Page 41 of The Dueling Duchess

He’d been employing a new method with the beautiful woman—ignoring her. And it seemed to be working because here she was, coming to him.

Because she wants one of her trunks.

Oh, he didn’t believe that excuse for a minute. He’d seen the way she’d been looking at him—with interest rather than derision—since their tête-à-tête that night.

But his interest in her company today was not all for frivolous pleasure.

He’d been serious about her helping with the caravans. He’d seen Cecile drive the caravan and had to admit she was better at it than he was. In fact, all the women in Farnham’s Fantastical Female Fayre could pretty much do anything men could do and often better.

It was quite humbling.

As an only son with five sisters, he’d grown up believing women desperately needed his help. Now he was beginning to question that belief. Indeed, he was starting to wonder if his sisters might not have been indulging him. Indeed, perhaps they’d even been manipulating him!

A shocking thought.

Not only was Cecile self-sufficient, but she also wasn’t a dawdler. When she said she was going to fetch her cloak, that’s all she did—not change her gown, tidy her hair, or whatever it was his sisters did that took hours.

Instead, she came striding down the stairs only moments later.

“So, now that you’ve been back in France for a little over a week, how does it feel?” Guy asked as they set out at a decent clip. He didn’t even need to shorten his stride because Cecile was a tall woman, easily five foot eight, and did not have a mincing step.

“It’s ironic that I waited over twenty years to return, only for peace to unravel the very day I set foot on French soil.”

“Yes,” Guy said, in an exaggerated, musing tone. “I was wondering about that connection.”

She laughed, the sound both pleasing and rare. She was, by and large, a serious woman who didn’t spend lots of time chatting and socializing with her coworkers. Or at least she didn’t with him.

Most of the other people who worked at Farnham’s hung about together after their shows and rehearsals. But Cecile kept to herself.

Or who knew? Maybe she had a lover she went to see?

Guy found that he didn’t care for that thought at all.

“I never thought I would come back here,” she said.

Before he could ask why, she turned to him and said, “You think Napoleon’s escape from Elba will lead to war?”

“I didn’t at first,” he admitted. “But the fact that he seems to be drawing soldiers to him like flies to honey makes me realize just how little we English understand this country.”

“I’m not sure the French people understand it, themselves.”

“You know,” he said, “you don’t need to wait for Barnabas to decide to go home before you do.”

“I’m not so terrified yet. Besides, I can always blend in. What about you—and Sin? Aren’t you worried about being caught and exposed for who you really are?”

“I notice you don’t mention Smithy?”

“That man could probably blend in better than I could. His French is impeccable and he has a surprising ability to . . . disappear.”

“Doesn’t he, though? I asked him to teach me how to do it and he just laughed.”

Cecile laughed, too.

“What?” he demanded.

“You would have as much luck blending in as a peacock.”

He gave her a mock scandalized look.