“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.

Good heavens. How was it possible they’d made so little progress? Those doors to the garden were still some twenty yards away.

The man pumped Griff’s free arm vigorously. “Haven’t seen you for ages, old devil. Rumor had it you’d finally succumbed to the pox.” He shot a toothy smile in Pauline’s direction. “Who’s this?”

“Miss Simms, of Sussex. She’s in Town as my mother’s guest. Miss Simms, this is Mr. Frederick Martin.”

The gentleman bowed and gave Griff a conspiratorial wink. “Rather possessive of her, aren’t you?”

“She’s new in London. Just getting her feet.”

In the corner, the small orchestra struck up the first strains of a waltz.

“Surely you’ll allow me to steal her for one dance.” Martin extended a white-gloved hand and bowed over it. “Miss Simms, may I have the pleasure?”

Panic jumped in Pauline’s chest. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Halford won’t mind. When it comes to the ladies, he’s always generous.”

Pauline wasn’t sure what the man meant by that remark, but she was certain she didn’t like it.

“She’s not dancing with you.” The duke gave a heavy sigh. He sounded as though even he couldn’t believe the words he was about to speak. “She’s promised this dance to me.”

With that, he pulled her away from Mr. Frederick Martin and led her onto the dance floor.

Pauline tried not to let fear show on her face. “What? Wait. I don’t even know how to—”

“Just follow my lead. It’s the only way to make a quick escape.”

They waltzed their way around the ballroom. Because of the way his sleeve was caught on her gown, Griff had to hold his arm jutting out like a chicken wing. Without his hand on her back, he couldn’t lead her properly. Pauline was left to chase him across the dance floor in tiny, tiptoeing steps.

At last they reached the doors to the garden.

“I’ve never seen that waltz before,” an elderly matron remarked.

“A Hungarian variation, madam.” He held open the door for Pauline. “All the rage in Vienna.”

She couldn’t stop giggling as they stumbled into the garden. “That was resourceful. I’ll give you that.”

“Now give me my freedom,” he said. “Get me loose.”

“You act as though this is my fault. It’s your button. And it only snagged because you were too protective. If you’d allowed me to stumble a bit, we could have been on our way home by now.”

She reached between them with her free arm, but quickly realized the situation could only be adequately inspected if her fingers were bare.

She thrust her hand out to him. “My glove. Help me off with it.”

He loosed the ribbon garter at her elbow first, then set to work on the dozen tiny buttons stretching from her elbow to her wrist. It had taken ten minutes of struggling with fingers and teeth to close them earlier that evening.

He had them undone in ten seconds.

She lifted a brow. “Something tells me you’ve done this before.”

“A time or two.”

Or a thousand, she supposed.

He took her wrist, lifted her hand to his mouth, and caught the middle finger of her glove with his teeth. Then he slowly pulled.

The motion was wickedly sensual. Entrancing, even. When her hand slid free, she had no idea what to do with it.

“Oh. Yes.” She felt between them, exploring the place where his button met her bodice seam. It seemed hopelessly twisted, by touch. Her attempts to make a visual inspection were thwarted—her artificially inflated bosom kept getting in the way.

“I could see it better if not for this ridiculous corset,” she said.

“I’m good at removing those, too.”

Pauline threw him a chastening look but he didn’t catch it. He was too busy glazing her breasts with his heated stare.

“Ahem.”

“Sorry. I’m a man. We get distracted.”

She flushed, pleased despite all her attempts not to be. Men might be distractible by nature, but they were hardly ever distracted by her.

“Fortunately,” she said, “I still have a few powers of concentration left. You should remove your coat. Then you’d have both hands free. And if we still can’t work the button loose, I can wait here while you go in search of scissors or a blade.”

“I knew you were clever.”

He tried shrugging his free arm out of his coat but made little progress. It was so tightly fitted, and his arms weren’t lean.

“I need my valet for this.”

“Let me play valet. I am a servant, after all.”

He extended his wrist to her. “Hold the cuff.”

She obeyed, and they began their second absurd dance of the evening: The duke flailing his arm while she attempted to hold the sleeve steady—and make sure that his other cuff didn’t rip free and destroy her bodice. Every time he tugged on his sleeve, he just pulled Pauline forward. They ended up pivoting in a tight, useless circle. If their first waltz was a Hungarian variation, this one must hail from the moon.

He growled. “I should see about switching to a substandard tailor.”

“Perhaps if I tried to work it loose this way.”

Turning to face him as best she could, she slid her hand under his lapel, skimming over the silk front of his waistcoat and the firm wall of muscle beneath. Her heart stuttered when she brushed something that felt distressingly nipplelike—but she proceeded undaunted, working her hand up to his shoulder in an attempt to cleave the garment from his body.

“Lift your arm a bit.”

He flinched, as if ticklish.

“Be still. I’m good at this, remember?” By twisting her arm and wriggling her fingers, she managed to ease her fingers higher. “No one can reach as high as I can.”