Page 69 of The Dueling Duchess

In France, Guy hadn’t stood in front of enemies and former friends and earned his living being shot at, tormented by a raven, and nearly stabbed in the forehead.

That part about the stabbing was actually unfair. The only good thing about the wretched job was knowing both Blade and Cecile were among the most skilled people—male or female—in the entire country in their respective specialties.

He didn’t really mind the bullets and blades whizzing past his head, but he’d forgotten about the little flourishes both women had worked into their routines; flourishes calculated to get laughs from their audience, usually at the expense of their assistant.

Guy was getting laughs, all right. He was bringing down the bloody house.

“Ticket sales are up by eighteen percent already,” Cecile had told him after his first week on the job. “It is possible that you might actually earn your keep.”

Instead of being mortified that he was generating profits by serving as the butt of ton jokes, he’d actually been proud to know he was financially viable.

He needed to get his bloody head examined.

“Perhaps we should add your name to the marquee?” Cecile had mused. “Are there legal repercussions if I mention the former Duke of Fairhurst is appearing live and in person?”

When his jaw had dropped in horror, she’d merely laughed at him.

“Don’t worry, I am only jesting with you. For now, at least.”

Thankfully, Blade was moving toward the last portion of her routine.

Guy sighed through his smile, tolerated Angus plucking a prop purse from his coat pocket and then pecking Guy in the arse when he bent over to retrieve it, took his bows—three curtain calls tonight—and then breathed a sigh of relief when it was all over—until tomorrow night.

That relief lasted all of thirty seconds after escaping from the stage into the dressing room, where he was scraping off the face paint Cecile—oh, beg your pardon, Miss Tremblay—made him wear whenever he went on stage, when he heard the woman herself shouting his name.

“Guy! Guy! Come out here at once!” Her voice easily penetrated the flimsy dressing-room door. As always, he couldn’t help smirking at the way she pronounced his name in the French fashion, which sounded like Ghee.

But his amusement was short-lived when he stepped out of the dressing room to find her glaring at him.

“You bellowed, Mistress Tremblay?”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at his mocking words and tone. Guy couldn’t help allowing his gaze to travel the exotic scenery that was her magnificent body. She’d been the first act tonight but was also the mistress of ceremonies between the routines, so she still wore her costume, a wicked black satin gown that was so scrumptiously tight and cut so deliciously low it grazed her nipples. And she had lovely nipples. Guy knew that from firsthand—and mouth—experience. Thoughts of her body—naked and sweaty beneath his—woke him up nights with agonizing frequency.

“Dogs have pulled over the rubbish bin in the alley again. I thought you put bricks in it to keep it from tipping?”

“I did.”

“Well, put more!” she shouted, and then spun on one slippered foot and sashayed away.

Guy took a moment to enjoy the sight of her lush bottom swaying from side to side, until she disappeared from view. The roar of the all-male audience was deafening as she strode on stage to announce the final act of the night, which was Nora, one of the pugs.

Guy couldn’t blame the men for making fools of themselves over Cecile—he was doing it himself, wasn’t he?

He quickly stripped off his costume and dressed in the rough work clothing that he wore to carry out the endless menial tasks Cecile had found for him to do these past two weeks.

Out in the alley, Guy groaned when he saw the rubbish strewn all over, the bin on its side.

“Goddammit,” he muttered. How in the world had dogs managed to—

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move, and Guy’s head whipped around.

Yes, there was a dog, all right, but there was also a grimy little urchin digging through the various bits of rubbish, making an even larger mess.

“Oi!” Guy barked, striding toward the child—male or female, he couldn’t tell—and then stopping when the medium-sized cur beside the miniature vandal bared sizeable fangs and rumbled threateningly.

“You’d better stay back. He’ll bite you,” the urchin said mildly, the high voice either that of a female or a younger male.

“Are you the one who has been pushing this over every night?”