Tessa Dare - [Spindle Cove 03.5] (14 page)

The tardy serving girl clutched another hairpin in her hand, and when her eyes—leaf-green, bright with intelligence—met Griff’s, she froze in the act of jamming that pin through the tangle of hair piled atop her head.

God, that hair. He’d heard ladies describe their coiffures as “knots” or “buns.” This could only be called a “nest.” He was certain he glimpsed a few blades of straw and grass in there.

Clearly, she’d been hoping to enter unnoticed. Instead, she was suddenly the center of attention. That mysterious white powder that clung to her . . . it caught the light, shooting off tiny sparks.

He couldn’t look away.

As the breathless young woman alternated glances between Griff, his mother, and the amused ladies filling the rest of the room, her unfinished coiffure disintegrated. Locks of unpinned hair tumbled to her shoulders, surrendering to gravity or indignity, or both.

This would be where the average serving girl would duck her head, flee the room, and await her employer’s wrath. No doubt there’d be sniffling or sobbing involved.

But not this serving girl, apparently. This one had just enough pride to trump etiquette
and
good sense.

With a defiant toss of her head to distribute her brandy-colored locks, she turned and spat the last hairpin aside.

“Bollocks,” he heard her mutter.

Suddenly, Griff found himself battling a grin. She was perfect. Coarse, uneducated, utterly graceless. A touch too pretty. A plainer girl would have better suited his purpose. But fair looks notwithstanding, she’d do.

“Her,” he said. “I’ll take her.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

A
nother girl’s prince has arrived.

That was Pauline’s first thought, when she stumbled in and spied the finely dressed man silhouetted in the door.

She watched it happen every few months in this village. These young ladies sought refuge in Spindle Cove for the oddest of reasons. Their harp-playing lacked grace, perhaps, or the color of their eyes was unfashionable at Court this season. And then—to the utter astonishment of everyone except Pauline—some handsome earl or viscount or officer came along and married them.

None of them spared so much as a glance for the serving girl.

So which lady was this one after? Whoever she was, she’d be set for life. Everything about the man’s appearance—from ivory buttons to fitted leather gloves—blared his wealth in trumpet notes. And if his garments screamed “riches,” everything beneath them spoke of power. It would be easy for a gentleman to go soft and paunchy, but he hadn’t. The close cut of his dark green topcoat revealed broad shoulders and defined muscles in his upper arms.

His face was strong, too. Boldly sloped nose, squared jaw, and a wide, confident mouth. There was nothing pretty about his features, but when taken together, they had an undeniable masculine appeal.

In short, he was no trial to look at. But even if he weren’t—Pauline couldn’t take her eyes off the man.

Because he wasn’t taking his eyes off her.

And the way he looked at her—like she was the answer to every question he’d never thought to ask—had her heart beating faster than a trapped hare’s.

“Her,” he said. “I’ll take her.”

“You can’t choose her,” an older woman replied, clearly testy. “That’s the serving girl.”

Pauline spared the lady a brief glance, sizing her up as a silver-haired woman who was small of stature and long on self-importance. She had a rail-straight spine. She’d need it, to hold up that unholy ransom in jewels.

“She’s a girl,” the man replied evenly, still looking at Pauline. “She’s a girl, and she’s in the room. You said I might choose any girl in the room.”

“She wasn’t in the room when I said that.”

“She’s in the room now. And once I saw her, I had eyes for no one else. She’s perfect.”

Perfect?

Pauline looked to the window, expecting a pig to fly through it. A pig strumming a lyre and speaking Welsh, perhaps.

The gentleman moved toward her, navigating the room with ease. As he approached, each heavy, rhythmic footfall made her acutely aware of her wild, sugar-dusted hair and mud-spattered hem. She took comfort from the signs of his own flawed humanity. On closer view, he was unshaven, and his eyes were rimmed with red—from lack of sleep or too much drink, or both.

Pauline inhaled slowly. His clothing carried the fading whiff of some masculine, musky cologne. The scent curled inside her, warming her in low, secret places.

“Tell me your name,” he said.

He spoke in a voice that was low and rich and . . . magnetic, apparently. She could feel every person in the room sway in his direction, to better make out his words.

“I’m Pauline, sir. Pauline Simms.”

“Your age.”

“Twenty-three.”

“And are you married or betrothed?”

She bit back a startled laugh. “No, sir. I’m not.”

“Excellent.” He inclined his head. “I am Griffin Eliot York, the eighth Duke of Halford.”

A duke?

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered.

“Actually, Simms, what you’re meant to say is, ‘your grace.’ ”

She dropped her gaze to the floorboards and made an off-balance curtsy. “Your grace.”

