Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(8)

That brought Fosbury out from the kitchens, looking perplexed as he wiped his floury hands on an apron.

Pauline gave him a reassuring wink. Then she turned to the duchess, smiling wide. “Shall we, your grace?” She made a show of giggling. “Oh, pardon. Did you want I should call you ‘Mother’?”

Ripples of hushed laughter moved through the room. The look of aristocratic discomfort on the duchess’s face was immensely satisfying.

Whatever stubborn, unfeeling game this duke and his mother were playing, they were gaining a third player in Pauline.

What’s more, Pauline was going to win.

Turning her gaze to the duke, she gave him a bold, unashamed inspection. No chore there. The man truly was a fine specimen of masculinity, from broad shoulders to sculpted thighs. If he could ogle her, why couldn’t she look right back?

“Cor.” She unleashed her broadest country accent as she tipped her head to admire the lower curve of his tight, aristocratic arse. “I’ll have great fun with you on the wedding night.”

His eyes flared, swift enough to make her insides wince. Could teasing a duke amount to a hanging offense? He certainly possessed the power and means to make her regret it.

But when all the Spindle Cove ladies broke into open, boisterous laughter, Pauline knew it would be fine. She wasn’t one of the Spindle Cove set. She was a servant, not a well-bred lady on holiday. But they would stand by her, just the same.

Miss Charlotte Highwood rose and spoke in her defense. “Your graces, we are honored by your visit, but I don’t think we could part with Pauline today.”

“Then we find ourselves in conflict,” the duke said. “Because I don’t intend to part with her at all.”

The dark resolve in his words sent odd sensations shooting through Pauline. He meant to continue this farce? Stubbornness must run in this duke’s family the way green eyes ran in hers.

The duchess tilted her head toward the door. “Well, then. The coach is waiting.”

And that was how Pauline Simms, tavern serving girl and farmer’s daughter, found herself bringing a duke and his mother home for tea.

Well, and why the deuce not?

If these Quality meant to embarrass her in front of all Spindle Cove, it was only fitting they should sacrifice some pride of their own. She couldn’t wait to see the duchess’s face when they pulled up before her family’s humble cottage. It might do them good to see how common folk lived—to sit on rough-hewn wooden stools and drink from chipped crockery. She and Sally Bright would be laughing over this story for the rest of their lives.

After giving directions to the driver, Pauline joined them inside the coach. She slid a hand over the calfskin seat, marveling. She’d never touched an actual calf this soft.

She was certain no one of her station had ever been a passenger inside this conveyance, and judging by the grim sets of their jaws, she would guess neither the duke nor the duchess were pleased to have a sugar-dusted serving girl and her muddy shoes joining them now.

Which only made Pauline more resolved—she was going to wring this experience for every last drop of amusement.

For the entirety of the ten-minute drive to her farm cottage, she reveled in inappropriate behavior. She bounced on the seat, testing the springs. She played with the window latch, sliding the glass pane up and down a dozen times.

“What does your father do, Miss Simms?” the duchess asked.

Other than shout, curse, rage, threaten? “He farms, your grace.”

“A tenant farmer?”

“No, he owns our land. Some thirty acres.”

Of course, thirty acres would be nothing to a true landed gentleman, much less a duke. Halford probably owned a thousand times it.

As the carriage left town, they passed by the Willetts’ fields. Mr. Willett’s oldest boy was out working in the hops. Pauline put down the window for the thirteenth time, stuck her arm out and waved gaily.

She put her thumb and forefinger in her mouth and whistled loud. “Gerry!” she called. “Gerald Willett, look! It’s me, Pauline! I’m going to be a duchess, Ger!”

When she settled back inside the carriage, she caught the duke and his mother exchanging a look. She propped one elbow on the windowsill, covered her mouth with her palm and laughed.

As they neared the cottage, Pauline rapped on the carriage roof to signal the driver. When the coach had rolled to a stop, she reached for the door latch.

“No.” With the crook of her parasol handle, the duchess snagged her by the wrist. “We have people for that.”

Pauline froze, taken aback. She was one of the people for that. Or had the old lady forgotten?

The duke knocked the parasol aside. “For God’s sake, Mother. She’s not a wayward lamb.”

“You chose her. You told me to make her a duchess. Her lessons start now.”

Pauline shrugged. If the woman insisted, she would wait and allow the liveried footman to open the door, lower the step, and assist her down with white-gloved hands.

As the duchess alighted, followed by her son, Pauline dipped in a deep, exaggerated curtsy. “Welcome to our humble home, your graces.”

She opened the gate and led them through the fenced poultry yard. The gander was after them immediately, honking and ruffling his wings. No one could tell Major he didn’t outclass a duke. The duchess tried a freezing look, but quickly resorted to wielding her parasol in defense.