Any Duchess Will Do (22 page)

“Her family was in Austria. With the war finally over, she wanted to go home—but she didn’t think they’d accept her with an illegitimate child. She asked me to find a family here to foster the babe. I told her no.”

“No?”

“I decided I would raise my own child. In my house, with my name.”

Pauline gazed at him in quiet admiration. For a duke to raise a bastard child in his own home, with his own family name . . . that would be extraordinary.

It was most decidedly
not
the done thing.

“That’s when I cleared this chamber and brought in the artist.” He stopped in the center of the room and looked to the ceiling. “I know nurseries are usually up in the dormer rooms, but I didn’t like that idea. I wanted her close.”

He stared at the room’s lone blank wall for several moments. “I never had the chance to bring her here. She caught a fever that first week. It’s been months now. I should repaint, but I haven’t found the will to do it.”

“And no one knows of your loss? Not your friends, either?”

He shook his head.

Her heart ached for him. Naturally he’d been withdrawn these past months. He’d been grieving. And what was worse, grieving all alone. The duchess thought him reluctant to have children, and the truth was just the opposite. He’d been ready to welcome his daughter with an open heart—and then all his hopes were crushed.

She wanted to take him to bed and just hold him, for days and days.

“So you see,” he said, “I truly don’t need a fresh-faced young thing to teach me the meaning of love, make me want to be a better man. I already found that girl. She was about so big”—he held his hands just a foot apart—“with very little hair and no teeth. She taught me exactly what would give me true happiness in this life. And that I can never have it.”

“But that’s not true. In time you’ll—”

“No. I can’t. You don’t understand. My father was an only child. My mother bore three other children after me. None of them survived a week. I was young, but I remember the whole house in mourning. That’s why I delayed even attempting a family until the issue was forced—precisely because I’m the last of the line. All those generations of difficult childbearing didn’t bode well for my chances. But then that fierce little kick . . . It gave me hope that things could be different.”

She went to his side and touched his arm.

He steeled his jaw. “I can’t go through that again. The Halford line ends with me.”

“You sound very resolved.”

“I am.” He looked around at the room. “I trust you won’t tell anyone about this.”

She knew he wasn’t concerned about her telling just “anyone.” He didn’t want his mother to know.

“You have my word, I won’t tell her. But I think you should.”

“No,” he said firmly. “She can’t know this. Ever. I’m serious, Pauline. That’s the whole reason I—”

“The whole reason you brought me here. I know. I see it now.”

She understood, at last. It wasn’t simply that he was a rakish libertine, reluctant to marry. He’d decided he couldn’t marry, and he didn’t know how to break the news. The duchess wanted grandchildren so desperately. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her she
had
one grandchild she’d already lost, and now there’d never be another.

He knew it would break his mother’s heart.

So he’d kept his grief a secret, determined to manfully shoulder all the heartbreak himself.

“Griff, you needn’t go through this alone. If you won’t tell the duchess, I’m here for a few more days. At least talk to me.”

“Isn’t that what I just did? Talk to you?”

Not really.

Throughout their conversation, his tone had been so calm. Almost eerily matter-of-fact. She knew it was a façade. He hadn’t been able to fully grieve. It wasn’t possible to do so in a cold, secret room. He needed to talk, to rage, to cry, to remember.

He needed a friend.

“You’ve been locking all your grief away. Months and months of it now. You can try to keep it secret, pretend it’s not there. But until you open your heart, give it a good airing out—no sunlight can come in.”

She reached for his hand. “Won’t you tell me more about her? Did she favor you or her mother’s side? Did she smile and coo? What was her name?”

He remained silent.

“You must have loved her very much.”

He cleared his throat and pulled away. “You’d better go. The servants will be coming around soon to lay fires.”

So that was that. As close as they’d come today, as much as they’d shared . . . it still wasn’t enough.

She nodded, then moved to quit the room. “If that’s what you want.”

