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Tessa Dare

Any Duchess Will Do by Tessa Dare

By Barb Drozdowich Leave a Comment

Welcome to Sugarbeat’s Books – The Home of the Romance Novel

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Any Duchess Will Do is the 4th book in the Spindle Cove Series
What’s a duke to do, when the girl who’s perfectly wrong becomes the woman he can’t live without?

Griffin York, the Duke of Halford, has no desire to wed this season—or any season—but his diabolical mother abducts him to “Spinster Cove” and insists he select a bride from the ladies in residence. Griff decides to teach her a lesson that will end the marriage debate forever. He chooses the serving girl.

Overworked and struggling, Pauline Simms doesn’t dream about dukes. All she wants is to hang up her barmaid apron and open a bookshop. That dream becomes a possibility when an arrogant, sinfully attractive duke offers her a small fortune for a week’s employment. Her duties are simple: submit to his mother’s “duchess training”… and fail miserably.

But in London, Pauline isn’t a miserable failure. She’s a brave, quick-witted, beguiling failure—a woman who ignites Griff’s desire and soothes the darkness in his soul. Keeping Pauline by his side won’t be easy. Even if Society could accept a serving girl duchess—can a roguish duke convince a serving girl to trust him with her heart?

Why do you need to read this book? I have no words to describe how utterly delightful the relationship was between the Duke – Griffen and the soon to be Duchess – Pauline and Griff’s mother. This book simply must be read. Be aware that you will frequently be bursting out in laughter while reading this book! I’ve included Chapter 1 from the author’s website – if you like this, you’ll love the whole book!

Any Duchess Will Do is available on Amazon

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

Griff cracked open a single eyelid. A bright stab of pain told him he’d made a grave mistake. He quickly shut his eyes again and put a hand over them, groaning.

Something had gone horribly wrong.

He needed a shave. He needed a bath. He might need to be sick. Attempts to summon any recollection of the previous evening resulted in another sharp slice of agony.

He tried to ignore the throb in his temples and focused on the tufted, plush surface under his back. It wasn’t his bed. Perhaps not even a bed at all. Was it just a trick of his nausea, or was the damned thing moving?

“Griff.” The voice came to him through a thick, murky haze. It was muffled, but unmistakably female.

God’s knees, Halford. The next time you decide to bed a woman after a months-long drought, at least stay sober enough to remember it afterward. 

He cursed his stupidity. The epic duration of his celibacy was no doubt the reason he’d been tempted by … whoever she was. He had no idea of her name or her face. Just a vague impression of a feminine presence nearby. He inhaled and smelled perfume of an indeterminate, expensive sort.

Damn. He’d need jewels to get out of this, no doubt.

Something dull and pointed jabbed his side. “Wake up.”

Did he know that voice? Keeping one hand clapped over his eyes, he fumbled about with the other hand. He caught a handful of heavy silk skirt and skimmed his touch downward until his fingers closed around a stocking-clad ankle. Sighing a little in apology, he rubbed his thumb up and down.

A squawk of feminine outrage assailed his ears. An unyielding object cracked him over the head, but hard. Now to the pounding and throbbing in his skull, he could add ringing.

“Griffin Eliot York. Really.”

Bloody hell.

Forget the headache and piercing sunlight, he bolted upright—bashing his head again, this time on the low ceiling. Blinking, he confirmed the unthinkable truth. He wasn’t in his bedchamber—or any bedchamber—but in the coach. And the woman seated across from him was all too familiar, with the double strand of rubies at her throat and her elegant sweep of silver hair.

They stared at one another in mutual horror.

“Mother?”

She smacked him again with her collapsed parasol. “Wake up.”

“I’m awake, I’m awake.” When she readied another blow, he held up his hands in surrender. “Good God. I may never sleep again.”

Though the air in the coach was oven-warm, he shuddered. Now he most definitely needed a bath.

He peered out the window and saw nothing but vast expanses of rolling green, dappled with cloud-shaped shadows. The coach’s truncated shadow indicated midday.

“Where the devil are we? And why?”

He tried to piece together memories of the previous evening. This was hardly the first time he’d woken in unfamiliar surroundings, head ringing and stomach achurn … but it was the first time in a good long while. He thought he’d put this sort of debauchery behind him. So what had happened?

He hadn’t imbibed more than his usual amount of wine at dinner. By the fish course, however, he seemed to recall the china’s acanthus pattern undulating. Swimming before his eyes.

After that, he recalled … nothing.

Damn. He’d been drugged.

Kidnapped.

He snapped to alert, bracing his boots on the carriage floorboards.

Whoever his captors were, he must assume they were armed. He was without a blade, without a gun—but he had eager fists, honed reflexes, and a rapidly clearing head. On his own, he would have given himself even chances. But the bastards had taken his mother, too.

“Do not be alarmed,” he told her.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Bad for the complexion.” She touched the double strand of rubies at her throat.

Those rubies. They gave him pause.

What shoddy excuse for a kidnapper used the family coach and left the captive wearing several thousand pounds’ worth of jewels?

Devil take it.

“You.”

“Hm?” His mother raised her eyebrows, all innocence.

“You did this. You put something in my wine at dinner and stuffed me in the carriage.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “My God. I can’t believe you.”

She looked out the window and shrugged. Or rather, she gave the duchess version of a shrug—a motion that didn’t involve anything so common or gauche as the flexing of shoulder muscles, but merely a subtle tilt of the head. “You’d never have come if I asked.”

Incredible.

Griff closed his eyes. Times like these, he supposed he ought to remind himself that a man only had one mother, and his mother only had one son, and she’d carried him in her womb and toiled in labor and so on and so forth. But he did not wish to think about her womb right now—not when he was still trying, desperately, to forget that she possessed ankles.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Sussex.”

Sussex. One of the few counties in England where he didn’t claim any property. “And what is the purpose of this urgent errand?”

A faint smile curved her lips. “We’re going to meet your future bride.”

He stared at his mother. Many moments passed before he could manage coherent speech.

“You are a scheming, fiendish woman with entirely too much time at leisure.”

“And you are the eighth Duke of Halford,” she returned. “I know that doesn’t mean much to you. The disgraces at Oxford, the gambling, the years of aimless debauchery … You seem determined to be nothing more than an unfortunate blot on the distinguished Halford legacy. At the very least, start on the next generation while I still have time to mold it. You have a responsibility to—”

“To continue the line.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So I’ve been told. Again and again.”

“You’ll be five-and-thirty this year, Griffy.”

“Yes. Which makes me much too old to be called ‘Griffy.’”

“More to the point, I am fifty-eight. I need grandchildren before my decline. It’s not right for two generations of the family to be drooling at the same time.”

“Your decline?” He laughed. “Tell me, Mother, how can I hasten that happy process? Other than offering a firm push.”

Her eyebrow arched in amusement. “Just try it.”

Griff sighed. His mother was … his mother. There was no other woman in England like her, and the rest of the world had better pray God had broken the mold. Like the jewels she delighted in wearing, Judith York was a formidable blend of exterior polish and inner fire.

For most of the year, they led entirely separate lives. They only resided in the same house for these few months of the London season. Apparently, even that was too much.

“I’ve been patient,” she said. “Now I’m desperate. You must marry, and it must be soon. I’ve tried to find the most accomplished young beauties in England to tempt you. And I did, but you ignored them. I finally realized the answer is not quality. It’s quantity.”

“Quantity? Are you taking me to some free-love utopian commune where men are permitted as many wives as they please?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I was being hopeful.”

Her lip curled in a delicate scowl. “You’re terrible.”

“Thank you. I work hard at it.”

“So I’ve often lamented. If only you applied the same effort toward … anything else.”

