Page 89 of The Dueling Duchess

A man she’d forgotten about as she sat there thinking about Guy. Again.

She smiled at Nathan and said, “I am honored.”

“I want you all to myself, and I want to take care of you.”

Did Cecile want to be taken care of? There was some appeal, and yet—no. At least not by Nathan.

“I’m afraid my answer is no.”

He gave a wry chuckle, but she saw a flash of displeasure in his beautiful blue gaze. Nathan Whitfield did not like being denied. “I reserve the right to ask you again, my dear.”

Cecile opened her mouth to tell him this was probably a good time to end things between them, but a loud rapping on the door spared her that uncomfortable announcement.

Before she could say come in the door opened.

Guy stood on the threshold, his charming smile fixed in place but his warm brown eyes flat and hard.

“Hallo, Whitfield.”

The baron lounged back on the settee, still in possession of Cecile’s hand.

“Well, look at you, Darlington.” He grinned and gave Guy—who was dressed in his simple, old work clothing—a deliberate once-over.

Cecile allowed herself a good look at Guy, too, even though she could have drawn him from memory if she’d possessed any artistic skill.

Nathan would hate to hear it—and he would disbelieve it—but Guy, in his worn old buckskins and battered boots, emanated almost suffocating waves of masculinity. And that was just the lower half of his body. Even dressed for manual labor, he was far more mesmerizing than Nathan with his closely molded coat, skintight pantaloons, and spotless Hessians.

She wrenched her gaze away from Guy before she got distracted by the upper half.

“Dressed for a night at a bowsing ken, are you?” Nathan drawled.

Cecile frowned. “Bowsing ken?”

“It’s thieves’ cant for a public house,” Guy explained, flashing his teeth at Nathan. “Were you wanting to enjoy a pint or two at my local public house with me, old man? Or just making a statement on my attire.”

Nathan laughed.

Guy turned to Cecile. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Francine has accused Angus of—well, I’m sure you can guess. She is refusing to go on until the item in question is located and returned.”

Cecile gave him a hard look. “Why hasn’t—”

“Beryl is busy with an issue in the trap room or I would have taken the problem to her, of course.”

This ongoing war between Angus and several of her other employees was an almost nightly occurrence, so Cecile’s mediation skills were hardly necessary to soothe ruffled feathers—or fur—or whatever.

Guy’s motivation for interrupting her was painfully transparent.

Still, she wanted Nathan gone . . .

She turned to the handsome, wealthy young industrialist and smiled with regret. “I must see to this, Nathan.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before pulling him close and kissing him.

This was not the kiss of friends; tongues were involved, and the stroking of hands, or at least fingers.

In fact, just when it was apparent his lordship was preparing to lift her onto his lap, a throat cleared, and Cecile felt the movement of air and a looming presence.

She pulled away, taking care to ignore Guy, not easy to do when he was practically standing on top of them.

She lavished a smile on Nathan. “I shall look forward to next Wednesday,” she lied, and then wanted to kick herself. Oh, it was pleasant to tweak Guy, but now she had only protracted what would be a parting between her and Nathan.