Chapter Twenty

“G
ood heavens. This is the worst yet.”

In the morning room the following day, her grace was most displeased.

“Let me see.” Pauline leaned forward on her yellow-striped chair.

The older woman held up her knitting needles. From one of them dangled a grayish, shapeless lump with no conceivable function. It resembled nothing so much as a dead rat.

“It is rather hideous,” Pauline had to admit.

“Wrong. It is
h
ideous.” The duchess clucked her tongue. “
H
ideous. Back to your diction exercises, girl. We’ve made great strides, but those
H
’s must be clear by tomorrow night. We can’t have you curtsying before ’Is Royal ’Eyeness, now can we?”

“I shouldn’t be going anywhere near the Prince Regent at all.”

Just the thought made her stomach twist. There was to be a ball at Carlton House, the Prince Regent’s own residence, tomorrow. The duchess had seized on the invitation as Pauline’s last and best chance to make a splash in London society.

“Even if I
can
say proper
H
’s, I don’t belong in a palace. Your grace, I wish you’d abandon the idea.”

“I’m not abandoning anything. It’s our only remaining chance, after last night.”

When Pauline had appeared at breakfast that morning and Griff had not, the duchess concluded that her Vauxhall hopes had been for naught. Though her assumptions about the intervening hours might be faulty, she had the end result correct.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Pauline said. “I’ve told you and told you, he won’t marry me.”

“Perhaps not willingly.” The duchess resumed her seat and began furiously working her needles again. “But he will be forced to propose tomorrow. That was the bargain. If I make you the toast of London, he promised to marry you.”

Pauline shook her head. “You must accept reality, your grace. It’s just not possible.”

“It
is
. I know it looks unlikely. But this is the point where we rally and make a triumphant finish. Diction this morning. I have a dancing master coming by the house later. We’ll practice your curtsy and greetings, too. I’ve bought you a set of lovely chimes to replace your water goblets. And of course, we’ve ordered the finest gown available. I’m not surrendering.” She held up her hideous knitting. “I can’t.”

With a resigned sigh, Pauline cracked open the Bible. “
H
oly,” she read aloud. “
H
e.
H
ath.
H
osanna.”

Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a familiar figure entering the room.

“Oh,
h
ell.”

Griff.

So many impulses flooded her. She wanted to fly to him, hug him, shake him, kiss him, tackle him to the carpet. She didn’t know how she’d even look at him without giving everything away.

But she needn’t have worried. The duchess was too mortified to notice Pauline’s reaction.

The woman jumped to her feet. That ghastly gray rat still dangled from her knitting needles, and she had nowhere to hide it.

The duke frowned at his mother, then dropped his gaze to the knitting. “What on earth is
that
?”

A very good question—and one Pauline hoped the duchess would now be forced to finally, honestly, answer.

“This?” the duchess asked.

“Yes. That.”

“I will tell you exactly what this is.” She lifted her chin, then turned to Pauline. “It’s exceedingly poor handiwork. Very bad indeed, Miss Simms. I expected better of you.” She cast the entire mess of yarn into the coal grate.

Pauline rolled her eyes at the Bible. “
H
ypocrite,” she pronounced softly, with perfect diction.

Ignoring her, the duchess smoothed her hands down the front of her gown. “Well, what is it?” she asked her son.

“I need to tell you something.”

Hope jumped in Pauline’s chest. Perhaps he’d changed his mind, seen the benefit to revealing his painful secrets and unburdening his heart. She looked up from the Bible and sent him an encouraging look.
Please. You’ll feel so much lighter.

But he didn’t even turn her way.

“I’ve sent your amethysts to the jeweler for repair,” he told his mother smoothly. “The clasp broke while Miss Simms was wearing them last night.”

Pauline released her breath, frustrated. There went her hopes of honesty.

The duchess’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “It broke?”

“Yes.” He tweaked a button on his cuff. The ducal calm was in top form this morning. “You’ll have them back in a few days.”