Griff closed his eyes. If there was any conversation more tired and repetitive than the “When will you ever marry?” debate, it was the “You’re a grave disappointment” harangue. Only in this family would it be considered “disappointing” to successfully oversee a vast fortune, six estates, several hundred employees, and thousands of tenants. Impressive, by most standards. But in the Halford line? Not quite enough. Unless a man was reforming Parliament or discovering a new trade route to Patagonia, he just didn’t measure up.

He glanced out the window again. They seemed to be entering a sort of village. He slid open the glass pane and discovered he could smell the sea. A salted-blue freshness mingled with the greener scents of countryside.

“It is a prettyish sort of place,” his mother said. “Very tidy and quiet. I can understand why it’s so popular with the young ladies.”

The coach rolled to a halt in the center of the village, near a wide, pleasant green that ringed a grand medieval church. He peered out the window, gazing in all directions. The place was far too small to be Brighton or …

“Wait a minute.” A vile suspicion formed in his mind.

Surely she hadn’t …

She wouldn’t.

The liveried footman opened the coach door. “Good day, your graces. We’ve reached Spindle Cove.”

~*~

“Oh, bollocks.”

When the fancy coach came trundling down the lane, Pauline scarcely gave it a glance. Many a fine carriage had come down that same road, bringing one visitor or another to the village. A holiday in Spindle Cove was said to cure any gently bred lady’s crisis of confidence.

But Pauline wasn’t a gently bred lady, and her trials were more practical in nature. Such as the fact that she’d just stumbled into a murky puddle, splashing her hem with mud.

And that her sister was near tears for the second time that morning.

“The list,” Daniela said. “It’s not here.”

Drat. Pauline knew they didn’t have time to go back to the farm. She was due at the tavern in minutes. This was Saturday—the day of the Spindle Cove ladies’ weekly salon, and the Bull and Blossom’s busiest day of the week. Mr. Fosbury was a fair-minded employer, but he docked wages for tardiness. And Father noticed.

Frantic, Daniela fished in her pocket. Her eyes welled with tears. “It’s not here. It’s not here.”

“Never mind. I remember it.” Shaking the muddy droplets from her skirts, Pauline ticked the items off in her memory. “Dried currants, worsted thread, a bit of sponge. Oh, and powdered alum. Mother needs it for pickling.”

When they entered the Brights’ All Things shop, they found it packed to bursting. While the visiting ladies met for their weekly salon, the villagers purchased their dry goods. Villagers like Mrs. Whittlecombe, a cobwebby old widow who only left her decrepit farmhouse once a week to stock up on comfits and “medicinal” wine. The woman gave them a disdainful sniff as Pauline and Daniela wedged their way into the shop.

Pauline could just make out two flashes of white-blond hair on the other side of the counter. Sally Bright was busy with customers three deep, and her younger brother Rufus ran back and forth from the storeroom.

Fortunately, the Simms sisters had been friends with the Bright family since as far back as any of them could remember. They needn’t wait to be helped.

“Put the eggs away,” Pauline told her sister. “I’ll fetch the sponge and thread from the storeroom. You get the currants and alum. Two measures of currants, one of alum.”

Daniela carefully set the basket of brown speckled eggs on the counter and went to a row of bins. Her lips moved as she scanned for the one labeled currants. Then she frowned with concentration as she sifted the contents into a rolled cone of brown paper.

Once she’d seen her sister settle to the task, Pauline gathered the needed items from the back. When she returned, Daniela was waiting with goods in hand.

“Too much alum,” Pauline said, inspecting. “It was meant to be just one measure.”

“Oh. Oh, no.”

“It’s all right,” she said in a calm voice. “Easily mended. Just put the extra back.”

She hoped her sister didn’t notice the sneering expression on old Mrs. Whittlecombe’s face.

“I don’t know that I can continue to give this shop my custom,” the old woman said. “Allowing half-wits behind the counter.”

Sally Bright gave the woman a flippant smile. “Just tell me when we can stop stocking your laudanum, Mrs. Whittlecombe.”

“That’s a health tonic.”

“Of course it is,” Sally said dryly.

Pauline went to the ledger to record their purchases. She secretly loved this part. She flipped through the pages slowly, taking her time to peruse Sally’s notes and tabulations.

Someday she’d have her own shop, keep her own ledgers. It was a dream she hadn’t shared with anyone—not even her closest friend. Just a promise she recited to herself, when the hours of farm and serving work lay heavy on her shoulders.

Someday.

She found the correct page. After the credit they earned from bringing in eggs, they only owed sixpence for the rest of their shopping. Good.

Bang.

She whipped her head up, startled.

“Good gracious, child! What on earth are you doing?” Mrs. Whittlecombe slapped the counter again.

“I … I’m p-puttin’ back the alum,” Daniela stammered.

“That’s not ‘da aw-wum,’” the old woman repeated, mocking Daniela’s thick speech. “That’s the sugar.”

Oh, bollocks. Pauline winced. She knew she should have done it herself. But she’d wanted so fiercely for Daniela to show that wretched old bat she could do it.

Now the wretched old bat cackled in triumph.

Confused, Daniela smiled and tried to laugh along.

Pauline’s heart broke for her sister. They were only a year apart in age, but so many more in understanding. Of all the things that came a bit more difficult for Daniela than other people—pronouncing words that ended in consonants, subtracting from numbers greater than ten—cruelty seemed the hardest concept for her to grasp. A mercy, in Amos Simms’s family.

“Not the clayed sugar,” Rufus Bright moaned.

Sally boxed him across the ear.

“I just scraped it from the cone,” he apologized, rubbing the side of his head. “Bin was almost full.”

“Well, it’s entirely useless now,” said Mrs. Whittlecombe smugly.

“I’ll pay for the sugar,” Pauline said. She felt instantly nauseous, as if she’d swallowed five pounds of the stuff raw. Fine white sugar came dear.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sally said in a low voice. “We’re practically sisters. We should be realsisters, if my brother Errol had any sense in his head.”

Pauline shook her head. She’d ceased pining for Errol Bright when they parted ways years ago. She certainly didn’t want to be indebted to him now.

“I’ll pay for it,” she insisted. “It was my mistake. I should have done it myself, but I was in a hurry.”

And now she would certainly be late for her post at the Bull and Blossom. This day only grew worse and worse.

Sally looked pained, caught between the need to turn a profit and the desire to help a friend.

In the corner, Daniela had finally realized the consequences of her error. “I can put it back,” she said, scooping from the sugar barrel and dumping it into the alum, muddling both quantities with her flowing tears. “I can put it right.”

“It’s all right, dear.” Pauline went to her side and gently removed the tin scoop from her sister’s hand. “Go on,” she told Sally firmly. “I think I have some credit in the ledger.”

She didn’t just think she had credit. She knew she did. Several pages beyond the Simms family account, there was a page labeled simply pauline—and it showed precisely two pounds, four shillings, and eight pence of credit accrued. For the past few years, she’d saved and scrimped every penny she could, trusting Sally’s ledger with the safekeeping. It was the closest thing to a bank account a serving girl like her could have.

Almost a year, she’d been saving. Saving for something better, for her and Daniela both. Saving forsomeday.

“Do it,” she said.

With a few strokes of Sally’s quill, the money was almost entirely gone. Eleven shillings, eight pence left.

“I didn’t charge for the alum,” Sally murmured.

“Thank you.” Small comfort, but it was something. “Rufus, would you kindly walk my sister home? I’m due at the tavern, and she’s upset.”

Rufus, apparently ashamed of his earlier behavior, offered his arm. “’Course I will. Come along, Danny. I’ll drive you in the cart.”

When Daniela resisted, Pauline hugged her and whispered, “You go home, and tonight I’ll bring your penny.”

The promise brightened Daniela’s face. It was her daily task to gather the eggs, count and candle them, and prepare them to sell. In return, Pauline gave her a penny a week.

