“Oh, truly.” The man laughed. “I suppose the Queen of Sheba had other plans today. Now out, before I chase you off with the broom. This isn’t the place for you.”

She couldn’t move. His words threw her back to an old, hurtful memory. A book ripped from her white-knuckled hands. Pain splitting her head, from one ear to the other. Harsh words adding insult to the ringing in her ears.

That’s not for you, girl.

She wanted to retaliate, stand up to the shopkeeper—but how? She had nothing. No coin to spend. No cultured accent or knowledge to prove his assumptions wrong.

She was visited by a powerful, childish temptation to throw a book at the man, but that would be less dramatic than sugar—not to mention, unkind to the book.

So she simply turned and left, cheeks hot and fingers shaking.

Someday, she promised herself, I will own my own shop filled with lovely books. And it will be a home to me, and to Daniela, and to anyone else who needs it. No one will ever be turned away.

Outside, the Halford coach now resembled a four-layer cake, with boxes and parcels tied to every available surface.

The duchess waved at her from inside the carriage. “Come along, then.”

Pauline obeyed. She’d learned one thing from her quick survey inside the bookshop. She’d seen prices scribbled on the slates, and now she knew for certain . . .

One thousand pounds could purchase a great many books.

It was time to set aside all thoughts of kisses, flutterings, and haunted dukes. She’d been hired for one purpose—to be a disaster—and she simply couldn’t fail.

Chapter Nine

Four petticoats.

Pauline had never dreamed that one woman could wear four petticoats. All at once, no less.

As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she decided it would be more truthful to say the petticoats were wearing her. Her ivory silk skirts flared so dramatically, she didn’t know how she’d fit through the doorway. She’d consider herself lucky if she survived the evening without plowing down any dogs or small children.

God help her if she needed to relieve herself.

As Fleur placed the final touches on her hair, Pauline stared wistfully at a cup of tea. It was going to be a long, thirsty evening.

“Listen to me closely,” the duchess said. “There’s a great deal at stake tonight.”

Pauline nodded.

“If you want to win society’s admiration, everyone must see you. No hiding in the corners or ducking behind the potted palms.”

Note: Make bosom friends with potted palms.

“But though it’s imperative to be seen, it’s less important to be heard. Talk with the ladies, but not too much. That goes double for the gentlemen.”

Which part? The talking, or the not too much?

“Tonight, you’ll appear before the cream of London society. Let them see you as a lovely young lady with a certain freshness about her. A translucent petal, veiled in mystery. Someone they’re dying to claim they’ve met, but don’t truly know at all. Do you understand?”

Oh, yes. Clear as pitch.

In the corridor, her progress was slow. She wasn’t accustomed to walking in such heavy skirts, nor in heeled slippers. Her gait resembled that of a wobbly foal. Perhaps a wobbly foal drunk on cider mash.

As they approached the staircase, her slipper heel snagged on the fringe of the carpet, nearly sending her sprawling. Pauline caught herself on a side table and endured several seconds of sheer agony as a porcelain shepherdess wavered back and forth on her base, deciding whether or not to fall.

“Miss Simms.” Several paces ahead, the duchess whirled about to face her. “Have you forgotten how to walk?”

“I do know how to walk.” She growled at the smiling shepherdess. “Just not dressed in all this.”

“First, stand tall.”

Pauline obeyed, even though she felt like kicking off the nefarious shoes and shrinking back to her bedchamber.

“Stop thinking about your feet. Imagine there’s a string attached to your navel,” the duchess advised. “Now let it pull you forward.”

Amazing.

Simple as it sounded, the duchess’s suggestion worked. When Pauline concentrated on her center, all the other parts fell into place. Her feet moved one in front of the other, and her shoulders just naturally pulled back. She felt taller, more assured. Floating.

As they neared the grand staircase, she felt an anxious twist in her belly. Her mind’s eye supplied a vision—the silliest of fancies, no doubt—that the duke would be standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for them.

Waiting for her.

Oh, she hoped he would be there. She hoped he’d look up and see her—and then watch, enraptured, as she smoothly descended every last one of the two dozen steps like a silken mist. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, he’d take her hand and kiss it with those strong, passionate lips.

And he’d whisper just one hushed, reverent word:

Perfect.

It was a ridiculous fantasy. Completely absurd. And she wanted it to happen so desperately, she could scarcely breathe. After that encounter with the shopkeeper earlier, she could have used a fresh supply of confidence.

She reached the top of the staircase.

The duke wasn’t there at all. So he didn’t watch her stumbling down the two dozen stairs, and when she finally made her unceremonious landing, there were no kisses or compliments to be had.

They’d been waiting, stuffed into the coach—giant skirts and all—for a solid ten minutes before he finally joined them.

“Really, Griff,” the duchess said.

He didn’t apologize. “I had a letter to finish.”

He cast a quick glance at Pauline, then looked away.

