Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(91)

Good.

“I knew I saw you here,” he said.

“Please excuse me.”

When she tried to move past him, he grabbed her arm. “I won’t let you do this. I’ve known Halford all his life, and I know what’s best for him even when he doesn’t.”

Her heart jumped. Did that mean Griff was here?

She pulled against Delacre’s grasp. “Let me go.”

Delacre didn’t frighten her—but he was a man, much larger and more powerful than she. Moreover, this was his native environment. His friends at this event numbered in the hundreds. She could count hers on one hand and still have a good many fingers left over.

She was outsized, outranked, outclassed. And unless she figured out a way around him, she would remain outside that ballroom forever.

“Is it money you want?” He released her arm and slid a bank note from his breast pocket. She could just make out the writing on it.

Five pounds.

He waved it at her. “Take it, then. And use the servants’ exit. This isn’t the place for you.”

That’s not for you, girl.

Her cheeks burned. With those words, he wasn’t Delacre anymore. He was every book that had ever been ripped from her hand. Every door that had ever been slammed on her.

She wanted to fight back, throw something. Spit in his face.

But this situation called for a different sort of phlegm.

She pulled her spine straight, lifted her chin and fixed him with a cool, direct look. “Go to hell.”

While he stood sputtering, she dashed past him and rejoined the crowd near the ballroom entry. Before she could lose her nerve, she cut ahead of the queue of waiting guests. Impolite, perhaps. But the gossips already knew her to be a serving girl—it wasn’t as though they could think much worse of her.

She gave her name to the majordomo, and he announced, “Miss Simms of Sussex.”

The ballroom went utterly silent, except for the thunder of her heart. Her hands trembled at her sides.

Breathe, she told herself.

And then: Go.

She let that transparent cord at her navel pull her forward, guiding her as she descended the small flight of stairs. As she walked, her gown caught the light of hundreds of candles and lamps, sending arrows of light in every direction.

Once she reached the bottom of the staircase, she sought refuge behind a cluster of potted palms and scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Where were Minerva and Susanna? She knew she’d resolved to go this alone, but she didn’t feel so brave anymore.

And then—

Griff.

He strode toward her, wearing an immaculate black tailcoat and carrying a wicked gleam in his eye. So assured, so handsome.

Oh, the flutterings. She had flutterings all through her. They were so strong, they just about carried her away.

“I didn’t think you’d attend,” she breathed. “I was hoping, of course. I just wanted to see you again. To tell you I’m sorry, and that you were right. I was afraid. I’m still afraid, to be honest. I don’t think I can do this at all. But if you—”

He didn’t let her finish. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She was seized by a pulse of pure terror. It didn’t matter to her if the rest of the gathering scorned her. But if even Griff would cast her out . . .

He didn’t cast her out.

He took her by the hand.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, more gently this time. “The most beautiful woman in the room does not belong in the corner with the potted palms. Come out from there. Or else Flora did all this for nothing.”

She pulled up short and stared at him. “You. It was you. You sent Flora. And the gown. You didn’t sack her at all.”

A little smile played about his lips. “You wouldn’t have come if I’d asked.”

Of all the tricks. She couldn’t believe it. “I thought you were furious with me.”

“I was furious with you. For about . . . ten minutes. Perhaps a full quarter hour. Then I came to my senses.” He tugged her forward. “Come. We have a bargain to complete. There’s someone to whom you should be properly introduced.”

Not the Prince Regent, she prayed.

Worse.

He steered her straight toward the Haughfells. All three of them—mother and daughters—were united by the grim sets of their mouths and their refusal to even look at Pauline.

What was Griff playing at now?

“Lady Haughfell.” He bowed. “What a happy coincidence. I know you’ve been longing to further your acquaintance with Miss Simms. And here she is.”

Sheer horror flickered across the matron’s powdered face. “I do not think—”

“But this is ideal. What better time or place? In fact”—he took a dance card and its small attached pencil from the older Miss Haughfell’s hand—“let me write down the key details. Just so there can be no question in the scandal sheets tomorrow. Miss Simms hails from Spindle Cove, a charming village in Sussex. Her father is a farmer, with thirty acres and some livestock.”

As Pauline looked on in amazement, he narrated the entire tale for them. His mother’s kidnapping ploy, their arrival in Spindle Cove. Pauline’s appearance in the Bull and Blossom—sugar-dusted and muddied. His visit to her family’s cottage and their eventual bargain. He spared no detail, but told the story plainly and with good humor. Occasionally, he noted an important fact on the dance card: