Any Duchess Will Do (23 page)

“Pauline, what’s happened?” Payne’s excitable wife asked. “What’s he done to you?”

“My lady, he’s only employed me. I’m in this house working as a companion to his mother, the duchess.”

“Oh, really.” Lady Payne’s voice was rich with skepticism. “And where is the duchess now?”

“She is upstairs,” Griff said. “Dealing with a small crisis of the house staff.”

“So,” she huffed. “Servants in this house are often unhappy.” She slid her gaze between Pauline and Griff. “And I’m to believe nothing untoward has happened between you?”

“You’re to believe it’s none of your concern,” Griff answered. “Why are you so suspicious of me?”

“I’m not suspicious. My dislike of you is formed on abundant evidence. I’ve been to that ghastly pleasure palace you keep.” She turned to Pauline. “Do you know he has a den of iniquity in the country?”

Pauline shook her head. “No, my lady. It wouldn’t be my business to know that.”

Griff frowned. Why had she become so docile and compliant all of a sudden? This was hardly the same Pauline he knew. Certainly not the same Pauline who’d pressed him back against his bed last night and dragged her tongue over every inch of his chest.

“It’s called Winterset Grange. I was there last year,” his bespectacled inquisitioner continued, speaking to Pauline. “Colin and I stopped the night there on our journey to Scotland. Oh, it was disgusting.” She shuddered.

“Not so disgusting that you declined my hospitality,” Griff said, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. “And if you’ll forgive me for saying it, Lady Payne, I’m not sure you have the moral high ground in this particular tale.”

“What can you mean?”

“By your own admission, you’d run away from your family with a scandalous rake. And, I might add, lied to my face about your identity. I seem to remember Payne introducing you as Melissande, some sort of long-lost Alpine princess and cold-blooded assassin who spoke not a word of English. I mean, really. An Alpine princess-assassin. You will call
me
depraved?”

She sat tall, indignant. “You made inappropriate overtures to me. And you suggested Colin wager my favors in a game of cards. What can you say to that?”

He spread his hands. “Alpine. Princess. Assassin.”

She fumed at him.

Griff said, “I admit that the scene you wandered into was one of flagrant vice. I’m just pointing out that you were hardly the saint in the lion’s den. Isn’t it conceivable that we’ve all changed in the past year?”

“People don’t change
that
much,” she said. “Not in essentials.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” he replied angrily. “In essentials.”

He stalked toward the window. This conversation was making him angry, and a little bit afraid. It had been a full year since he’d engaged in anything like Lady Payne described. His heart and his life
had
fundamentally changed. And no one saw it. Not Payne, whom he’d once thought a close friend. Not even his own mother. Society still linked him with opulent debauchery, and those assumptions would color the way they perceived anyone close to him—including Pauline.

So this was the price he paid for a misspent youth. Last autumn he’d wanted nothing more than to give his daughter a respectable life. Perhaps it was best she hadn’t lived to feel the brunt of his failure. She would have been ashamed to be his.

He tossed back a large swallow of brandy, feeling it burn all the way down.

Payne approached him and spoke in confidential tones. “Listen, Halford. My wife can be protective, but we’re truly not here to grill you on your life choices. We’re just concerned for Pauline. I spent many dark nights in that village tavern. It’s not much of a stretch to say her friendly smile and quickness with a pint saved my life a time or two. She’s a sweet girl, and she means well.”

He bit back a curse. “You don’t know her at all. You never took the time to learn anything about her.”

“I know her family situation. I know she hasn’t anyone to look out for her.”

“She does now,” Griff said. The words came from his gut.

Payne’s eyebrows lifted meaningfully. “Oh, does she?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re certain that’s what she wants, too?”

“She’s an intelligent, free-thinking adult. Ask her.” With a gruff sigh, Griff moved away from his conference with Payne. “Miss Simms, if you are concerned about my personal history, or unhappy with the terms of our arrangement—if you want to leave this house for any reason at all—I will write you a bank draft this moment, and you can go with Lord and Lady Payne.”

Her gaze alternated back and forth between him and their visitors. As though she were giving it close, thoughtful consideration.

Good God. Perhaps she
did
want to leave him.

“Well?” he asked again, somewhat hoarsely this time. “Do you want to go?”

Chapter Twenty-one

P
auline halfheartedly wished she had the strength to say yes. It would be the easiest way. She and Griff would have to part eventually, and the parting would only grow more difficult.

But she couldn’t go this morning. Because she loved him. She
loved
him, and she couldn’t let him go just yet.

“No, your grace,” she said. “I want to stay.”

“Well, then.” He turned to Minerva. “I assume you’re satisfied.”

Lady Payne didn’t even speak to him, instead approaching Pauline. She pushed a small square of paper into her hand. “Here is our calling card. I’ve written our direction on the back, and Lady Rycliff’s as well. If you need anything—anything at all—you can always come to us. Day or night, do you understand?”

Pauline nodded. “You are very good, the both of you. I’m grateful for your concern.”

Even if she didn’t need it, it felt good to know they cared.

Griff showed them out. When he returned, he was glowering. “What was that?” he asked.