Surely the duchess would, Pauline thought. Just as soon as the jeweler had time to recreate the entire piece, in meticulous detail, so the duchess could never know the difference. What an absurd amount of effort. Why didn’t he just tell her the jewels had been stolen? Pauline would feel much better.

“You’re certain it can be repaired?” the duchess asked. “Perhaps I should have a look at it myself.”

“No need. Just a simple matter of mending the clasp.”

“
H
ah,” Pauline interjected.

When the duke and duchess swung on her with questioning gazes, she pointed one finger at the Bible page and added:

“—llelujah.”

Why didn’t anyone in this family simply talk to each other? For the entire season, they’d been residing in the same house, dining at the same table . . . and all the while holding these deep secrets. The duchess was desperate for creatures to comfort. Meanwhile, her own son needed a great deal of comforting. Pauline was caught in the middle—everyone’s confidante, but sworn to secrecy on all sides. This was miserable.

They were privileged in so many ways—wealthy, well-placed, well-regarded among their peers. But mostly they were just so damned lucky, the two of them, to have each other. Only their aristocratic reserve was in the way.

“
H
ogwash,” she muttered.

Griff snapped his fingers at her. “Verse.”

“Hm?”

“Chapter and verse.” He craned his neck, looking over her shoulder. “I should like to know where, precisely, in St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, he uses the word ‘hogwash.’ ”

She twisted in her chair, shielding the Bible from his view. “It’s penciled in the margin.” He wasn’t the only one who could prevaricate.

“Someone scribbled in the family Bible?” The duchess arched a brow at Griff.

“What?” he said. “It wasn’t me. You know I never read the thing.”

“Hmph.” The duchess rang the bell, and when the housemaid appeared, instructed her to bring every servant into the room.

Once they were all lined in a perfect row, from Higgs the butler down to Margaret the scullery maid, her grace addressed them.

“Someone has vandalized the Holy Scriptures. Let the offender come forward.”

No one came forward, of course. So Pauline did.

“I made it up,” she said, rising from her chair. “And there’s more you should know, your grace. The duke’s keeping something from you.”

The room went utterly silent.

And the look Griff sent her—oh, it chilled her to the marrow. It was a hard glare brimming with anger, betrayal.
Don’t you dare
, that look said.

She knew in that moment, if she broke her word to him and revealed the truth of his daughter, he would never forgive her. It wouldn’t matter that he cared for her, or what pleasure they’d shared last night. He would excise her from his life completely, even if it felt like slicing off his own arm.

She swallowed hard.

“The amethysts,” she whispered. “The duke is good to shield me, but he’s not telling the whole truth, your grace. The clasp didn’t break on its own. A thief tore it from my neck.”

The assembled servants gasped.

“Oh, Miss Simms,” the housekeeper said. “You weren’t hurt?”

“No,” she assured all of them, grateful for their concern. “No, I’m fine. But my reputation took a few blows. I might have chased after the thief, shouting blasphemy all through the pavilions of Vauxhall. And the necklace is gone.” She turned to the duchess. “I’m so sorry. But I feel much better, having told the truth. As they say, confession is good for the soul. While we’re all assembled here, perhaps there are other secrets weighing heavy on our minds. Matters that would benefit from fresh air and sunlight.”

She looked from Griff to the duchess and back.

For the love of God. Just talk to each other
.

“You’re right,” someone said. “Miss Simms is right. I’ve done wrong and I must confess.”

In the corner, Cook was wringing her apron. Tears rolled down her floury cheeks. “Last month, her grace ordered turbot for dinner. Well, I searched and searched the market, and there weren’t any turbot to be had.” She buried her face in her apron. “I served you cod.
Cod
. I sauced it heavily so no one could tell. But I’ve felt terrible about it ever since.”

Pauline went to the crying woman’s side and offered a sympathetic pat. “There there. I’m certain her grace will be forgiving.”

