“You must have Morocco bindings, of course. It’s the best. Gold leaf embossing for the title and the spine. Do you have a favorite color?”
“Favorite color?” She was lost in his dark, inquisitive stare. “I . . . I like brown.”
“Brown?” he scoffed. “That’s too commonplace.”
“If you say so.” Pauline ran a loving touch over the scrap of fawn-colored leather she’d admired the other day. Just as butter soft as it appeared, but wholly impractical. She tried to focus her attention to the samples of Morocco he’d suggested.
“I should think red,” she decided. “Red, for all of them.” She lifted a scrap of supple crimson kidskin. “Red is the best color for naughty books, don’t you think?”
“Indubitably.”
“And people will know at a glance they came from my library. It will be a good advertisement.”
“Red it is, then. With marbled endpapers and gold leaf. Write that down, Snidling.”
The shopkeeper scribbled greedily in the margins. Pauline could tell he was already tallying up the outrageous profits he’d turn on this one order alone.
“May I view the list?” the duke said.
“But of course, your grace.” Snidling turned the ledger so the duke might view the page.
Griff ran his finger down the list, nodding with approval.
Then he grasped the page and ripped it from the ledger. “Thank you,” he said, folding the paper in two and creasing it smartly. “This will prove helpful when we place the order with your competitor.”
The shopkeeper flashed a nervous smile. “Your grace, I don’t understand.”
“Really? Don’t you? Then permit me to make it clear.” He approached the man until the difference between their heights was evident. “Perhaps Miss Simms accepts your measly, insulting apologies. I do not.”
“B-But, your grace—”
“I would offer you a farewell, but I don’t bother with insincerity. I hope you fare very ill indeed.”
Pauline wanted to cheer and applaud. Kiss him, in full view of everyone. Or at least stand there and gloat a few moments longer.
But Griff was eager to leave.
He ushered her out the door. “Don’t worry. We’ll find another shop.”
“We don’t have to do that right now.”
“Yes, we do,” he replied. “I sent the coach around the corner to wait. Do you mind walking?”
“Not at all.”
He barely paused to gain her agreement before storming down the sidewalk at a terror of a pace. His boots hit the pavement with crisp reports, and his gloves flapped comically in his grip. Pauline had to dash to keep up with him.
“Sorry.” When he noted her struggles, he slowed his pace. “I’m angry at the moment.”
“Thank you for being angry. And for what you just did. The way you handled him was marvelous.”
He stared into the distance and snapped his gloves against his thigh.
“Griff, I’m going to work so hard for you the rest of this week,” she promised. “Starting with Vauxhall tonight. I’ll be the best, most comprehensive failure you could imagine.”
He made a dismissive wave, brushing off her vows.
“No, I mean it. Truly. That was . . .” There was no other way to say it. “It was the best thing anyone ever did for me.”
He stopped, then turned to her. “And that, Simms, makes me angriest of all.”
The fiery look in his eyes . . . it undid her. She knew that look. It mirrored the fast-blooming vine of devotion and rage that grew inside her whenever Daniela was harmed. She knew it well—the pure, unreasoned fury at a world that would allow such things to happen, coupled with the frustration that she was powerless to prevent it from occurring again.
Griff felt that same frustration right now. On her behalf. And he wasn’t even bothering to hide it.
If she’d harbored any hope of not falling in love with the man, it vanished that instant. It was only a matter of time. She would love him before the week was out, and it would be gloriously terrible, wonderfully hopeless.
Her heart was now a coin with two sides—dread and joy—and it seemed to flip back and forth with every racing beat.
“Miss Simms?”
At the sudden address, Pauline startled.
“Why, it is you.” Lady Haughfell appeared on the pavement before them. “And your grace. What a pleasant surprise. We’ve just come from your house.”
“Is that so?” Griff replied.
“Yes, we came hoping to make a social call and further our acquaintance with dear Miss Simms. We do so long to hear more about her and her people. Our copy of Debrett’s was curiously of little help.”
Pauline didn’t miss the implication in Lady Haughfell’s words. You’re not one of us. I know it, and I mean to learn the truth.
“We were out,” Griff said.
“Obviously,” the lady replied.
“My apologies for the inconvenience,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you will be so good as to call another day.”
“Yes, yes. And allow me to express my deepest concern for the duchess’s health and my best wishes for her speedy recovery.”
“What?” His voice changed instantly.
Lady Haughfell arched a brow. “Were you unaware? The butler informed us. Your mother has taken gravely ill.”
Chapter Fifteen
Griff couldn’t get home fast enough.
The carriage was too far away, the traffic too congested. Time dallied in a most impertinent way.
Pauline tried to mollify him. “She’s fine, I’m sure. Perhaps she merely said she was ill so she wouldn’t have to entertain the Awfuls.”
He nodded, hoping she was correct. Still, he could not rest easy until he’d confirmed it with his own eyes.
When they reached Halford House, he took the stairs two at a time and stormed down the corridor to the duchess’s suite. He flung open the door and saw her lying in the center of her bed, eyes closed and hands clasped atop the bedcovering.
Motionless.
His veins became ice floes. This couldn’t happen. Not yet. He knew she was getting older and that inevitably her health would fail. But she was still so strong-willed, so alive. She couldn’t do this to him now.
He wasn’t ready to be alone.
“Mother?” When she gave no answer, a knot stuck in his throat. “Mother.”
At last her eyes opened, with an innocent flutter of lashes. Her voice was weak. “Griffin? Is that you, my dear boy?”