“I don’t know. They seemed to have the wrong idea.”

“Well, you didn’t leap to correct them. You barely spoke at all, except for all that ‘your grace’-ing and ‘my lord and lady’-ing.”

He was angry with her? “What else should I say? He
is
a lord. She
is
a lady. And you
are
a duke.”

“But on intellect and character, you are the equal of anyone in the room. Why would you defer so easily to them, when you’ve never been anything but impertinent with me?”

“It’s different with you. Everything’s different with you. But you can’t blame this all on me. You were rather standoffish yourself. It’s not as though you jumped to tell them we’re having a deeply passionate
affaire
.”

He waved at the door. “Because I knew how they’d receive it.”

“Precisely. The same way everyone would receive that news. As an impossibility, at best. At worst, something shameful and sordid.”

Pauline understood why he was upset. She felt the same way. The people who’d just visited them were the closest thing they had to mutual friends, and if even
they
wouldn’t credit a relationship between Griff and her, it was truly hopeless. No one would accept them together. No one.

She sighed. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It didn’t matter what the poems said. There was no other England, no other London with its Tower. There was only this world they lived in, and it was unyielding on matters of class.

“There are thirty-three ranks of precedence between a serving girl and a duchess,” she said quietly. “Did you know that? The chart takes up three pages in
Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom
. I have it all in my head. Duchesses are at the very top—after the queen and princesses, of course. The order goes duchesses, marchionesses, countesses . . .”

As she recited the ranks, she ticked them off on her fingers. “ . . . then wives of the eldest sons of marquesses, then wives of the younger sons of dukes. Then come the daughters. Daughters of dukes, daughters of marquesses. Next viscountesses, then wives of eldest sons of earls. Then daughters of earls . . .”

“Pauline.”

“ . . . that’s ten ranks already, and I’m not even to baronesses yet. Let alone all the orders of knighthood and the military ranks. And below those, you have—”

He approached her and tipped her face, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Pauline.”

“I’m not even on the chart.” She blinked hard. “A girl like me, Griff . . . I’m so far below you. When we’re alone together, we might be able to forget it. But no one else will.”

“Forget
it? You think I forget who you are when we’re together?”

She fidgeted. He must forget, a little. From their very first meeting, he’d afforded her more respect and attention than any nobleman would ever intentionally give a servant. “What matters is, we have to remember ourselves eventually. If we don’t, society will force the point.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Perhaps you’re right. We should remember ourselves.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

He crossed the room, closed the study door, and turned the key in the lock. The tumbler gave an ominous click.

“Clear the desk, Simms.”

“What? I don’t see—”

“Don’t argue,” he clipped. “You’re a serving girl, and you wanted me to recall it. I’m the duke in the room, and I’ve bid you to clear the desk. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Clear tables?”

Is that what he was initiating, then? Playing roles? The libertine duke and the naughty serving girl?

Well . . . After about two seconds’ pause, Pauline decided she could get inspired for that.

She reached for the inkwell and cautiously moved it to a nearby lamp table, where it wouldn’t spill. Then with one hand, she made a broad sweep across the desktop, sending blotter, papers, sealing wax, and more crashing to the floor. “There.”

“Such impertinence.”

“It’s what you like.”

He tugged at his cravat, loosening it as he crossed the room. “You need to learn your place.”

“Is this my place, your grace?” She pushed herself up to sit on the desktop, legs dangling.

“For now.” He sat in the desk chair before her, boots sprawled on either side of her dangling legs, and fixed her with a dark, commanding gaze.

The moment stretched into a thin, brittle thing. Pauline sat very still, just waiting for it to snap.

“Lift your skirts,” he said.

Whoosh.

His words were a starting pistol, and her pulse took the cue to race.

After kicking off one slipper, she toed the other one loose. Both dropped to the floor. She placed her stockinged foot on his thigh and slowly drew the lacy hem of her frock higher, revealing her leg all the way to the knee. “Like this?”

“Higher.”

She dragged her lacy hem upward, inching it along her thigh. Her garter peeked through the edge of her petticoat—a saucy wink of lavender ribbon.

“More.”

She slid her foot to his groin, cupping the growing bulge in his trousers. With slow motions, she teased him harder, rubbing her silky instep up and down the long, firm ridge. Soon, the sounds of labored breathing filled the air. Both his and hers. The smooth friction against the sensitive arch of her foot was a surprising source of pleasure.

And the way he looked at her . . . Unashamed of his rampant arousal, penetrating her with his dark, intense gaze. He had her panting and wet for him, without so much as a kiss.

“Higher,” he demanded, encircling her ankle with his strong grip. “All the way to your waist. Show me everything.”

The dark command in his voice thrilled her. She wriggled on the desk, working her skirts higher. Until cool air rushed over her exposed, aroused cleft.

“Yes,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “That’s it.”

He caressed her calf, running his hand up and down the silky curve. His thumb pressed against the hollow of her knee, and her thighs fell apart. As if he’d found some hidden lever.

He grabbed her by the hips, jerking her to the edge of the desk. His fingers traced the dewy folds of her sex, slipping over her aroused flesh. Such sweet, sweet torture.

