Page 37 of The Dueling Duchess

“Yes, but the great majority were about me.”

“That’s hardly my fault!”

He chuckled. “Fine, fine. So, what do you want to know about me?” He allowed his eyelids to droop low. “Although I should point out that some things are better demonstrated than talked about.”

As Guy had hoped, she laughed at his ridiculous boast, and the sound was more delicious than the finest champagne.

“You are relentless,” she said when she’d stopped laughing. “Tell me how you came to be called the Darling.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you so . . . frenetic in your amours?”

“I’m not—”

She made a rude but expressive pffft sound. “Don’t try to deny it; I can see it for myself in the stories about you. You pursue women with a single-mindedness that is frenetic. Tell me the truth, Guy.”

Guy felt a pleasing tingle in his balls at the sound of his pet name on her tongue. He loved the way she pronounced it: Ghee. Nobody else had ever called him that.

True, now that he was in France, everyone pronounced it that way, but none with the same inflection as Cecile. Almost as if she was challenging him to something when she said it.

“You can trust me,” she added, mistaking his hesitation for reticence. “I won’t sell your story to a newspaper man. You say you want to know things about me; prove yourself worthy of my confidences and tell me what makes you the way you are.”

Guy opened his mouth to say he didn’t want to know anything badly enough to spill his guts out before her, but then decided that wasn’t true. What did it matter if he told her the truth? It might be shameful and even a bit sordid, but it wasn’t a great secret, after all.

* * *

Cecile ignored the voice that told her to go up to her room—to get as far away from Guy as she could. He’d behaved himself just as he’d promised. Where was the harm in enjoying some wine and conversation with an interesting man?

I’ll remind you of that, later, the annoying voice piped up.

“This isn’t a very interesting story, you know,” he said. “That’s the main reason I hesitate to tell it.”

“I’m listening.”

“There is a tradition in my family—not a noble one, so perhaps I should call it more of a curse—that the oldest sons always marry for money. Not because they wish to, but because the dukedom is like an unquenchable thirst—there is an incessant need for money, money, and more money.”

For once, there was no hint of a smile on his face. And he made no effort to charm, his attention on the wineglass on the table, which he turned in restless circles.

“It’s possible the curse might have bypassed me,” he said. For a long moment he just played with his wineglass. But then he glanced up. “You see, my grandfather, the current duke, married one of the greatest heiresses of her generation. For many years the dukedom was healthy and robust.” A nerve in his jaw jumped and he leaned back in his chair and heaved a sigh, his broad, powerful chest flexing beneath his worn coat.

“My grandfather had three sons. The eldest showed every sign of following in his father’s footsteps—which meant he would have been a responsible and diligent caretaker for the dukedom.” His lips curved into a small, unhappy smile as he looked up. “But he died before his twentieth birthday and the next son to inherit was—” He laughed, but the sound held no amusement. “Suffice it to say that my uncle Henry would have been a disastrous duke. Fortunately for the dukedom, he killed a man in a duel—and not just any man, but a peer. My grandfather had to get him out of the country. The plan was to let the scandal settle for a few years and then bring him back.”

“How could such a thing ever settle?”

“Money, my dear.” He shrugged. “In any event, that never happened. Uncle Henry went a lot of places. In fact, he enjoyed his banishment so much that when my grandfather sent for him five years later, he refused to come home. The next time my grandfather sent a man to bring him home rather than just sending a letter. That’s when he discovered that my uncle had simply disappeared. Over the decade that followed, my grandfather sent probably a dozen inquiries. Finally, about eighteen years ago, one of his agents returned with an answer: My uncle had died—ironically—in a duel.”

“So, your father was next in line?”

“Yes.”

“How old were you?”

He took a sip of wine and turned his attention back to the table. “I was fourteen when I learned that my life wasn’t going to be my own.” He pulled a face. “I know that sounds melodramatic and self-pitying.”

“You didn’t want to become a duke?” she asked, allowing her amazement—and no small amount of disbelief—to show in her tone.

“Lord no! Up until that time I’d hoped my father would purchase a commission for me and I could join the army. That became impossible after learning of my uncle’s death. To be honest, my father wasn’t much better for the dukedom than my uncle Henry would have been—maybe he was even worse. Who knows? I won’t go into the gory details, but he accumulated a great deal of debt. A whopping, crushing, mind-numbing amount of debt, to be honest.”