath. “Let him go!”

“I can’t!”

She turned a corner in pursuit and Griff lost sight of her for a few bleak, endless seconds. He kicked up his pace, just praying that she’d still be whole and unharmed—so he could catch her and shake her silly.

Just as he neared the same corner, a short, piercing scream rent the air.

Holy God. Please.

He rounded the corner, and there she was—crumpled to the ground in the middle of the lane.

“Pauline. Pauline, are you hurt?”

“Don’t stop for me,” she cried. “Run after him.”

“He’s gone.” Griff didn’t even bother to look. “He’s gone. And even if I could catch him, there’s no way in hell I’d abandon you here.”

People were already filing out from the nearby dwellings, having a good look at the fine lady and gent in the street. Griff made his posture strong and turned a wary glance in all directions, letting any ruffians know that they’d better not take their chances.

“What’s happened?” he murmured, crouching down before Pauline. “Did he hurt you? Strike you with something?” He began searching for splashes of blood. A horrid thought struck him. “He didn’t have a pistol or a blade?”

“No,” she sobbed.

He breathed again. Thank God.

“Nothing of the sort. It’s just these dratted shoes. I caught my heel between the paving stones and my ankle turned.”

She lifted her skirt, and he could see her stockinged ankle, caught at an angle that made him wince.