“Take me,” she pleaded.

He clucked his tongue. “I shall do as I please. And it pleases me to taste you.”

As he lowered his head, she squirmed away, breaking the little scene they played.

“Griff, wait. No one’s . . .” She licked her lips, nervous. “No one’s ever done that for me.”

He raised his head. His smile was slow to spread and overtly wicked. “If you hoped to dissuade me, that was the wrong thing to say.”

He framed her hips in his hands and pulled her forward again, pressing his mouth to her core.

And as promised, he kissed her.
There.

So shocking. So indescribably arousing.

She jolted in his arms, but his grip on her body was like iron. He was not going to let her escape this erotic embrace. So she reclined, limp, on the mahogany surface, surrendering to the inescapable bliss. She spread her arms wide, covering the full span of the desk. All the papers and correspondence were gone. At this moment she was his work. And he was attending to her thoroughly. Single-mindedly.

Masterfully.

His tongue explored her most feminine, intimate places with confidence and zeal. She relaxed her thighs, spreading herself for his kiss, trusting that he knew what he was doing.

And he did. Oh, he was good at this. A true champion. She had no basis for comparison, but she’d wager the entirety of her thousand pounds on the fact. If there were an order of knighthood awarded for proficiency in pleasuring women, he would have achieved the top rank.

He licked up and down her slit, savoring her as if she were most delicious course in a royal banquet. When he lavished attention on that tight, swollen bundle of nerves at the crest of her sex, she couldn’t help but moan. Then he parted her folds with his thumbs, using his tongue to delve inside her sheath. He moved his tongue in and out, in shallow thrusts that mimicked intercourse.

“Griff.” She writhed on the desk.

He didn’t pause to reply, but answered her by sliding one hand to her breast, squeezing and kneading her through the fabric.

She clutched at his head, shoving impatiently through layers of petticoats to weave her fingers into the lush, dark waves of his hair and grip tight. She held him fast to her, grinding against his hot, wet, talented mouth.

“Yes,” she panted. “Please, don’t stop.”

He wouldn’t stop. He showed no signs of flagging in the least. His every lick and thrust pushed her higher. She began to whimper, wordlessly begging him for release. He moved his head back and forth, nuzzling her pearl.

“Oh.
Oh.
”

She arched straight off the desktop, rocketing through an intense, soaring climax. He pressed the heel of his hand to her mouth, giving her that something she needed to bite and moan and cry out against.

Eventually the tremors of bliss subsided, and he let his hand slip to cup her breast again. For several moments she stared mutely up at the ceiling while he fondled her breasts and dropped lazy kisses along her thighs.

There were no words she could utter. None.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“Yes,” she managed. There were no words, save that one. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Do you believe that I worship every inch of this lithe, delectable body? Do you understand that I would take a saber to the kidneys before letting you come to harm?”

She nodded, breathless.

“Good.” His expression darkened. “Because now I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

He lifted her to her feet, spun her about, and then moved her toward the desk until she bent at the waist. Her breath rushed out as her breasts met the unyielding surface of the desktop.

Behind her, Griff pushed up her skirts with brisk motions, gathering all the heavy fabric of gown and petticoats and shoving it above her hips.

His hand cupped her backside, and his knee nudged her thighs apart.

“This is what happens to serving girls who forget themselves with a duke. They get a firm reminder.”

At the playful sternness in his voice, Pauline felt the slope of her inner thighs erupt into gooseflesh. Her nipples hardened against the cool, polished wood.

“Impertinent minx.”

His palm spanked lightly against her bottom, and she let out a breath that was part startled laugh and part sensual excitement. There was no pain, only a stinging pleasure.

“Saucy temptress.”

Another delicious smack.

She knew he wouldn’t hurt her—this was a fantasy for him. If she could play at being a seductress, he was welcome to play his role, too. She liked that he would be playful. It meant he felt safe with her.

He leaned over her, pinning her to the desk with his body weight. His breath was hot against her neck. “You are a very naughty girl.”

As he whispered to her in a rough, needy voice, his hand worked between her legs, rubbing her aroused, sensitized sex.

“You like this,” he said. “You like to imagine that you drive me out of my mind with wanting. Until my cock does all the thinking, and I forget myself completely.”

“I . . .” Her voice failed her as his fingertip brushed over her pearl.

“Answer me,” he demanded. He slipped a finger inside her.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He thrust his finger deep.

She moaned. “Yes, your grace.”

“Know this,” he said. “I do not forget my place. And you will not forget it, either.”

Oh, how she hoped his rightful place was deep, deep inside her. She wanted him so badly, she would have said anything he pleased. Called him by any name he liked.

He slid his finger almost entirely out of her slickness before pushing back in. “Who am I?”

“A duke,” she managed.

“And what do you want of me?” He withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty and aching for more.

“I . . .” She writhed on the desk. “I want you to tup me.”

At her use of such crude language, she felt his cock jump against her thigh. Despite all his chastisement, she knew her words excited him. This language was who she was, after all. Common. Low-born.