Every Saturday evening she watched Daniela carefully add the coin to an old, battered tea tin. She would shake the tin and grin, satisfied with the rattling sound. It was a ritual that pleased them both. The next morning the same treasured penny went into the church offering—every Sunday, without fail.

“Go on, then.” She sent her sister off with a smile she didn’t quite feel.

Once Rufus and Daniela had left, Mrs. Whittlecombe crowed with satisfaction. “That’ll be a lesson for you, bringing a simpleton around the village.”

“Go easy, Mrs. Whittlecombe,” a bystander said. “You know they mean well.”

Pauline flinched inwardly. Not that phrase. She’d heard it countless times over the course of her life. Always in that same pitying tone, usually accompanied by a clucking tongue: Can’t be hard on those Simms girls … you know they mean well.

In other words, no one expected them to do a cursed thing right. How could they? Two unwanted daughters in a family with no sons. One simple-minded, the other lacking in every feminine grace.

Just once, Pauline wanted to be known not for meaning well, but for doing well.

That day wouldn’t be today. Not only had everything gone wrong, but as she regarded Mrs. Whittlecombe, Pauline couldn’t muster any good intentions. Anger bloomed in her chest like a predatory vine, all sharp needles and grasping tendrils.

The old woman placed two bottles of tonic in her netted bag. They clinked together in a way that only increased Pauline’s anger. “Next time, keep the fool thing at home.”

Her hands balled into tight fists at her side. Of course she wouldn’t lash out at an old woman the way she’d once fought the teasing boys at school, but the motion was instinctive. “Daniela is not a thing. She is a person.”

“She’s a half-wit. She doesn’t belong out of the house.”

“She made a mistake. Just like all people make mistakes.” Pauline reached for the bin of ruined white sugar. It was hers now, wasn’t it? She’d paid for the contents. “For example, everyone knows I’m incurably clumsy.”

“Pauline,” Sally warned. “Please don’t.”

Too late. With an angry heave, she launched the bin’s contents into the air.

The room exploded in a blizzard of white, and Mrs. Whittlecombe was at the storm’s dead center, sputtering and cursing through a cloud of powder. When the flurries cleared, she looked like Lot’s wife, only turned to a pillar of sugar rather than salt.

The sense of divine retribution that settled on Pauline … it was almost worth all that hard-earned money.

Almost.

She tossed the empty bin to the floor. “Oh, dear. How stupid of me.”

~*~

Griff regarded his mother and that smug smile curving her lips. This time she’d gone too far. This wasn’t mere meddling. It was diabolical.

Not Spinster Cove.

He’d never visited the place, but he knew it well by reputation. This seaside hamlet was where old maids went to embroider and consumptives went to dry.

Accepting the footman’s hand, the duchess alighted from the coach. “I understand this place is just bursting with well-bred, unmarried young ladies.”

She motioned toward a lodging house. A sign dangling above the entrance announced it as the queen’s ruby.

Griff blinked at the green shutters and cheery window boxes stuffed with geraniums. He’d rather bathe in water teeming with sharks.

He turned and walked in the opposite direction.

“Where are you going?” she asked, following.

“There.” He nodded at a tavern across the square. By squinting at the sign hung over the red-painted door, he discerned it was called the Bull and Blossom. “I’m going to have a pint of ale and something to eat.”

“What about me?”

He gestured expansively. “Make yourself comfortable. Take a suite at the rooming house. Enjoy the healthful sea breezes. I’ll send the coach for you in a few weeks.” He added under his breath, “Or years.”

The footman followed a respectful pace behind, holding the open parasol to shade the duchess.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “You’re going to select a bride, and you’re going to do it today.”

“Don’t you understand what sort of young ladies are sent to this village? The unmarriageable ones.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect. None of them will turn you down.”

Her words drew Griff to a sharp halt. He swiveled to face her. “Turn me down?”

For the obvious reasons, he avoided discussing his affaires with her. But the reason he’d been celibate lo these many months had nothing to do with women turning him down. There were many women—beautiful, sophisticated, sensual women—who’d gladly welcome him to their beds this very evening. He was tempted to tell her so, but a man couldn’t say such things to his own mother.

She seemed to interpret his silence easily enough.

“I’m not speaking of carnality. I’m speaking of your desirability as a husband. Your reputation leaves a great deal to be desired.” She brushed some dust from his sleeve. “Then there’s the aging problem.”

“The ‘aging’ problem?” He was thirty-four. By his estimation, his cock had a good three decades of working order ahead, at least.

“To be sure, you’re good-looking enough. But there are handsomer.”

“Are you sure you’re my mother?”

She turned and walked on. “The fact is, most ladies of the ton have given you up as a marriage prospect. A village of desperate spinsters is precisely what we need. You must admit, this worked nicely for that scampish friend of yours, Lord Payne.”

God’s knees. So that’s what was behind this. Curse that rogue Colin Sandhurst and his bespectacled, bookish bride. Last year, his old gambling friend had been sequestered in this seaside village without funds, and he’d broken free by eloping with a bluestocking. The pair had even stopped at Winterset Grange, Griff’s country retreat, on their way to Scotland.

But their situations were completely different. Griff wasn’t desperate for funds in any way. Neither was he desperate for companionship.

Marriage simply wasn’t in the cards for him.

His mother fixed him with a look. “Were you waiting to fall in love?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question. Have you delayed marriage all these years because you’re waiting to fall in love?”

A simple question, she called it. The answers were anything but.

He could have taken her into the tavern, ordered a few large glasses of wine, and taken an hour or two to explain everything. That he wouldn’t be marrying this season, or any season. Her only son would not be merely a blot on the distinguished Halford line, but the very end of it, forever, and the family legacy she held so dear was destined for obscurity. Her hopes of grandchildren would come to naught.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not even today, when she was at her most infuriating. Better to remain a dissolute-yet-redeemable rascal in her eyes than be the son who calmly, irrevocably, broke his mother’s heart.

“No,” he told her honestly. “I’m not waiting to fall in love.”

“Well, that’s convenient. We can settle this in one morning. Never mind finding the most polished young beauty in England. You choose a girl—any girl—and I’ll polish her myself. Who could better prepare the future Duchess of Halford than the current Duchess of Halford?”

They’d reached the tavern entrance. His mother stared pointedly at the door latch. The footman jumped to open it.

“Oh, look,” she said upon entering. “What luck. Here they are.”

Griff looked. The scene was even ghastlier than he could have imagined.

This tavern didn’t seem to be a “tavern” at all, but more of a tea shop. Young ladies crowded the establishment, all of them hunched over tables and frowning in concentration. They appeared to be engaged in one of those absurd handicrafts that passed for female “accomplishment” these days. Quilling paper, it looked like. They weren’t even using fresh parchment—just ripping pages straight from books to fashion their queer little trivets and tea trays.

He peered at the nearest stack of volumes. Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom for Young Ladies, each one read. Appalling.

This was everything he’d been avoiding for years. A roomful of unmarried, uninspiring young women, from which the common wisdom would argue he should find a suitable bride.

At the nudging of a friend, one young woman rose from her chair and curtsied. “May we help you, ma’am?”

“Your grace.”

The young woman’s brow creased. “Ma’am?”

“I am the Duchess of Halford. You would properly address me as ‘your grace.’”

“Ah. I see.” As her nudging friend smothered a nervous giggle, the fair-haired young woman began again. “May we help you, your grace?”

“Just stand tall, girl. So my son can see you.” She turned her head, surveying the rest of the room. “All of you, on your feet. Best posture.”

Pain forked through Griff’s skull as chair legs screeched against floorboards. One by one the young ladies obediently rose to their feet.

He noted a few pockmarks. One case of crooked teeth. They were none of them hideous, just—fragile in cases. Others were unfashionably browned from the sun.

“Well,” the duchess said, striding into the center of the room. “Jewels in the rough. In some cases, very rough. But they are all from good family, so with a bit of polish … ” She turned to him. “Take your choice, Halford. Select any girl who strikes your fancy. I will make her into a duchess.”

