Page 91 of The Dueling Duchess

And there was also Cat, now, which brought the number of people occupying the house up to an even dozen when you added Cecile in.

While it was a huge old shack, Guy sometimes felt as if they were all living on top of each other.

Because I’m spoiled—at least that’s what she would say.

That was probably true enough. He’d been accustomed not only to an enormous suite of rooms at each of the ducal residences, but he’d also had dozens of other rooms that few people entered except Guy, his sisters, and his mother.

Cecile had the only suite of rooms in the house, all the others having been carved into smaller accommodations and storage for theatrical items too valuable to leave next door.

The book room, by far the nicest of the common areas, was never empty, either filled with Fayre employees who were all allowed to use it, or visitors waiting for tenants, or tenants using one of the two desks to write letters.

In other words, the only place Guy could be assured of privacy was in his tiny cupboard of a room. Even that wasn’t entirely safe as people were always knocking on his door. People like Cecile.

Cecile.

Guy growled just thinking the name. The wind whistled down the narrow street, but Guy hardly noticed the cold as he recalled the proprietary manner in which Whitfield had held Cecile’s hand.

And kissed her.

Guy had always been a mild mannered, almost placid man. He’d been friendly with all the social cliques at school, able to move easily between the divisions that grew up between young boys who were jockeying for power.

And yet in Cecile’s sitting room he’d been almost floored by his desire to kill Whitfield. The sensation had been violent, like an influenza Guy had once suffered. His body had burned, his skin on fire, his head so hot it felt as if it might split apart, and it had been difficult to suck air into his lungs—not to mention the strange crackling noise in his head, as if a blaze was burning.

Whitfield had been touching his female.

No, not yours—you gave her up, Guy. Or have you forgotten?

No! He bloody well hadn’t forgotten, which only made what he was feeling worse. All of this was happening because he had thrown her away. He’d thrown away what they’d had. In short, he’d thrown away love.

But how in the world could he have known that? At the time they’d gone their separate ways, he’d merely felt vaguely uneasy, as if he’d just lost something valuable.

Not until several days, perhaps a few weeks, had passed and he’d felt more and more . . . anxious had he comprehended what he’d done. He’d not only missed her dreadfully, but he’d been utterly uninterested in new lovers. He’d not gone more than a week or so without a lover in decades!

Initially he’d believed lack of sexual intercourse might be the source of his malaise, so he’d accepted one of the blatant invitations he received daily and had gone to visit a woman he’d not been with in years. Dorothea Maxwell was ten years his senior and had been one of his few long-term—well, three months—lovers back when he’d still engaged in more lengthy affairs.

It had been Doro who’d cleared up the mystery for him. At the time of their discussion, they’d been lying in her bed and Guy had just put in one of the least impressive performances of his life. Not catastrophic, mind, but damned close.

“Is this why we stopped seeing one another, Doro? Because I was so useless?” he’d teased, but only half jesting.

“No, darling, we stopped because you’re terrified of becoming attached,” she’d said without hesitation. “And don’t bother arguing with me,” she’d added when he’d opened his mouth to do just that.

“What is it, Guy?” Doro had teased, not unkindly. “Has some woman finally stolen your heart?”

Guy knew he was an idiot because it wasn’t until that exact moment that he’d truly understood what had happened to him.

He had fallen in love.

Doro had looked almost as stunned as he had, easily reading his expression. “Lord, who’s the lucky woman, Guy?”

He’d merely shaken off her question with a lighthearted jest, not that she’d believed him. But the last thing he’d wanted to do was discuss one lover with another.

Besides, he didn’t need to discuss what he’d discovered that night; he now knew what had happened to him.

But if he’d believed knowing it and accepting it would make him feel any better, he’d been terribly wrong.

Because acknowledging that he loved Cecile hadn’t meant that he could have her.

No, last year he’d not been able to follow his heart due to a surfeit of family obligations.