Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(86)

Griff paused in the act of fastening a button on his breeches falls. He looked up at Delacre for a brief moment.

“Del,” he said, in a low, easy voice, “it will take me about ten seconds to button these. That’s how much time you have to run.”

Lord Delacre shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere until I’m certain this—”

“Run.” Griff finished the last closure. He swung his arms at his sides, shaking his fingers loose. The expression on his face was thunderous. “I mean it, Del. You had better flee. Because I fully intend to kill you.”

Griff could tell by the look on Del’s face that his oldest “friend” didn’t believe him.

“Come along, Halford.” He held up his hands. “You can’t be serious.”

Griff pulled back his right fist and crashed a full-force punch into Del’s gut. “Convinced?”

Del doubled over, eyes wide with shock. “Jesus.”

“That’s right, say your prayers. You’re going to need them.” He threw another punch, this time catching Del on the jaw.

Realizing he was at a disadvantage, Del scrambled down the corridor. “Stop and think about this, Griff!” he called. “We had a pact, remember? I’m trying to be a friend. Rescuing you from entrapment. Saving you from greater scandal.”

“You had better save yourself.”

They raced toward the salon, where they’d begun so many days together.

They wouldn’t be using blunt practice swords today.

Griff yanked a short sword from its wall mount and swung it, limbering his arm. “I’ve something to tell you, Delacre. All these years we’ve been perfectly matched fencing opponents?” He raised his blade. “I’ve been holding back.”

As soon as Del had armed himself, Griff went on the attack, swinging in savage blows, driving his opponent backward until he had him against the wall.

Griff let the blade press ever so slightly against Del’s cheek, until a thin line of blood appeared. “Oh, too bad. That might leave a scar.”

“Women are mad for scars. I’m still miles better looking than you.” Del smirked. “Perhaps barmaids aren’t particular.”

“You vermin. She is not a barmaid, and she will never be one again.”

“Do you mean you knew?” Del lifted one boot and kicked Griff in the chest, sending him reeling back a step.

Griff recovered quickly, but the brief separation gave Del enough time to raise his weapon and defend himself.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Delacre said, panting. “Are you . . . God, you can’t believe yourself to be in love with that girl.”

Griff shook his head, but not in denial. Love was too small a word for what he felt. Just now, when she’d been beneath him . . . He’d never thought he would feel that way again. Ready to brave any sorrow just to keep her at his side. Perhaps the impulse wasn’t logical or reasoned, but it was real and true. It was choosing hope rather than despair. Seizing the one sparkling possibility in a roomful of someones.

It was her. All her.

He’d been dead inside. She’d brought him back to life.

“I’d die for her,” he said. “And I’d kill for her. The rest doesn’t concern you right now.”

“Devil take me. You do love her.” Del ducked, parrying Griff’s enraged strike. “Oh, this is even worse. Just what are you expecting to come of it? You plan to make her your mistress?”

“Guess again.”

“Well, I know you don’t mean to marry her.” Delacre laughed. “That would be rich. I can see the scandal sheets now: ‘the Barmaid Duchess.’ ”

They locked swords. Griff flexed his arm, pushing the crossed blades forward until one edge lodged against Del’s throat.

“I think the papers will carry a different story tomorrow. One about the late Lord Delacre.”

He mustered all the strength in his arm and prepared to flex.

“Griff! Griff, no!”

Chapter Twenty-four

Pauline skittered to a halt in the doorway, having hastily dressed in yesterday’s discarded frock. “Don’t do this,” she called. “He’s your oldest friend. You don’t want to hurt him.”

“Oh, I want to hurt him,” Griff said evenly. “I want, very much, to hurt him.”

Fair enough. She couldn’t deny that after hearing his cruel words, watching Lord Delacre squirm conveyed a particular sort of pleasure. But it had to stop there.

“Griff, please.” In cautious steps, she approached the men. “His life isn’t worth one-tenth of yours. Your mother is in the house somewhere. You don’t want her to see this. And if nothing else moves you, think of the servants. There would be a horrific mess.”

“Do you hear that, Del? That’s the lowly barmaid pleading for your life. The woman you insulted, begging me to spare your loathsome skin. I think you ought to thank her.” Through gritted teeth, he added, “Now.”

Delacre nervously cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“ ‘Thank you, Miss Simms,’ ” Griff demanded. “And make me believe it.”

“Thank you, Miss Simms. I owe you my loathsome skin.”

Griff inhaled through his nose. Then slowly exhaled. After a long moment, he shoved away, and both swords clattered to the floor.