Or been redirected.
He could see himself opening that house for one reason only—and her name was Pauline.
As soon as the idea flickered through his skull, his mind pounced on it. He knew she had her dream of opening a bookshop in Spindle Cove. But perhaps she dreamed of that simply because she couldn’t conceive of more.
He could give her more.
She turned to him then, as though she could feel the force of these new, visceral intentions. Sidling her way through the crowded booth, she made her way to his side.
“Lord Delacre has asked me to dance,” she whispered. “I haven’t the faintest idea of the steps. If I time my stumble at just the right moment, I think I can take us both into the punch bowl. Will you give me a ten-pound bonus?”
He smiled despite himself. “Twenty.”
He watched her as she drifted away on Del’s arm, headed out to join the colorful whirl of dancers.
Oh, he couldn’t marry her. He couldn’t marry at all. But he could take care of her, see that she never struggled again. At the age of twenty-three, she’d worked enough for a lifetime. She shouldn’t have to toil anymore. She deserved to be spooned delicacies, pampered with the softest linens, waited on by a dozen maids, and bathed in deep copper tubs.
Delacre swung her through the dance. In that blush-pink gown, her light figure was a dream. He hoped she was enjoying herself, at least a little. In a more just world, she would have been given her own coming-out ball, with dozens of admirers queuing for her hand. Then again, he could admire her enough for dozens of men. He couldn’t take his eyes from her now.
The dancers turned a corner, and Griff caught a glimpse of her face.
Damn.
He recognized that expression she was wearing. He didn’t like it.
Before he’d even decided on a course, his feet were in motion. He had to get to her, immediately.
Something was wrong.
Chapter Seventeen
“How long have you known the duke?” Lord Delacre led her capably through the dance. He was so elegant a dancer, she scarcely had the opportunity to misstep.
“Only this week,” Pauline answered truthfully. “And you, my lord?”
“We were at Eton together. Close friends ever since.” He fixed her with an unreadable gaze. “We have a pact, you know.”
“A pact?”
“Yes. A pact, blood-sworn on our crossed blades. To protect one another in the face of all threats—treachery, betrayal . . .”
“Death?” Pauline finished.
“No, worse. Marriage.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “How old were you when you swore this pact?”
“Nineteen. But it never lapses, you know. It automatically renews.”
“I see.” She tried to look thoughtful. “Lord Delacre, if a duke wishes to avoid matrimony, isn’t he capable of protecting himself?”
He shook his head. “You really are new in London, aren’t you? A man like Halford needs a trusted friend to watch his back at all times. The ton is rife with fortune-hunters. And as fortune-hunting goes, his fortune is the elusive white tiger’s pelt. The greatest prize to be had. There are women in this town who’d stoop to poisoned darts and mantraps just to bag him.” He arched one brow and swept a playful look around the crowd.
His gaze returned to her. “You never know when they’ll strike.”
“So you think I’m one of those women,” Pauline concluded. “A fortune-hunter like the rest. My lord, let me assure you—I have no designs on the duke. No sharpened arrows or slingshot in my reticule. I possess no qualities that could remotely tempt a man like Halford into marriage.”
Where was that punch bowl anyway? She didn’t feel like explaining her bargain with Griff to Delacre, but acting it out might serve the same purpose. Surely he wouldn’t view her as a marital threat once he was drenched in arrack punch.
“You’re aware of Halford’s reputation, I hope,” Delacre said. “Fling your favors at him all you like, but he won’t marry you.”
“What makes you think I’d ‘fling my favors’ at anyone?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Simms,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t intend any such implication.”
Liar. He’d meant exactly what he’d said. As though he could look at her—without having any knowledge of her humble, common origins—and just know she was that sort of girl.
What was worse, he was right, to a point. In her youth, she hadn’t guarded her “favors” as closely as she should have. But Griff knew about that, and he never made her feel lesser for it.
Pauline looked about, growing desperate to end this. She wanted to get back to Griff.
Aha. There it was. A vast silver tub of punch, shaped like an open clamshell. As soon as they reached the far end of the dance floor, she’d ask Lord Delacre for some refreshment. They’d approach the bowl . . . he’d lean over to dip with the ladle . . .
And from there, just one good push would do the trick.
“Lord Delacre, your friend is in no danger from me.” Mentally, she added, You, on the other hand . . .
“I’d like to take you at your word, Miss Simms.” Delacre’s eyes wandered to a spot beyond her shoulder. “If only Halford himself weren’t about to prove you wrong.”
“What?”
“That’ll be enough.” Griff appeared out of nowhere and stopped them in the middle of the dance. “I’ll take it from here.”
Delacre resisted. “Oh, come along, Halford. Let us get through one dance. We’re having a conversation.”
Griff gripped his friend’s lapel, pulled him away from Pauline and lowered his voice to a growl. “I said, she’s mine.”
Delacre raised his hands. “Very well. She’s yours.”
With a little bow—and a wary look in Pauline’s direction—Delacre disappeared.
As Griff took her in his arms and resumed the dance, Pauline stared at him, amazed. “Why did you cut in? I was on the cusp of brilliant disaster.”
He shrugged. “I decided I didn’t care to watch you dive in the punch bowl. Someone worked too hard on that gown you’re wearing. And on the punch. Not to mention, there’s a breeze this evening. You might catch cold.”
Might catch cold?
“You do realize,” she whispered, “that for our bargain to work, sooner or later you will have to let me stumble.”
“Well, it won’t be tonight. Tonight, I’m here for you. And I will not let you fall.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I could see you were upset, Pauline.”