Page 162 of The Dueling Duchess

He decided to let her get the worst of it out, waiting until her sobbing turned to crying and finally sniffling before prying her arms from around him and tilting up her face.

“Sit back now—let’s see the damage,” he said, using his handkerchief to wipe away her tears.

Her blue eyes were anguished as she glared up at him. “Why?” she demanded.

Guy cleaned up her cheeks and dabbed at her nose clumsily before she snatched the handkerchief from his hand.

“Why?” she repeated.

“I have a property that needs my attention—it is an adult responsibility,” he added lamely, deserving her scathing look. “You’ll see me again, Cat. Perhaps in a year or two, when you’re tired of being a princess who lives in a castle in France, Cecile might send you to me for a visit. You can see how commoners live then—I’ll harness you up to a plow, make you gather eggs from beneath terrifyingly huge American hens, and force you to harvest cranberries from a bog.”

But she didn’t laugh; she just stared, her accusatory gaze making him feel like the world’s biggest villain.

“But why are you leaving?”

He sighed. “Because I must make my way in life, Cat. Working at the Fayre was just—well, it was just a stop in the road for me.”

“But why can’t you come with us to France? It’s a castle, Guy!” A smile flickered across her face at the wonderful thought, but it was quickly gone when she recalled she was supposed to be angry with him. “The duke said there are lots of rooms. You can have one of them. Me and George—”

Guy cleared his throat.

“I mean George and I will have a room. You won’t have to share with anyone.” She glanced around his cupboard of a bedroom. “You will have a bigger room with a bed that fits you—so your feet don’t hang off.” A single tear slid down her cheek when he didn’t answer, and it was far more painful than all that weeping. “Won’t you miss me if you go away?” she asked in the most pitiful voice imaginable.

Guy’s eyes burned and he tilted his head back to keep from blubbering like an eight-year-old. When he could look down again, she was still staring and waiting.

His relentless Cat.

“Cecile has a different life ahead of her, Cat—and I think you know that. It isn’t the life of a circus worker. She’s a duchess now. You know what that means.” He could see by her angry look that somebody had explained it to her. “She has responsibilities and isn’t just free to live wherever she wishes and do whatever she wants. As for me? Well, I’m a poor farmer—and I’m bloo—er, I’m very fortunate to have even that.”

He couldn’t explain to her about Gaston de La Fontaine and what marriage to him would mean to Cecile because she was simply too young to understand.

He also couldn’t speak of that because it made him violent and want to smash things.

“But I don’t want to go to live in a castle without you.”

“You’ll have Cecile and Helen and George.”

But she was inconsolable, and all Guy could do was hold her until she’d cried herself to exhaustion.

He kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Kitty-Cat,” he whispered. “I love you both and I hate to leave you, but it’s for the best.”

And it was. Even if it killed him.

George gave him a woeful look as Guy balanced Cat in his arms to open the door. After taking her to her room and tucking her into her bed, he went to find Helen.

She was in the kitchen with Blade, the two of them sipping tea. The atmosphere in the room felt . . . odd, like the undisturbed air in an ancient crypt, as if it had been a long, long time since any words had been spoken.

Guy couldn’t help smiling. All they needed to make it feel even quieter was Elliot’s presence.

“She cried herself to sleep,” Guy said to Helen. “I put her in her bed.”

Helen nodded while Blade and her bird just stared.

Guy waited for one of them to speak but neither seemed inclined, so he said, “I’m going to spend a few days with my mother and sisters before my ship departs. I was going to stop by here on my way out to say goodbye, but I think it just upsets Cat too much.”

“So, you’re going to leave without saying goodbye?” Helen demanded, her expression uncharacteristically . . . stern.

“Erm—”