“Haughfell, girl,” the duchess chided, pulling her aside. “Their family name is Haughfell.”
Pauline wrinkled her nose. “What did I say?”
“Lady Awful.”
“Oh.” Cringing, she searched the woman out in the crowd. Judging by her ladyship’s curled lip and the haughty stare she sent in her direction, Pauline wasn’t sure she’d misspoken.
“No, no,” the duke said. “To my ear it sounded more like Lady Offal. Either way, it was apt. The whole family is vile, and it’s high time someone said it to their faces.” He took the ratafia from Pauline’s hand and downed it in a single swallow. “Do you know, I just might enjoy this evening.”
His evident pleasure at her missteps didn’t sit as well with her as it should. Pauline tried to ignore the stab to her pride. Satisfying her employer was a good thing. This was what she’d signed on for—a practical girl’s fairy tale. No magical transformation. No sweeping romance. Just hard work, a job well done, and the shop of her dreams in reward.
So why did she keep hoping for something more?
Perhaps the ratafia was already muddling her brain.
Her discomfort only increased as they moved forward and she caught a glimpse of the elegant ballroom. The ceiling was supported by a great many columns—vast pillars of white, soaring high overhead. She’d never seen so many candles burning in one place.
“I’m not ready for this,” she whimpered.
“Of course you’re not,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”
He offered his arm, and she threaded her gloved hand through the crook of his elbow.
The majordomo announced their party from the head of the stair. “His Grace, the Duke of Halford. Her Grace, the Duchess of Halford. Miss Simms, of Sussex.”
Everyone in the crowded ballroom turned their way. Pauline felt countless curious eyes on her as they descended the short flight of stairs.
“What happens now?” she murmured through a tight smile.
“We make a casual circuit of the room,” he said. “Then we part ways for the rest of the evening. You’ll stay with my mother.”
“Where will you be?”
“Elsewhere.”
As they completed their circle of the ballroom, she briefly closed her eyes and thought of lining those apothecary shelves with lovely new books. Sharing dishes of blancmange with Daniela. Counting the duke’s one thousand pounds.
In her distraction, she failed to note a streak of melted wax on the floor. Her foot slid straight out from under her.
Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.
The duke’s arm snapped tight, drawing her close and steadying her on her feet. She could tell he’d made the motion without even thinking. Those quick reflexes again.
She recovered herself and they drew to a stop near the punch bowl. The duchess drifted away, striking up a conversation with a woman wearing a turban festooned with ostrich plumes. She motioned for Pauline to follow her.
“Your grace,” she whispered to Griff. “You really must release my arm now.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be noble now, of all times. Yes, it’s terrifying to face all these strangers. I’m sure the rest of the evening will be a study in humiliation. But it’s what I signed on for this week. Let me to it.”
“I . . . can’t.” He demonstrated, pulling away from her just a few inches until a taut cord of tension drew him back. “My button is caught.”
Pauline tried moving away from him but encountered the same resistance. Keeping one eye on the curious crowd, she slanted a look at the place where his sleeve met her side.
“Oh, no.”
The gown had been altered so hastily, the seamstresses must have missed a gap in the seam. When he’d steadied her just now, his cuff button snagged a loose thread. It was thoroughly tangled. No telling how many times it had twisted around.
“I’ll get loose,” he said smoothly, putting a punch cup in her free hand and filling it, just to give them both something to do. “Never fear. I’ve made a career of avoiding entanglements with women.”
He tried again, grasping his sleeve with his free hand and giving it a firm yank. He didn’t manage to free himself, but Pauline sensed the treacherous pop of a stitch giving way. Her punch sloshed from the silver cup back into the bowl.
“Don’t.” She clutched his arm, holding it still. “You’ll rip the whole seam. My gown will fall apart.”
He turned to her then, and gave her an intense, thoughtful look.
No. He wouldn’t actually do it.
Pauline glanced around the ballroom. She and the duke had been standing here in quiet, linked-arm conversation for a solid minute now, and people were noticing. Everyone was watching them—especially the ladies. Some looked envious, as though they wished to be the woman on Griff’s arm. Yet more of them wore possessive expressions—as though they’d once been the woman in his bed.
No matter which group they belonged to, she was certain of one thing. They’d love nothing more than to see her brought low.
She knew humiliation was the aim of the evening, but that would be . . .
“You wouldn’t,” she said.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “When I rip a woman’s clothes off, I almost always prefer to do it in private.” He tilted his head toward a set of doors across the ballroom. “We’ll make for the gardens and sort this out.”
Arm linked tight with Pauline’s, he began leading her back across the room they’d just traversed. However, this time they couldn’t make their way unimpeded. Other guests kept slowing their progress, drawing the duke aside for a word of greeting or two.
Or three or four or five.
Pauline limited herself to monosyllabic answers and polite, shy smiles, not wanting to prolong conversation. What was most maddening, the less she spoke or interacted, the more favorably the ladies and gentlemen seemed to respond.
“You really must cease that,” Griff said, drawing her away from a nattering pair of sisters.
“Cease what?”
“Being demure.”
“I’m just trying to be brief,” she replied.
“Yes, but that’s where you’ve gone wrong. There’s nothing like silence to ingratiate yourself with self-important people. It leaves them so much space to discuss themselves.”
“Halford!” A ruddy-faced gentleman appeared out of nowhere, stopping them in their tracks.