Every jaw in the room dropped.

Every jaw, that was, except Griff’s.

He massaged his throbbing temples and began preparing a little speech in his mind. Ladies, I beg you. Pay this raving madwoman no attention. She’s entered her decline.

But then, he thought—a quick exit was too kind to her. Surely the only proper punishment was the opposite: to do precisely as his mother asked.

He said, “You claim you can make any one of these girls into a suitable duchess.”

“Of course I can.”

“And who will be the judge of your success?”

She lifted a brow. “Society, of course. Choose your young lady, and she’ll be the toast of London by season’s end.”

“The toast of London, you say?” He gave a doubtful laugh.

He scanned the tavern for a second time, planning to declare mad, instantaneous love for the most shrinking, awkward, homely chit available—and then watch his mother sputter and flail in response.

However, from the amused glances the young ladies exchanged, Griff could sense that there was more courage and wit in the room than his first impression might have indicated. These young women were no fools. And though they each had their flaws and imperfections—who didn’t?—none were unsuitable to a shocking, insurmountable degree.

Damn. He’d looked forward to teaching his overstepping mother a lesson. As matters stood, he supposed he’d be better served to just mutter a few apologies, drag the duchess back to the carriage, and drop her at Bedlam on the way home.

And then, with a creak of hinges and a slam of the rear door—

His salvation arrived.

She came stumbling through the back entrance of the tavern, red-faced and breathless. Her boots and hem were spattered with alarming amounts of mud, and a strange white powder clung to her everywhere else.

A serving girl’s apron hung loose around her neck. As she gathered the tapes and knotted them behind her back, the cinch of laces revealed a slender, almost boyish figure. Less of a shapely hourglass, more of a sturdy hitching post.

“It’s ten past, Pauline.” The male voice boomed from the kitchen.

She called back, “Beggin’ pardon, Mr. Fosbury. I’ll not be tardy again.”

Her diction and accent were not merely uneducated and rural—they were odd. When she turned, Griff could make out the reason why. She had a hairpin clenched in her teeth like a cheroot, and she mumbled her words around it.

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.”

 

 

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Beauty and the Blacksmith by Tessa Dare

By Barb Drozdowich Leave a Comment

Welcome to Sugarbeat’s Books – The Home of the Romance Novel!

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Beauty and the Blacksmith is book #3.5 in the Spindle Cove Series

At last, Diana gets a romance of her own! But with the last man anyone in Spindle Cove expects…

Beautiful and elegant, Miss Diana Highwood is destined to marry a wealthy, well-placed nobleman. At least, that’s what her mother has loudly declared to everyone in Spindle Cove.

But Diana’s not excited by dukes and lords. The only man who makes her heart pound is the village blacksmith, Aaron Dawes. By birth and fortune, they couldn’t be more wrong for each other…but during stolen, steamy moments in his forge, his strong hands feel so right.

Is their love forged strong enough to last, or are they just playing with fire?

Why do you need to read this book? I loved the character of Aaron – a simple blacksmith that wasn’t simple at all….

Beauty and the Blacksmith is available at Amazon

Excerpt:

Goodness. Just look at it. Thick as my ankle.

Diana Highwood took her glove and worked it like a fan, chasing the flush from her throat. She was a gentlewoman, born and raised in genteel comfort, if not opulent luxury. From an early age, she’d been marked as the hope of the family. Destined, her mother vowed, to catch a nobleman’s eye.

But here, in the smithy with Aaron Dawes, all her delicate breeding disintegrated.

How could she help staring? The man had wrists as thick as her ankle.

As always, he wore his sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms roped with muscle. He pumped the bellows, commanding the flames to dance.

Broad shoulders stretched his homespun shirt, and a leather apron hung low on his hips. As he removed the glowing bit of metal from the fire and placed it on his anvil, his open collar gaped.

Diana averted her gaze—but not fast enough. She caught a moment’s glimpse of pure, superheated virility. Sculpted chest muscles, bronzed skin, dark hair…

“Behave yourself,” he said.

The words startled her breathless.

He knows. He knows. He’s realized that refined, perfect, gently bred Miss Highwood comes to the smithy to gawp at his brute manliness. Behave yourself, indeed.

She felt ridiculous. Ashamed. Exposed.

And then—suddenly—relieved.

He wasn’t speaking to her. He was speaking to his work.

“That’s it.” Perspiration glistened on his brow. With a steady hand and a low, rich baritone, he finessed the broken clasp. “Be good for me now.”

Diana turned her gaze downward, focusing on the floor. Neatly swept and fitted stones paved her half of the smithy, where visitors waited for their work. The ground around the forge was packed with black, smudgy cinders. And the border between the two could not have been more stark, or more meaningful.

Here was the division between customer and smith. The line between the world of a gentlewoman and a working man’s domain.

“There we are,” he said. “That’s the way.”

Oh, goodness. She could look away from his thick forearms and his muscled chest. But that voice.

She gave herself a brisk shake. Time to put a stop to this silliness. She was a grown woman, turning four-and-twenty this year. It was surely no sin to admire Mr. Dawes. He was an admirable man. However, she ought to concentrate on the many reasons that had nothing to do with carnality.

The Highwoods had come to this seaside village for Diana’s health, but she’d come to think of Spindle Cove as home. During their stay, she’d learned a great deal about rural life. She knew a good village smith was indispensable. He shoed the farmers’ draft horses, and he mended the oarlocks on the fishermen’s boats. When neighbors were ailing, he pulled teeth and set broken bones. The nails struck on his anvil held the whole village together.

This forge was the glowing, iron heart of Spindle Cove, and Aaron Dawes was its pulse. Strong. Steady. Vital.

She watched him striking off beats with his hammer. Clang. Clang. Clang.

Now her eyes were fused to that forearm again.

“This weather,” she said, trying to change the subject. “It’s been a dreadful March, hasn’t it?”

He grunted in agreement. “Near a fortnight now without sun.”

He plunged the heated metal into a waiting bucket. A cloud of steam rose and filled the smithy, curling the short hairs at the nape of her neck.

“That should do,” he said, examining the cooled clasp of her necklace. He polished it with a scrap of cloth. “Let’s hope it lasts this time.”

Diana gave him a nervous smile. “I do seem to have bad luck with it, don’t I?”

“This is the third time it’s broken this year, by my count. You must think my craftsmanship is faulty.”

“No,” she hastened to assure him. “Not at all. You do very good work, Mr. Dawes. I’m just careless, that’s all.”

“Careless? You?” His gaze locked with hers from across the smithy, dark and intense.

She caught him looking at her like this sometimes. In church, around the village. She didn’t know what to make of her reaction, but she couldn’t deny it was a thrilling sort of confusion.

He mopped his brow and neck with a damp cloth, then wiped his hands clean. “It’s a curious thing, Miss Highwood. You don’t strike me as the clumsy sort.”

She shifted on her seat, uneasy.

“And of all things,” he said, “I’d think you’d be careful with this.”

She watched as he threaded the tiny vial back on its chain. In the vial was a tincture of shrubby horsetail. She kept a dose with her at all times, in case of a breathing crisis.

“You’re right.” Despite her accelerating pulse, she forced an easy smile. “I should be more cautious. I will be, in the future.”

He looked up at her. “Are you well?”

“Quite.”

“You look flushed.”

“Oh. Er …”

He walked behind her and placed the chain about her neck, standing close to do the clasp. If she’d been flushed already, now she was enflamed. It was as though he’d soaked all the heat up from the fire, and now he gave it to her. Soothing and melting all her knotted places. Like the heated brick she took to bed when she had her courses.

Oh, Lord. The last thing she needed right now was thoughts of bed. Much less this big, solid brick of masculinity sharing it.

