Page 85 of The Dueling Duchess

Elliot grinned, the rare expression lightening his normally stern features. “Cecile’s still running you ragged, is she?”

“Ha! Did you think she would suddenly stop?”

“No. In fact—never mind.” Elliot’s pale face suddenly flushed.

Guy laughed bitterly. “You bet against me, didn’t you?”

He didn’t need to explain what he meant. The way Elliot was looking around the room—anywhere but at Guy—told him all he needed to know.

“So,” Guy said, sitting back and crossing his arms, “what are the odds?”

“Er, it depends which book—at White’s, they’re behind you. But at Brooks’s . . .” Elliot shrugged.

“My own club—er, ex-club—has lost faith in me?”

“Well, the members know you better there, don’t they?”

Guy scowled. “What are you saying, Elliot?”

“Just that everything that has happened to you is a lot to manage. And working for Cecile seems, er, both unnecessary and unwise for your peace of mind.”

“This job might make me the butt of jests and wagering, but it is the only way I stand a chance of getting her back, Elliot. I might be the ton fool right now, but at least I’m my own fool.”

Elliot looked as if he wanted to say something more, but then settled for nodding.

Guy scratched his jaw, the loud sound reminding him that he’d forgotten to shave that morning. Lord, how his mother and sisters—not to mention his valet—would scream or faint if they could see him now. No doubt they’d be able to see him tomorrow in Humphrey’s window. He could just picture the headline: Scruffy Scoundrel Seduces Siren Shootist . . .

“Do you know what year Cecile came to England?” Elliot asked.

“Er, no. But she mentioned once that she was fourteen.”

“How old is she now?”

Guy’s face heated. “I have no idea how old she is,” he admitted bluntly. “In fact, I know almost nothing of her life both up to those weeks in France and afterward.”

Elliot opened his mouth and then closed it.

“What is it?” Guy asked warily.

“Not to be indelicate, but the two of you spent solid days—and nights—together in a tiny caravan. Just what did you talk about?”

Guy was sorely tempted to quip something about how there wasn’t much talking, but that would have been a lie.

“We talked about Bonaparte, what he’d do, how France would react, whether we’d have difficulty getting to Calais, and a hundred other daily details.”

They had also speculated endlessly on what was transpiring between Elliot and Blade and Sin and Marianne, but he decided to keep that bit to himself.

“Whenever I tried to ask her anything personal, it led to an argument,” Guy admitted. “She told me she didn’t want to talk about the future or the past. She told me we had a few weeks to enjoy ourselves and then it would all be over, and we’d never see each other again.” He met Elliot’s gaze. “And so I never asked her any questions. Of course now I know that I should have persisted—I shouldn’t have behaved like such a coward. But I didn’t. From the first day to the last morning, I acted as if I were the one doing her a favor. I treated her like just another woman in a long line of many. And I couldn’t be any sorrier for my behavior than I am. What terrifies me is that there is nothing I can do to atone. That no amount of apologizing will make her forgive me.”

Guy could see by Elliot’s expression that the other man agreed with him.

Chapter 15

Cecile struggled to absorb the information one of her maids, Mary, had just delivered: that Nathan Whitfield was in the book room, waiting for her to receive him.

It was their usual night to meet, but Cecile had forgotten all about the man—something she’d never done before and which was unforgivably rude.

“Er, tell him I will receive him shortly—I will ring for you to bring him up when I am ready. No more than ten minutes.”