So much for her fantasies of enrapturing him with her radiant beauty. In the darkness of the carriage, with her hair pulled back so severely and all these petticoats wadded about her, she probably looked like a barn mouse who’d drowned in a dish of meringue.

Two minutes after departing from Halford House, the carriage rolled to a halt again.

“Here we are,” the duchess said.

“Truly?” Pauline asked. “We might have walked.”

The duchess only gave her a look, but Pauline didn’t need it translated. Duchesses do not walk.

When they alighted from the carriage, they joined a small crowd of fashionable people spilling out the front door of the grand house.

“What’s happening?” she whispered to the duke, trying to see around the horde of well-dressed people. “Why are we standing here?”

“It’s a crush. We’re all waiting to enter the ballroom and be introduced by the majordomo.”

“He’s going to announce me by name?”

“Of course,” the duke replied.

“But . . . I’ve been serving ladies in Spindle Cove for the past several years. They all know my name. What if any of them are here tonight?”

“Simms is a common name. Sussex is a large place.”

“They have eyes as well as ears. What if someone recognizes me?”

“Then the truth would be out, the game would be up, and we’d all have a jolly laugh at my mother’s expense.” He straightened his coat. “But truly, as you are tonight? No one will recognize you.”

He sized her up with a leisurely, possessive sweep of dark eyes. And for the first time all evening, Pauline had an unhurried, well-lit look at him.

Good heavens.

They were well into the third day of their acquaintance. Could this truly be the first time she’d seen him freshly bathed, shaven, and properly dressed?

Apparently so. And one wouldn’t think basic grooming could add so much to his masculine allure, but it did. It did. His black tailcoat and bone-colored breeches fit him like skin, hugging every contour of his broad shoulders and muscled thighs. The little touches of elegance—his smooth-shaven jaw, tamed hair, and exquisite sculpture of a cravat—only served as contrast to the raw strength ranging beneath the refinement.

He looked better than ever. And he smelled . . . oh, he smelled like an arousing, fevered dream. As he drew closer, she breathed him in. That intoxicating musky cologne—his valet must use it when pressing his shirts—mingled with the scents of soap and clean male skin.

Most affecting of all was the glint of hunger in his gaze as he looked her over. As though he were a beast sizing up his prey. Judging the softest joint into which to sink his teeth.

Had he eaten anything today? she suddenly—absurdly—wondered. But she stopped herself from asking aloud. It seemed a very caretaking thing to inquire, and she wasn’t here to care for him. No matter how tempting it was.

Remember that, Pauline.

“How is your arm?” she took the chance to whisper. She couldn’t help caring that little bit.

“It’s fine. It was nothing.”

“But you were bleeding. I saw it.”

He dismissed her words with a brisk wave of his hand. “Never mind my arm, Simms. We need to talk about your breasts.”

Her cheeks went hot as coals. She looked around to make sure no one had overheard.

“They seem to have swollen to twice their proper size.” He appraised them frankly. “I should call for a doctor. That can’t be healthy.”

Pauline’s face suffused with heat. “You know very well it’s only a corset. I’m in perfect health.”

Except for these pesky flutterings all through her chest. And the sudden trouble breathing in his presence.

He clucked his tongue. “Your conduct had better be deplorable.”

No difficulty there.

When they at last entered the fine house, a waiting footman offered glasses of ratafia from a tray. Pauline revised her resolution not to imbibe any liquids this evening. She accepted one and downed a hasty swallow.

That hasty swallow kicked her in the ribs. Someone had liberally seasoned the punch with brandy.

“Cor,” she sputtered, choking on the strong aftertaste.

The room hushed. All through the entrance hall fashionably dressed people turned to stare.

“Corinthian,” the duchess filled in, craning her neck to stare at the ceiling above. “I do believe you’re right, Miss Simms. These columns are Corinthian.”

Conversation slowly returned to normal, but Pauline didn’t think anyone was fooled.

A well-dressed lady in middle years approached, flanked by two younger copies of herself. Daughters, obviously. All three women eyed the duke with rapacious interest before settling their keen gazes on Pauline.

“Your graces,” the matron said. “Such a delight to see you this evening. Pray tell, who is your charming new friend?”

The duchess answered. “Miss Simms, this is Lady Eugenia Haughfell and her daughters.”

Pauline curtsied. “Delighted, Lady Haughfell. Misses Haughfell.”

Just those few words, and she was given away. The two fashionable daughters tittered with laughter behind their fans. If they would laugh to her face, she could only imagine what they’d say when her back was turned.

“Wherever did you come from, Miss Simms?” their mother asked.

“Sussex, my lady.”

“And who are your people?”

“Her father owns land,” the duchess cut in. “Her parents have been unable to send her to Town, so I’ve invited her for a visit.”

“Oh, your grace.” Lady Haughfell twisted her lips at Pauline. “You do have such a heart for charity.”

She and her daughters drifted away on a wave of giggles, leaving Pauline to feel awash in their scorn.

“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.