“Still don’t know how you managed to smash it like that,” he said.

By slamming it in a drawer. And finishing the deed with a rock.

“I don’t know, either,” she prevaricated. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest.

“I could almost believe someone did it on purpose. I know accidents happen. But they don’t usually happen the same way twice.”

As he fastened the necklace, his fingertips brushed her neck.

Diana sucked in her breath. She wanted to pretend the touch was an accident. As he’d said, accidents happen.

But they didn’t happen the same way twice.

He caressed her neck a second time, his roughened thumb sliding down the soft skin at her nape.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

“I wonder about it. Why you come so often. Why every metal latch and clasp and rivet you possess seems to need mending of late.” His voice grew deeper, almost dreamy. “I’ve told myself you’re just bored with this village. With this weather, there’s little else to do.”

He circled her, running his finger beneath that chain. Branding her with a necklace of his touch.

“Other times”—she caught a wry note in his voice—“I decide you’ve been sent by the devil to torment me for my sins.”

He came to stand before her, holding that vial that dangled from her necklace. He pulled gently, and she swayed toward him. Just an inch.

“And then sometimes I think maybe … just maybe … you’re hoping for something to happen. Something like this.”

 

 

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A Week to be Wicked by Tessa Dare

By Barb Drozdowich Leave a Comment

Welcome to Sugarbeat’s Books – The Home of the Romance Novel

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A Week to Be Wicked is book #2 in the Spindle Cover Series
When a devilish lord and a bluestocking set off on the road to ruin…
Time is not on their side.

Minerva Highwood, one of Spindle Cove’s confirmed spinsters, needs to be in Scotland.
Colin Sandhurst, Lord Payne, a rake of the first order, needs to be… anywhere but Spindle Cove.

These unlikely partners have one week
to fake an elopement
to convince family and friends they’re in “love”
to outrun armed robbers
to survive their worst nightmares
to travel four hundred miles without killing each other
All while sharing a very small carriage by day and an even smaller bed by night.

What they don’t have time for is their growing attraction. Much less wild passion. And heaven forbid they spend precious hours baring their hearts and souls.

Suddenly one week seems like exactly enough time to find a world of trouble.
And maybe…just maybe…love.

A Week to be Wicked is available on Amazon

Excerpt

When a girl trudged through the rain at midnight to knock at the Devil’s door, the Devil should at least have the depravity—if not the decency—to answer.Minerva gathered the edges of her cloak with one hand, weathering another cold, stinging blast of wind. She stared in desperation at the closed door, then pounded it with the flat of her fist.

“Lord Payne,” she shouted, hoping her voice would carry through the thick oak planks. “Do come to the door! It’s Miss Highwood.” After a moment’s pause, she clarified, “Miss Minerva Highwood.”

Rather nonsensical, that she needed to state just which Miss Highwood she was. From Minerva’s view, it ought to be obvious. Her younger sister, Charlotte, was an exuberant yet tender fifteen years of age. And the eldest of the family, Diana, possessed not only angelic beauty, but the disposition to match. Neither of them were at all the sort to slip from bed at night, steal down the back stairs of the rooming house, and rendezvous with an infamous rake.

But Minerva was different. She’d always been different. Of the three Highwood sisters, she was the only dark-haired one, the only bespectacled one, the only one who preferred sturdy lace-up boots to silk slippers, and the only one who cared one whit about the difference between sedimentary and metamorphic rocks.

The only one with no prospects, no reputation to protect.

Diana and Charlotte will do well for themselves, but Minerva? Plain, bookish, distracted, awkward with gentlemen. In a word, hopeless.

The words of her own mother, in a recent letter to their cousin. To make it worse, Minerva hadn’t discovered this description by snooping through private correspondence. Oh, no. She’d transcribed the words herself, penning them at Mama’s dictation.

Truly. Her own mother.

The wind caught her hood and whisked it back. Cold rain pelted her neck, adding injury to insult.

Swiping aside the hair matted to her cheek, Minerva stared up at the ancient stone turret—one of four that comprised the Rycliff Castle keep. Smoke curled from the topmost vent.

She raised her fist again, pounding at the door with renewed force. “Lord Payne, I know you’re in there.”

Vile, teasing man.

Minerva would root herself to this spot until he let her in, even if this cold spring rain soaked her to the very marrow. She hadn’t climbed all this distance from the village to the castle, slipping over mossy outcroppings and tracing muddy rills in the dark, just to trudge the same way back home, defeated.

However, after a solid minute of knocking to no avail, the fatigue of her journey set in, knotting her calf muscles and softening her spine. Minerva slumped forward. Her forehead met wood with a dull thunk. She kept her fist lifted overhead, beating on the door in an even, stubborn rhythm. She might very well be plain, bookish, distracted, and awkward—but she was determined. Determined to be acknowledged, determined to be heard.

Determined to protect her sister, at any cost.

Open, she willed. Open. Open. Op—

The door opened. Swiftly, with a brisk, unforgiving whoosh.

“For the love of tits, Thorne. Can’t it wait for—”

“Ack.” Caught off balance, Minerva stumbled forward. Her fist rapped smartly against—not the door, but a chest.

Lord Payne’s chest. His masculine, muscled, shirtless chest, which proved only slightly less solid than a plank of oak. Her blow landed square on his flat, male nipple, as though it were the Devil’s own door-knocker.

At least this time, the Devil answered.

“Well.” The dark word resonated through her arm. “You’re not Thorne.”

“Y-you’re not clothed.” And I’m touching your bare chest. Oh. . . Lord.

The mortifying thought occurred to her that he might not be wearing trousers either. She righted herself. As she removed her spectacles with chilled, trembling fingers, she caught a reassuring smudge of dark wool below the flesh-colored blur of his torso. She huffed a breath on each of the two glass discs connected by brass, wiped the mist from them with a dry fold of her cloak lining, and then replaced them on her face.

He was still half naked. And now, in perfect focus. Devious tongues of firelight licked over every feature of his handsome face, defining him.

“Come in, if you mean to.” He winced at a blast of frost-tipped wind. “I’m shutting the door, either way.”

She stepped forward. The door closed behind her with a heavy, finite sound.

Minerva swallowed hard.

“I must say, Melinda. This is rather a surprise.”

“My name’s Minerva.”

“Yes, of course.” He cocked his head. “I didn’t recognize your face without the book in front of it.”

She exhaled, letting her patience stretch. And stretch. Until it expanded just enough to accommodate a teasing rake with a sieve-like memory. And stunningly well-defined shoulders.

“I’ll admit,” he said, “this is hardly the first time I’ve answered the door in the middle of night and found a woman waiting on the other side. But you’re certainly the least expected one yet.” He sent her lower half an assessing look. “And the most muddy.”

She ruefully surveyed her mud-caked boots and bedraggled hem. A midnight seductress she was not. “This isn’t that kind of visit.”

“Give me a moment to absorb the disappointment.”

“I’d rather give you a moment to dress.” Minerva crossed the round chamber of windowless stone and went straight for the hearth. She took her time tugging loose the velvet ties of her cloak, then draped it over the room’s only armchair.

Payne hadn’t wasted the entirety of his months here in Spindle Cove, it seemed. Someone had put a great deal of work into transforming this stone silo into a warm, almost comfortable home. The original stone hearth had been cleaned and restored to working order. In it blazed a fire large and fierce enough to do a Norman warrior proud. In addition to the upholstered armchair, the circular room contained a wooden table and stools. Simple, but well made.

No bed.

Strange. She swiveled her gaze. Didn’t an infamous rake need a bed?

Finally, she looked up. The answer hovered overhead. He’d fashioned a sort of sleeping loft, accessible by a ladder. Rich drapes concealed what she assumed to be his bed. Above that, the stone walls spiraled into black, cavernous nothingness.