“I let a cinder fall on the drawing room carpet,” one of the housemaids blurted. “It burnt a hole.”

“But don’t you feel better now for having the truth out in the open?” Pauline asked.

The housemaid sniffed and raised her head. “I do, Miss Simms. I truly do. It’s like a weight’s been lifted.”

“I’m so glad. No one should live under the burden of secrets.”

Young Margaret spoke up, eager to have her part. “I saw Lawrence in the pantry, fumbling with a housemaid!”

The duchess straightened her spine.
“Lawrence.”

The footman in question paled.

The duchess addressed the housemaids sternly. “Which one of you was it? Step forward now.”

Three
of them did, in unison. When they looked around the room and realized they weren’t alone, they each turned on Lawrence with vicious glares.

Lawrence twisted under their anger. “I . . . I . . .” He thrust his chin forward. “Higgs wears a corset!”

If he meant to divert attention from himself, he succeeded. All around the room, eyebrows soared.

Poor Higgs. His cheeks went beet red. “It’s not a
ladies’
corset. A butler must cut a respectable figure.”

For a long, uncomfortable moment, no one had anything to say.

And then . . .

“I’m not French.”

This came from Fleur.

“What?” the duchess exclaimed. “Impossible.”

“I’m not. I’m n-not.” The lady’s maid gave her confession in halting, poorly enunciated English. Her accent was even more common than Pauline’s, and she had a painful stammer. “I knew I’d never f-f-find a lady’s maid post, speaking as I do. So I let on that I was French and full of airs, so’s I wouldn’t have to talk. My real name’s Fl-Fl-Flora. I’m so sorry. I’ll pack me things.”

She fled the room in tears.

The duchess went after her. “Fleur—or, Flora . . . Whoever, you are, wait!”

In their absence, a stunned silence filled the morning room.

Griff clapped his hands together. “Well. Thank you, Miss Simms. This has been a most illuminating morning.”

Pauline put a hand to her temple. Oh, Lord.

The doorbell rang. No one moved.

“Here’s a thought,” said Griff. “Why don’t I answer that?”

Higgs shook himself and lurched into motion. “Your grace, allow me.”

Griff held up a hand. “No, no. I confess, I have long harbored a deep, secret yearning to answer my own door.”

As he left the room, Pauline dashed after him. “I’m sorry. I had no idea all that would happen. But don’t you see? This house is full of secrets, and it’s making everyone unhappy. No one more than you. You need to disclose your sorrows, open your heart.”

“The only thing I’m opening right now is the front door.” He strode to the entrance and yanked on the door latch. When he saw the visitors standing outside, he muttered, “Brilliant. Just what this morning needs.”

Pauline froze in disbelief. On the doorstep stood not one, but two familiar people. The woman she’d known in Spindle Cove as Miss Minerva Highwood. And Miss Minerva’s husband—Colin Sandhurst, Lord Payne.

“I knew it,” Minerva said, pushing past the duke to catch Pauline in a desperate hug. “Never fear, Pauline. We’ve come to save you.”

H
aving opened the door, Griff took on the duty of closing it. As he did so, he felt heartily sorry that these two visitors were on the wrong side.

“It’s been too long, Halford.” Payne offered a hand and a genial smile.

Not long enough.
For his part, he could have lasted a week or two more.

Lady Payne looked up at him, eyes burning with violence behind those wire-rimmed spectacles. “You revolting trilobite.”

Charming. And here he had been wondering what Payne saw in the girl.

“If only I hadn’t left my reticule at home,” she said bitterly.

He hadn’t the faintest idea what that signified, but he supposed this wasn’t a conversation to conduct in the entrance hall.

Griff showed them to his study—it was one room he felt certain would not be occupied by a sobbing housemaid. Ringing for tea seemed a chancy prospect. He poured Payne a brandy and made the offer of a cordial to the ladies. Another episode in today’s adventures in self-sufficiency.