Page 11 of The Dueling Duchess

Naturally the thrice-blasted man had dimples in both cheeks.

Lord, but he was beautiful and perfect.

He might actually be too perfect. Indeed, he was that rare sort of man who rendered her breathless and giggly—two things she never was—and her body responded to him in a way that was distinctly distracting, heat pooling low in her belly and making her aware of parts of her body that she didn’t normally think about.

Cecile wrenched her gaze from the marquess’s smirking face and turned back to her friend. Although she felt as if she’d been standing there goggling for a lifetime, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.

Marianne wore a pleading look and the message in her eyes was clear: Please don’t ask any questions.

Cecile raised her eyebrows. Really? She really expected Cecile to say nothing?

Marianne mouthed the word please.

Cecile inhaled until it felt as if her chest would explode and then jerked a nod while giving Marianne a look that told her how much her friend would now owe her for going along with this charade.

And so instead of grabbing Marianne and shaking some answers from her, she forced a smile and asked in a voice that sounded shockingly normal, “Ah, two new employees?”

Marianne’s shoulders sagged slightly and she gestured to the duke. “Yes, this is John Sinclair.” She paused, and then added, “He, er, goes by the nickname Sin.”

Sin? Cecile had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. What delicious irony that one of the most virtuous men in England was calling himself Sin.

“Miss Tremblay,” the duke said, inclining his head.

Cecile nodded at him and turned to the marquess, who was wearing a smile that was surely one of God’s masterpieces. And the devilish lights dancing in his melting brown eyes said that he knew it, too.

“And this is Guy Darling,” Marianne said.

Cecile snorted. Guy Darling? Was that really the best they could come up with?

The marquess bowed. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Tremblay.”

She winced at his atrocious French accent.

Well, so much for his perfection. Thank God the man was flawed in some way.

Knowing that he wasn’t perfect made her feel a bit less like a yokel and more like herself.

“These must be the new carpenters Barnabas was talking about hiring?” Cecile asked, flashing Marianne a mocking look.

“Er, no. Mr. Sinclair will take Jack’s place on our upcoming tour,” Marianne said.

Cecile had no words for that announcement; surely she must be dreaming.

“Mr. Sinclair is taking Jack Nelson’s place as your trainer when we go on our tour of the Continent,” Cecile repeated carefully, not wanting to speak too loudly and wake herself up from this fascinating dream just yet.

“Yes, that is correct,” Marianne said.

Cecile nodded as if there was nothing at all out of the ordinary about a duke joining a circus and training a female boxer.

Cecile turned to the other man—the man whose face was too often in her fantasies. “And Mr. . . . Darling?”

“He will drive our caravan, care for the horses, and do other odd jobs.”

Cecile looked from man to man, expecting one of them to chuckle and confess that it was all a jest. A strange one, granted, but a jest, nonetheless. After all, aristocratic men often engaged in foolish wagers to alleviate the boredom of their privileged lives.

But nobody laughed.

Instead, Marianne turned to the Duke of Staunton, who scowled back at her.