Minerva decided she’d given him ample time to find a shirt and make himself presentable. She cleared her throat and slowly turned. “I’ve come to ask—”

He was still half-naked.

He had not used the time to make himself presentable. He’d taken the chance to pour a drink. He stood in profile, making scrunched faces into a wineglass to assess its cleanliness.

“Wine?” he asked.

She shook her head. Thanks to his indecent display, a ferocious blush was already burning its way over her skin. Up her throat, over her cheeks, up to her hairline. She hardly needed to throw wine on the flames.

As he poured a glass for himself, she couldn’t help but stare at his leanly muscled torso, so helpfully limned by firelight. She’d been used to thinking him a devil, but he had the body of a god. A lesser one. His wasn’t the physique of a hulking, over-muscled Zeus or Poseidon, but rather a lean, athletic Apollo or Mercury. A body built not to bludgeon, but to hunt. Not to lumber, but to race. Not to overpower unsuspecting naiads where they bathed, but to . . .

Seduce.

He glanced up. She looked away.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” she said.

“You didn’t wake me.”

“Truly?” She frowned at him. “Then . . . for as long as it took you to answer the door, you might have put on some clothes.”

With a devilish grin, he indicated his trousers. “I did.”

Well. Now her cheeks all but caught fire. She dropped into the armchair, wishing she could disappear into its seams.

For God’s sake, Minerva, take hold of yourself. Diana’s future is at stake.

Setting the wine on the table, he moved to some wooden shelves that seemed to serve as his wardrobe. To the side, a row of hooks supported his outerwear. A red officer’s coat, for the local militia he led in the Earl of Rycliff’s absence. A few finely tailored, outrageously expensive-looking topcoats from Town. A greatcoat in charcoal-gray wool.

He passed over all these, grabbed a simple lawn shirt, and yanked it over his head. Once he’d thrust his arms through the sleeves, he held them out to either side for her appraisal. “Better?”

Not really. The gaping collar still displayed a wide view of his chest—only with a lascivious wink instead of a frank stare. If anything, he looked more indecent. Less of an untouchable, chiseled god and more of a raffish pirate king.

“Here.” He took the greatcoat from its hook and brought it to her. “It’s dry, at least.”

Once he’d settled the coat over her lap, he pressed the glass of wine into her hand. A signet ring flashed on his little finger, shooting gold through the glass’s stem.

“No arguments. You’re shivering so hard, I can hear your teeth chatter. The fire and coat help, but they can’t warm you inside.”

Minerva accepted the glass and took a careful sip. Her fingers did tremble, but not entirely from the cold.

He pulled up a stool, sat on it, and fixed her with an expectant look. “So.”

“So,” she echoed, stupidly.

Her mother was right in this respect. Minerva considered herself a reasonably intelligent person, but good heavens . . . handsome men made her stupid. She grew so flustered around them, never knew where to look or what to say. The reply meant to be witty and clever would come out sounding bitter or lame. Sometimes a teasing remark from Lord Payne’s quarter quelled her into dumb silence altogether. Only days later, while she was banging away at a cliff face with a rock hammer, would the perfect retort spring to mind.

Remarkable. The longer she stared at him now, the more she could actually feel her intelligence waning. A day’s growth of whiskers only emphasized the strong cut of his jaw. His mussed brown hair had just a hint of roguish wave. And his eyes . . . He had eyes like Bristol diamonds. Small round geodes, halved and polished to a gleam. An outer ring of flinty hazel enclosed cool flashes of quartz. A hundred crystalline shades of amber and gray.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Enough dithering. “Do you mean to marry my sister?”

Seconds passed. “Which one?”

“Diana,” she exclaimed. “Diana, of course. Charlotte being all of fifteen.”

He shrugged. “Some men like a young bride.”

“Some men have sworn off marriage entirely. You told me you were one of them.”

“I told you that? When?”

“Surely you remember. That night.”

He stared at her, obviously nonplussed. “We had ‘a night’?”

Not how you’re thinking.” Months ago now, she’d confronted him in the Summerfield gardens about his scandalous indiscretions and his intentions toward her sister. They’d clashed. Then they’d somehow tangled—bodily—until a few cutting insults severed the knot.

Curse her scientific nature, so relentlessly observant. Minerva resented the details she’d gleaned in those moments. She did not need to know that his bottom waistcoat button was exactly in line with her fifth vertebra, or that he smelled faintly of leather and cloves. But even now, months later, she couldn’t seem to jettison the information.

Especially not when she sat huddled in his greatcoat, embraced by borrowed warmth and the same spicy, masculine scent.

Naturally, he’d forgotten the encounter entirely. No surprise. Most days, he couldn’t even remember Minerva’s name. If he spoke to her at all, it was only to tease.

“Last summer,” she reminded him, “you told me you had no intentions of proposing to Diana. Or anyone. But today, gossip in the village says different.”

“Does it?” He twisted his signet ring. “Well, your sister is lovely and elegant. And your mother’s made no secret that she’d welcome the match.”

Minerva curled her toes in her boots. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Last year, the Highwoods had come to this seaside village for a summer holiday. The sea air was supposed to improve Diana’s health. Well, Diana’s health had long been improved and summer was long gone, yet the Highwoods remained—all because of Mama’s hopes for a match between Diana and this charming viscount. So long as Lord Payne was in Spindle Cove, Mama would not hear of returning home. She’d even developed an uncharacteristic streak of optimism—each morning declaring as she stirred her chocolate, “I feel it, girls. Today is the day he proposes.”

And though Minerva knew Lord Payne to be the worst sort of man, she had never found it in herself to object. Because she loved it here. She didn’t want to leave. In Spindle Cove, she finally . . . belonged.

Here, in her own personal paradise, she explored the rocky, fossil-studded coast free from care or censure, cataloging findings that could set England’s scientific community on its ear. The only thing that kept her from being completely happy was Lord Payne’s presence—and through one of life’s strange ironies, his presence was the very reason she was able to stay.

There’d seemed no harm in allowing Mama to nurse hopes of a proposal from his lordship’s quarter. Minerva had known for certain a proposal wasn’t coming.

Until this morning, when her certainty crumbled.

“This morning, I was in the All Things shop,” she began. “I usually ignore Sally Bright’s gossip, but today . . .” She met his gaze. “She said you’d given directions for your mail to be forwarded to London, after next week. She thinks you’re leaving Spindle Cove.”

“And you concluded that this means I’ll marry your sister.”

“Well, everyone knows your situation. If you had two shillings to rub together, you’d have left months ago. You’re stranded here until your fortune’s released from trust on your birthday, unless . . .” She swallowed hard. “Unless you marry first.”

“That’s all true.”

She leaned forward in her chair. “I’ll leave in a heartbeat, if you’ll only repeat your words to me from last summer. That you have no intentions toward Diana.”

“But that was last summer. It’s April now. Is it so inconceivable that I might have changed my mind?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” He snapped his fingers. “I know. You think I don’t possess a mind to change. Is that the sticking point?”

She sat forward in her chair. “You can’t change your mind, because you haven’t changed. You’re a deceitful, insincere rake who flirts with unsuspecting ladies by day, then takes up with other men’s wives by night.”

He sighed. “Listen, Miranda. Since Fiona Lange left the village, I haven’t—”

Minerva held up a hand. She didn’t want to hear about his affaire with Mrs. Lange. She’d heard more than enough from the woman herself, who’d fancied herself a poetess. Minerva wished she could scrub her mind of those poems. Ribald, rhapsodic odes that exhausted every possible rhyme for “quiver” and “bliss.”

“You can’t marry my sister,” she told him, willing firmness to her voice. “I simply won’t allow it.”

As their mother was so fond of telling anyone who’d listen—Diana Highwood was exactly the sort of young lady who could set her cap for a handsome lord. But Diana’s external beauty dulled in comparison to her sweet, generous nature and the quiet courage with which she’d braved illness all her life.

