Page 7 of The Dueling Duchess

And it was especially difficult to believe that she’d been the lover of Gaius Darlington, the man the scandal sheets called the Darling of the Ton.

The very same man that Cecile had read about and fantasized about—along with at least half the female population of England—for years.

As affairs went, it had begun perfectly.

They had both agreed from the start that they’d only look to each other for carnal pleasure.

There would be no confidences, no expectations, and no attachments.

Most importantly, they’d agreed that everything would end the moment they returned to England.

It had been easy, if not painless, to accept those limitations.

After all, Cecile was first and foremost a realist. And the reality of the situation was that Cecile was a circus employee, while Guy was a peer of the realm who had responsibilities to both his family and his dukedom. He would never be free to marry Cecile.

That, too, had been perfect because the last thing Cecile wanted was a man who would try to control and direct her actions or treat her like his possession—she’d already had her cousin Curtis show her just how well that sort of arrangement ended for a woman.

Right up to boarding the packet back to Dover, Guy had abided by their agreement.

Then—at the last minute—he had shown his true colors.

Cecile realized her jaw was clenched tight and forced herself to relax.

But even a year later, just thinking of their last morning together was enough to make her blood boil. Like powerful men all over the world, Guy had decided that he wanted to have his piece of pie—and then keep the rest of the pie, too. He’d offered her a carte blanche, wanting to set her up in an establishment somewhere convenient for him and keep her at his beck and call. In short, he’d wanted to make her into his own personal whore.

Meanwhile, Guy would go off and marry a young, nubile, respectable heiress who could rescue his family from penury and fill his nursery with babies.

Cecile was neither young nor respectable. She was a circus sharpshooter rapidly hurtling toward her fortieth year.

As for nubile?

Well, to be honest, she wasn’t exactly sure what that word meant, but she suspected it was something sexual. Although she’d spoken English almost exclusively since she was fourteen, she still thought in French whenever the English language—or English people—frustrated her.

Speaking of frustration . . . Why are you thinking of him again? Throw that newspaper away immediately and get back to work! the tyrant in her head ordered.

She growled and was about to obey when she paused.

Cecile had stopped reading the scandal sheets for months, not wanting to discover something painful about Guy. It was bad enough that the ton was atwitter about him finally seeking a wife and settling down.

But now, quite suddenly, she was angry at herself for giving up such a pleasure because of him.

“You are a coward who has allowed him to change you,” she accused.

Hearing the words out loud made her brave.

Without closing her ledger or lowering her quill, she opened the newspaper with a flick of her wrist, leafing through the sections until she reached the one she wanted.

Less than ten seconds later she was finding it difficult to breathe.

The words seemed to dance and caper in front of her, mocking her.

It had finally happened—what she’d feared and dreaded, the reason she’d stopped reading the damnable papers: the Darling of the Ton was betrothed.

Cecile heard a snap and looked down to see she’d broken her favorite quill. “Merde!”

That’s what came of thinking about Gaius Darlington; precious things got broken.

Why are you surprised? You knew this was going to happen. Why are you behaving like a schoolroom chit with her first infatuation?