Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(92)

Bull and Blossom.

Thirty acres.

One thousand pounds.

“You see,” he said, “I brought Miss Simms to London to thwart my mother’s matchmaking schemes. She was supposed to be a laughable failure. A hilarious joke.”

One of the Misses Haughfells began to giggle. Her mother smacked her wrist with a folded fan.

“No, no,” Griff said. “Do laugh, please. It’s most amusing. A barmaid, receiving duchess lessons. Can you imagine? The best part was the diction training. My mother was forever drilling Miss Simms on her H’s.”

“Is that so?” Lady Haughfell arched a brow. “I don’t suppose she made much progress.”

“Oh, but she did. Show them, Miss Simms.”

Pauline smiled. “Hideous. Ham-faced. Hag.” She looked to Griff. “There. How was that?”

“Brilliant.” He beamed at her.

“Write it down?”

“Of course.” As he scribbled the epithets on Miss Haughfell’s dance card, he went on talking. “But you haven’t heard the funniest bit, Lady Haughfell. See, I thought I was playing a trick on my mother—and all London—but it turns out, the joke was on me.”

The matron stiffened. “Because you have lost what remained of your family’s honor and society’s good opinion?”

“No. Because I fell desperately in love with this barmaid and now cannot imagine happiness without her.” He looked up and shrugged. “Whoops.”

All three Haughfells stared at him in mute, slack-jawed horror. Pauline wished she could have a miniature of their expressions to keep in a drawer forever and pull out on dull, rainy days.

Griff sharpened the pencil stub with his thumbnail. “Let’s make sure to have that down. It’s important.” He spoke the words slowly as he inscribed them. “Desperately . . . in . . . love.”

“Don’t forget the ‘whoops,’ ” Pauline said, looking over his shoulder. “That was the best part.”

“Yes.” He looked up, and his dark gaze caught hers. “So it was.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, utterly absorbed in affection and silent laughter.

The moment was perfect. He was perfect. Teasing, wonderful man.

“Is that a waltz they’re playing?” Griff suddenly asked. He stared at the marked-up card in his hand before handing it back. “Pity your card is full, Miss Haughfell. I suppose I’ll dance with Miss Simms instead.”

He led her to the center of the ballroom and slid one arm about her torso, fitting his hand between her shoulder blades. Together, they joined the waltz.

Almost immediately, other couples began to disappear. One by one, at first. Then two or three at the same time. And the more alone they grew, the less self-conscious she became. Soon it felt positively magical. Here they were, dancing under the full weight of society’s disapproval. And it felt as though the orchestra and canopied ballroom and general resplendence of the setting had all been arranged just for the two of them.

“I suppose I’ve fulfilled my end of the agreement,” she said. “I’m not going to be the toast of London tonight, nor any night.”

“No. You won’t.”

With that, she thought surely Griff would put a stop to the dance, but he didn’t. He just twirled her into turn after turn.

“I think we’ve done enough,” she whispered. “I’m a confirmed disaster.”

“Oh, yes. A comprehensive catastrophe. A beautiful, perfect failure.” He pulled back to regard her. “And I could not be more proud.”

His words settled as warmly as a hug. They both knew she could never have sustained any pretense at gentle breeding. Families like the Haughfells would not have been fooled. Instead, he’d embraced Pauline for her true self—publicly and completely, in a manner that ensured they’d never accept her at all.

But by letting her fail, he’d made her a success. At long last, she was a triumph. The serving girl who’d conquered not society, but its most recalcitrant duke. A huntress, draped in the elusive white tiger’s pelt.

Just for tonight.

He swept her with an adoring look. “Radiant. Just as you were that first day.”

She laughed. “I am sure I look nothing like I did that first day.”

“You do. You sparkled.”

“That was the sugar.”

“I’m not convinced. I think it was just you.” His voice softened to a caress. “It was always you.”

A lump stuck in her throat. She swallowed hard.

Out of the corner of her eye, Pauline spied a few of the Prince Regent’s hussars conferring in the corner, hands on their sabers. If they didn’t leave the dance floor soon, armed guards might chase them from it. That would be a night to remember.

“We’re down to minutes, I think.”

“So let’s make them count,” Griff said. “Here I am, a duke. Waltzing with a serving girl. Holding her improperly close, for everyone to see.” He shivered for effect. “What’s that I feel? Could it be the social fabric unraveling?”

Her mouth twisted as she tried not to smile. “It’s probably just the gout. I’ve heard dukes are gouty.”

“Well, I’ve heard serving girls taste like ripe berries.” He touched his lips to hers.