Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(88)

“You would chastise me for hiding secrets? For not living the truth? You, with that locked room upstairs?”

The color drained from his face. He darted a gaze at his mother, then lowered his voice. “This has nothing to do with—”

“Of course it does.” She retreated a step. “You’re asking me to trust you’ll love me openly. That you’ll never be embarrassed or resentful of my origins, my family. How can I believe those promises when you won’t tell your own mother about her?”

The duchess stepped forward. “Griffin, who is she talking about?”

“No one.”

Pauline gasped in shock. “You would deny her? She’s not even a ‘someone,’ but a ‘no one’?”

He drilled her with a fierce look. “You gave me your word. You promised. Stop this now, Pauline. Or I can never trust you again.”

She felt a twinge of guilt. She had given her word, and she knew she was pushing him toward a dangerous edge. But someone had to. After today she’d never have another chance.

“You never told a soul she existed, Griff. Then she died, and your heart splintered into a thousand pieces, and still you didn’t say a word. How am I to believe that you’ll protect me and my sister? How am I to trust that Daniela won’t be hidden away in some locked, shameful room?”

“How dare you suggest that I’m ashamed of her.”

“Prove you aren’t, then! For God’s sake. Love shouldn’t be a secret. You gave her a name, and you can’t even use it.”

His eyes flashed.

“Did you love her?”

“You know I did. I do.”

She raised her voice. “Then say her name.”

“Mary.” His angry shout echoed through the room.

Pauline went very still, absorbing the quiet swell of his fury. She knew he would never forgive her for this. But at least, at long last, he might be able to heal.

“Her name was Mary,” he said. “Mary Annabel York. Born the fourteenth day of last October, died the following week. She lived all of six days, and I loved her more than my own life.” He turned away from her, leveling a small table with a single, savage kick. “God damn it.”

“Oh.” The duchess pressed a hand to her mouth.

Pauline rushed to her side, afraid the older woman might swoon. She helped her to the nearest chair. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

She said it over and over again. Words of regret, apology, condolence. But she knew they couldn’t be enough.

“I’m sorry. But I’ve come to care so deeply for you both, and I can see plainly how you love each other. How you’re hurting each other, too. Please. You can hate me forever, but talk to each other.”

Griff stared out the window, emotionless. “I’ll call for the coach to be readied. You can leave within the hour.”

“I didn’t want it to end this way. I hoped we could part as—”

“As friends?” He tapped one finger against the window glass. “If you don’t believe that I’d change anything, give up everything, move heaven and earth to keep someone I love, even if it’s only been a week . . . ? Then you don’t know me at all.” He fixed her with eyes gone cold. “It seems I was wrong about you, too.”

Reeling backward, she fled the parlor. Then she turned and ran down the corridor, headed for the entrance hall.

“Pauline,” the duchess called after her. “Wait.”

She only ran faster. What more could be said? Nothing would change.

When she reached the front door, she wrenched it open and darted through.

Outside, a crowd greeted her with a roar.

Good heavens. The square was jammed with carriages and people, all of them thronged about the steps of Halford House, craning their necks for a look.

A look at her, apparently. Lord Delacre hadn’t been exaggerating. The word was all over London, and now all of London had converged on the duke’s front step.

“There she is! That’s her!”

“Miss Simms!” a man shouted. “Is it true you’re a barmaid?”

“Five pounds for an interview for the Prattler!”

Pauline cowered in the doorway. She couldn’t go back inside and face Griff again. But this crowd churned with enough curiosity and excitement to pulverize her. Even if she managed to escape these people, where would she go? She had no money. No possessions, save the clothes on her back.

She wasn’t even wearing shoes.

“Pauline!” A familiar voice filtered through the din. “Pauline! It’s me, Susanna.”

Her heart leaped. Shading her brow with both hands, she scanned the crowd until she saw a friendly wave from a gloved hand, and a halo of red hair.

A friend.

As Pauline pushed toward her, people grabbed at her disheveled clothing and jostled for a glimpse of her face. She felt buffeted about like a cork.

At last she and Susanna made their way to each other. “Oh, Lady Rycliff. I can’t . . . I don’t know how to—” Overwhelmed, she clapped a hand to her mouth.

Susanna folded her in a protective hug. “It’s all right, dear. It’s all right. You’re coming home with me.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Ensconced at Rycliff House, safely away from the crowds, Lady Rycliff—who now insisted Pauline call her Susanna—poured another cup of tea. “What a week you’ve had, dear.”