Page 38 of The Dueling Duchess

Cecile heard the restrained fury beneath his wry tone.

“Because he had been managing the dukedom’s business, as well as his own properties—Darlington Park, a house in London, and a smaller estate in Yorkshire—my grandfather and I had no notion of the extent of the debt he’d accrued until after he died three years ago. We had to sell off everything that wasn’t entailed, but even that isn’t enough.”

His hand, which was resting on the table, had clenched into a fist.

Guy tracked her gaze and he stretched his fingers and smiled at her. “I don’t know why I can still be upset about something that has already happened. It is not only illogical but such a waste of time.”

Cecile knew the feeling; it was the same emotion she felt whenever she thought of her cousin Curtis.

* * *

“So what you are working up to saying is that you have to marry a wealthy woman?”

Guy took a sip of wine and considered her question. This conversation was more irksome than he would have imagined. Not until he’d begun talking did he realize just how bloody grim the story was. He had never articulated it to anyone before. His friends—and everyone who made up the ton—just knew without needing to be told.

But Cecile was not of the ton, and he could only imagine how grasping, shallow, and immoral his family and, indeed, his future plans, must appear to her.

He forced himself to look at her when he answered. “Yes, I have to marry a wealthy woman. An extremely wealthy woman.”

Guy couldn’t read the look in her eyes, but it made him feel itchy, anxious.

He shrugged. “But then that is hardly uncommon. With a great landed estate comes great responsibility.” He forced a chuckle. “I didn’t coin that phrase, by the way. Anyhow, your question was why am I so frenetic. Why do I take so many lovers? Why are they always widows or—so the papers claim—married women?” He couldn’t help smirking at the blush his words triggered. He leaned an elbow on the table and dropped his chin in his hand, bringing them closer.

“The newspaper stories about me aren’t all true, Cecile. One of the reasons I don’t read them is because it used to infuriate me to read the lies—about how I’d cuckolded this or that man. You want plain speaking? The truth is that I don’t bed married women.” He met her skeptical gaze and was goaded into adding, “At least not unless their husbands ask me to.”

Her jaw dropped.

“As to why I never take the same young woman driving in my phaeton more than twice or why I only waltz with married ladies? Because there is no point in getting to know young women or spend time with them. Because when I finally marry, it won’t be the sort of girl you’d find dancing at Almack’s. When I marry, I shan’t be able to wed a genteel heiress. No, I shall need to do what both my father and grandfather have done and marry outside my class. I shall need a monstrous amount of money—the sort of money I’ll only be able to find in the vulgar daughters of the merchant class, some poor girl who’d never get an invitation to an haut ton function. Somebody who will marry into my world and spend the rest of her life regretting it. Somebody who will always be an outsider—even to her own children once they are old enough to recognize exactly who she is. Somebody who will never belong no matter how hard she works to fit in. In fact, she will be looked down upon as too pushing if she tries too hard.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “If it sounds like I’m an expert on this, that is because I am. I grew to adulthood witnessing two miserable marriages. And soon I shall have my own. In fact, as we sit here talking, my grandfather is compiling his list of potential brides. With any luck I shall be betrothed by the end of the year. Foolishly, I had hoped for a few more years—until I was five and thirty—but I’ve no right to complain since I’ve managed to prolong my reckless youth for years longer than most of my cohort.”

He stopped and blinked, as if astounded by his emotional soliloquy.

Cecile was astounded, as well. And impressed. She’d suspected there was more beneath his beautiful veneer than fluff, and now she had proof that a passionate, troubled soul occupied that gorgeous body.

He stood and his chair made a jarring screech as he shoved it back. “Come,” he said abruptly. “Let me escort you to your room.”

Chapter 8

“Ah, there you are.”

Guy turned at the sound of Sin’s voice. He’d been watching from the wings as Blade and her raven rehearsed their routine, making Elliot the butt of their jesting.

Sin looked from Guy to Elliot and frowned. “I thought it was your honor to have knives thrown at your head this week—didn’t you two decide to alternate?”

“Er, we did—at first. But we finally decided to split up the routines. To specialize, as it were. From now on I’m working only for Cecile and he’s taking all Blade’s shows.”

Sin’s eyebrows shot up. “Hmm.”

Guy felt his face get red. He wanted to deny what the other man was thinking, but he and Sin had known each other since the cradle; his friend knew him better than he knew himself.

“We thought it was a good idea since you handle all the boxing,” he added.

Sin just stared.

For one agonizingly long, silent moment he thought his friend would demand the truth.

And the truth was that there must be something wrong with Guy. Because he wanted Cecile more than ever since the night they’d shared bread and cheese and a little of themselves, too.