Certainly, Diana could catch a viscount. But she shouldn’t marry this one.

“You don’t deserve her,” she told Lord Payne.

“True enough. But none of us get what we truly deserve in this life. Where would God’s sport be in that?” He took the glass from her hand and drew a leisurely sip of wine.

“She doesn’t love you.”

“She doesn’t dislike me. Love’s hardly required.” Leaning forward, he propped an arm on his knee. “Diana would be too polite to refuse. Your mother would be overjoyed. My cousin would send the special license in a trice. We could be married this week. You could be calling me ‘brother’ by Sunday.”

No. Her whole body shouted the rejection. Every last corpuscle.

Throwing off the borrowed greatcoat, she leaped to her feet and began pacing the carpet. The wet folds of her skirt tangled as she strode. “This can’t happen. It cannot. It will not.” A little growl forced its way through her clenched teeth.
She balled her hands in fists. “I have twenty-two pounds saved from my pin money. That, and some change. It’s yours, all of it, if you promise to leave Diana alone.”

“Twenty-two pounds?” He shook his head. “Your sisterly sacrifice is touching. But that amount wouldn’t keep me in London a week. Not the way I live.”

She bit her lip. She’d expected as much, but she’d reasoned it couldn’t hurt to try a bribe first. It would have been so much easier.

She took a deep breath and lifted her chin. This was it—her last chance to dissuade him. “Then run away with me instead.”

After a moment’s stunned pause, he broke into hearty laughter.

She let the derisive sounds wash over her and simply waited, arms crossed. Until his laughter dwindled, ending with a choked cough.

“Good God,” he said. “You’re serious?”

“Perfectly serious. Leave Diana alone, and run away with me.”

He drained the wineglass and set it aside. Then he cleared his throat and began, “That is brave of you, pet. Offering to wed me in your sister’s stead. But truly, I—”

“My name is Minerva. I’m not your pet. And you’re deranged if you think I’d ever marry you.”

“But I thought you just said—”

“Run away with you, yes. Marry you?” She made an incredulous noise in her throat. “Please.”

He blinked at her.

“I can see you’re baffled.”

“Oh, good. I would have admitted as much, but I know what pleasure you take in pointing out my intellectual shortcomings.”

Rummaging through the inside pockets of her cloak, she located her copy of the scientific journal. She opened it to the announcement page and held it out for his examination. “There’s to be a meeting of the Royal Geological Society at the end of this month. A symposium. If you’ll agree to come with me, my savings should be enough to fund our journey.”

“A geology symposium.” He flicked a glance at the journal. “This is your scandalous midnight proposal. The one you trudged through the cold, wet dark to make. You’re inviting me to a geology symposium, if I leave your sister alone.”

“What were you expecting me to offer? Seven nights of wicked, carnal pleasure in your bed?”

She’d meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he eyed her sodden frock.

Minerva went lobster red beneath it. Curse it. She was forever saying the wrong thing.

“I’d have found that offer more tempting,” he said.

Truly? She bit her tongue to keep from saying it aloud. How lowering, to admit how much his offhand comment thrilled her. I’d prefer your carnal pleasures to a lecture about dirt. High compliment indeed.

“A geology symposium,” he repeated to himself. “I should have known there’d be rocks at the bottom of this.”

“There are rocks at the bottom of everything. That’s why we geologists find them so interesting. At any rate, I’m not tempting you with the symposium itself. I’m tempting you with the promise of five hundred guineas.”

Now she had his attention. His gaze sharpened. “Five hundred guineas?”

“Yes. That’s the prize for the best presentation. If you take me there and help present my findings to the Society, you can keep it all. Five hundred guineas would be sufficient to keep you drunk and debauched in London until your birthday, I should hope?”

He nodded. “With a bit of judicious budgeting. I might have to hold off on new boots, but one must make some sacrifices.” He came to his feet, confronting her face to face. “Here’s the wrinkle, however. How could you be certain of winning the prize?”

“I’ll win. I could explain my findings to you in detail, but a great many polysyllabic words would be involved. I’m not sure you’re up to them just now. Suffice it to say, I’m certain.”

He gave her a searching look, and Minerva marshaled the strength to hold it. Level, confident, unblinking.

After a moment, his eyes warmed with an unfamiliar glimmer. Here was an emotion she’d never seen from him before.

She thought it might be . . . respect.

“Well,” he said. “Certainty becomes you.”

Her heart gave a queer flutter. It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to her. She thought it might be the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

Certainty becomes you.

And suddenly, things were different. The ounce of wine she’d swallowed unfurled in her belly, warming and relaxing her. Melting away her awkwardness. She felt comfortable in her surroundings, and more than a little worldly. As though this were the most natural thing in the world, to be having a midnight conversation in a turret with a half-dressed rake.

She settled languidly into the armchair and raised her hands to her hair, finding and plucking loose her few remaining pins. With slow, dreamy motions, she finger-combed the wet locks and arranged them about her shoulders, the better to dry evenly.

He stood and watched her for a moment. Then he went to pour more wine.

A sensuous ribbon of claret swirled into the glass. “Mind, I’m not agreeing to this scheme. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But just for the sake of argument, how did you see this proceeding, exactly? One morning, we’d just up and leave for London together?”

“No, not London. The symposium is in Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh.” Bottle met table with a clunk. “The Edinburgh in Scotland.”

She nodded.

“I thought you said this was the Royal Geological Society.”

“It is.” She waved the journal at him. “The Royal Geological Society of Scotland. Didn’t you know? Edinburgh’s where all the most interesting scholarship happens.”

Crossing back to her, he peered at the journal. “For God’s sake, this takes place barely a fortnight from now. Marietta, don’t you realize what a journey to Scotland entails? You’re talking about two weeks’ travel, at the minimum.”

“It’s four days from London on the mail coach. I’ve checked.”

“The mail coach? Pet, a viscount does not travel on the mail coach.” He shook his head, sitting across from her. “And how is your dear mother going to take this news, when she finds you’ve absconded to Scotland with a scandalous lord?”

“Oh, she’ll be thrilled. So long as one of her daughters marries you, she won’t be particular.” Minerva eased her feet from her wet, muddy boots and drew her legs up beneath her skirts, tucking her chilled heels under her backside. “It’s perfect, don’t you see? We’ll stage it as an elopement. My mother won’t raise any protest, and neither will Lord Rycliff. He’ll be only too happy to think you’re marrying at last. We’ll travel to Scotland, present my findings, collect the prize. Then we’ll tell everyone it simply didn’t work out.”

The more she explained her ideas, the easier the words sprang to her lips and the more excited she grew. This could work. It could really, truly work.

“So you’ll just return to Spindle Cove unmarried, after weeks of travel with me? Don’t you realize you’d be . . .”

“Ruined in good society? I know.” She looked into the roaring fire. “I’m willing to accept that fate. I had no desire for a Society marriage, anyhow.” No hopes of one, to put it finely. She didn’t relish the thought of scandal and gossip. But could it really be so much worse to be cut off from fashionable society, than to feel forever squeezed to its margins?

“But what of your sisters? They’ll be tainted by association.”

His remark gave her pause. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about this possibility. To the contrary, she’d considered it very carefully.

“Charlotte has years before her debut,” she said. “She can weather a bit of scandal. And as for Diana . . . sometimes I think the kindest thing I could do for my sister is ruin her chances of making a ‘good’ marriage. Then she might make a loving one.”

He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Well, I’m glad you’ve worked all this out to your satisfaction. You have no compunction ruining your reputation, nor those of your sisters. But have you given a moment’s thought to mine?”

“To your what? Your reputation?” She laughed. “But your reputation is terrible.”

His cheeks colored, slightly. “I don’t know that it’s terrible.”

She put her left forefinger to her right thumb. “Point the first. You’re a shameless rake.”

“Yes.” He drew out the word.