Waving off her belated attempts at deference, he went on. “My mother has grown impatient with my unmarried state. She enjoined me to take my choice of any woman in this room, with the promise that she could make that woman into a duchess. I’ve chosen you.”

“Me?”

“You. You’re perfect.”

Perfect. Again, that word. Pauline’s mind couldn’t handle all this at once. She had to break the information into small morsels.

This robustly handsome, self-possessed, wonderful-smelling man was the eighth Duke of Halford.

Out of all the ladies in this room, he was choosing her, the serving girl.

To be his future duchess.

You’re perfect.

Chills raced from the nape of her neck to the soles of her feet, leaving her breathless. Either the whole world had turned on its ear, or after twenty-three years of never being good enough . . . in the eyes of one man—in the eyes of this
duke
—she was perfect.

The duchess cast a cool gaze on her son. “Unnatural child. You live to thwart me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied calmly. “I’m doing precisely as you asked.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious. I’ve chosen a girl. Here she is.” The duke made a sweeping gesture from Pauline’s tangled hair to her muddy shoes, painting her with humiliation. “Go on, then. Make her a duchess.”

Ah. She understood everything now. She
was
perfect in his eyes. Perfectly dreadful. Perfectly graceless. Perfectly wrong to be a duchess, and by making her an example, the duke meant to teach his interfering mother a lesson.

How clever of him. How obnoxious and insufferable, to boot.

It’s your own fault, Pauline. For that one, mad instant, you were a fool.

She didn’t find him so handsome anymore. But he still smelled wonderful, drat him.

There was a pause, which no one in the room dared interrupt. It was as though they were spectators to a championship match of some sort, and the duke had just scored a critical point.

Every head swiveled to face the duchess, waiting for her move.

She had no intention of forfeiting. “Well, then. We’ll go to the girl’s parents.”

Brazen strategy, thought Pauline. Two points to you.

“I’d love nothing more.” Halford pulled his coat straight. “But I must be returning to Town at once, and I’m certain Simms can’t leave her post.”

“Certainly I can,” Pauline said.

Both the duke and his mother turned to her, clearly irritated that she’d dared interrupt. Never mind that she was subject of their argument.

“I can leave my post anytime.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t need a post at all, do I? Not if I’m to be a duchess.”

The duke gave her a blank look. Obviously, he hadn’t expected this reaction. She was probably supposed to stammer and protest and run blushing into the kitchen.

Unlucky for him. He’d picked the wrong girl.

Of course, she knew he’d meant to pick the “wrong girl,” but he’d picked the
wrong
“wrong girl.” Pauline enjoyed a good laugh as much as the next person, but already she’d lost too much today. She couldn’t part with her last tattered remnant of pride.

“Mr. Fosbury,” she called in the direction of the kitchen, untying her apron strings. “I’ll be leaving now. I don’t expect I’ll be coming back today. I’m taking this duke ’round to the cottage so he can ask for my hand in marriage.”

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.

“That’ll do, Major.” Pauline clapped her hands. Then she ushered her guests inside. “This way, your graces. Don’t be bashful. Our home is yours. We’re all family now.”

The door lintel was low and the duke was tall. He would have to duck to avoid bashing his head. He paused at the threshold. For a moment Pauline thought he’d simply turn around, return to the carriage, and drive off to London.

But he didn’t. He bent at the waist and passed through the doorway in a single, fluid motion.

She had to smile at that. The arrogant duke, literally stooping to enter her family’s cottage.

Once inside, the two visitors swept a look around the small, sparsely furnished abode. It wasn’t difficult to take in the whole dwelling at a glance. The house was only some dozen paces wide. A stone hearth, a few cupboards, table and chairs. Faded print curtains fluttered in the two front windows. To the side, an open doorway led to the only bedroom. A ladder climbed to the sleeping loft she and Daniela shared.

The rear doorway led to the exterior area where they did all the washing. Soft splashes indicated someone was washing up after the noon meal.

“Mother,” she sang out, “look who I brought home from the Bull and Blossom. The ninth Duke of Halstone and his mum.”

“Halford,” the duchess corrected. “My son is the eighth Duke of Halford. He’s also the Marquess of Westmore, the Earl of Ridingham, Viscount Newthorpe, and Lord Hartford-on-Trent.”

“Oh. Right. Suppose I should learn it all proper, shouldn’t I? I mean, seeing as how it’ll be my name, too.” She grinned broadly at the duke. “Fancy that.”

His lips quirked a fraction. Whether in irritation or amusement, she didn’t dare to guess.