She touched her index finger. “Point the second. Your name is synonymous with destruction. Bar fights, scandals . . . literal explosions. Wherever you go, mayhem follows.”

“I don’t really try at that part. It just . . . happens.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

“And yet you worry this scheme would tarnish your reputation?”

“Of course.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. He gestured with the hand holding the wineglass. “I’m a lover of women, yes.” Then he lifted his empty hand. “And yes, I seem to break everything I touch. But thus far I’ve succeeded in keeping the two proclivities separate, you see. I sleep with women and I ruin things, but I’ve never yet ruined an innocent woman.”

“Seems like a mere oversight on your part.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps. But it’s not one I mean to remedy.”

His eyes met hers, unguarded and earnest. And a strange thing happened. Minerva believed him. This was one snag she never would have considered. That he might object on principle. She hadn’t dreamed he possessed a scruple to offend.

But he did, evidently. And he was baring it to her, in an attitude of confidence. As though they were friends, and he trusted her to understand.

Something had changed between them, in the ten minutes since she’d pounded on his door.

She sat back in the chair, regarding him. “You are a different person at night.”

“I am,” he agreed simply. “But then, so are you.”

She shook her head. “I’m always this person, inside. It’s just . . .” Somehow, I can never manage to be this person with you. The harder I try, the more I get in my own way.

“Listen, I’m honored by your invitation, but this excursion you suggest can’t happen. I’d return looking like the worst sort of seducer and cad. And justly so. Having absconded with, then callously discarded, an innocent young lady?”

“Why couldn’t I be the one to discard you?”

A little chuckle escaped him. “But who would ever believe—”

He cut off his reply. A moment too late.

“Who would ever believe that,” she finished for him. “Who indeed.”

Cursing, he set aside the wineglass. “Come now. Don’t take offense.”

Ten minutes ago, she would have expected him to laugh. She would have been prepared for his derision, and she wouldn’t have allowed him to see how it hurt. But things had changed. She’d accepted his coat and his wine. More than that, his honesty. She’d let down her guard. And now this.

It cut her deep.

Her eyes stung. “It’s unthinkable. I know that’s what you’re saying. What everyone would say. It’s inconceivable that a man like you could be in—” She swallowed. “Could be taken with a girl like me.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Of course you did. It’s preposterous. Laughable. The idea that you might want me, and I might spurn you? I’m plain. Bookish, distracted, awkward. Hopeless.” Her voice broke. “In a geologic age, no one would believe it.”

She wriggled her feet into her boots. Then she pushed to her feet and reached for her cloak.

He rose and reached for her hand. She pulled away, but not fast enough. His fingers closed around her wrist.

“They would believe it,” he said. “I could make them believe it.”

“You horrid, teasing man. You can’t even remember my name.” She wrestled his grip.

He tightened it. “Minerva.”

Her body went still. Her breath burned in her lungs, as though she’d been fighting her way through waist-deep snow.

“Listen to me now,” he said, smooth and low. “I could make them believe it. I’m not going to do so, because I think this scheme of yours is a spectacularly bad idea. But I could. If I chose, I could have all Spindle Cove—all England—convinced that I’m utterly besotted with you.”

She sniffed. “Please.”

He smiled. “No, truly. It would be so easy. I’d begin by studying you, when you aren’t aware of it. Stealing glances when you’re lost in thought, or when your head’s bent over a book. Admiring the way that dark, wild hair always manages to escapes its pins, tumbling down your neck.” With his free hand, he caught a damp strand of her hair in his fingertips and smoothed it behind her ear. Then he brushed a light touch over her cheek. “Noting the warm glow of your skin, where the sun has kissed it. And these lips. Damn. I think I’d have to develop quite a fascination with your lips.”

His thumb hovered over her mouth, teasing her with possibilities. She ached for his touch, until she was miserable with it. This . . . unwanted wanting.

“It wouldn’t take long. Soon everyone around us would take note of my interest,” he said. “They’d believe my attraction to you.”

“You’ve been mercilessly teasing me for months now. No one would forget that.”

“All part of the infatuation. Don’t you know? A man might engage in flirtation with disinterest, even disdain. But he never teases without affection.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You should. Others would.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. His gaze swept her body from boots to unbound hair. “I could have them all believing I’m consumed by a savage, visceral passion for this enchantress with raven’s-wing hair and sultry lips. That I admire her fierce loyalty to her sisters, and her brave, resourceful spirit. That I’m driven wild by hints of a deep, hidden passion that escape her sometimes, when she ventures out of her shell. ”

His strong hands moved to frame her face. His Bristol-diamond eyes held hers. “That I see in her a rare, wild beauty that’s been overlooked, somehow, by other men. And I want it. Desperately. All for myself. Oh, I could have them believing it all.”

The rich, deep flow of words had worked some kind of spell on her. She stood transfixed, unable to move or speak.

It’s not real, she reminded herself. None of these words mean a thing.

But his caress was real. Real, and warm, and tender. It could mean too much, if she let it. Caution told her to pull away.

Instead, she placed a light, trembling touch to his shoulder. Foolish hand. Foolish fingers.

“If I wished,” he murmured, drawing her close and tilting her face to his, “I could convince everyone that the true reason I’ve remained in Spindle Cove—months past what should have been my breaking point—has nothing to do with my cousin or my finances.” His voice went husky. “That it’s simply you, Minerva.” He caressed her cheek, so sweetly her heart ached. “That it’s always been you.”

His eyes were sincere, unguarded. No hint of irony in his voice. He almost seemed to have convinced himself.

Her heart pounded in her chest with violent force. That mad, hammering beat was all she could hear.

Until another sound intruded.

Laughter. A woman’s laughter. Trickling down from above, like a cascade of freezing water. A brisk, dousing shock.

Oh God.

“Bloody hell.” He looked up, to the sleeping loft.

Minerva followed his gaze. From behind the draped bed hangings, the unseen woman laughed again. Laughed at her.

Oh God. Oh God.

How could she have been so stupid? Naturally, he wasn’t alone. He’d all but told her as much. He’d taken forever to open the door, but he hadn’t been sleeping. He’d paused first to . . .

To put on trousers.

Oh God oh God oh God.

The whole time. Whoever she was up there, she’d been listening the whole time.

Minerva groped numbly for her cloak, jerking it on with shaking fingers. The fire’s smoky heat was suddenly cloying and thick. Suffocating. She had to leave this place. She was going to be ill.

“Wait,” he said, following her to the door. “It’s not how it looks.”

She cut him a freezing glare.

“Very well, it’s mostly how it looks. But I swear, I’d forgotten she was even here.”

She ceased struggling with the door latch. “And that’s supposed to make me think better of you?”

“No.” He sighed. “It’s supposed to make you think better of you. That’s all I meant. To make you feel better.”

Amazing, then, how with that one remark, he made a mortifying situation thirteen times worse.

“I see. Normally you reserve the insincere compliments for your lovers. But you thought to take on a charity case.” He started to reply, but she cut him off. She glanced up at the loft. “Who is she?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it matter?” She wrenched the door open. “Good Lord. Are women so interchangeable and faceless to you? You just . . . lose track of them under the bed cushions, like pennies? I can’t believe I—”

A hot tear spilled down her cheek. She hated that tear. Hated that he’d seen it. A man like this wasn’t worth weeping over. It was just . . . for that moment by the fire, after years of being overlooked, she’d finally felt noticed.

Appreciated.

Wanted.

And it had all been a lie. A ridiculous, laughable joke.

He pulled on his greatcoat. “Let me see you home, at least.”

“Stay back. Don’t come near me, or my sister.” She held him off with a hand as she backed through the door. “You are the most deceitful, horrid, shameless, contemptible man I have ever had the displeasure to know. How do you sleep at night?”

His reply came just as she banged the door closed.

“I don’t.”

 

 

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