Page 143 of The Dueling Duchess

Cecile took a moment to steady her breathing, stunned by how it all came flooding back to her—the terror, the helplessness.

“Because I was not of age, Curtis, as my nearest male relative would have me confined to an asylum if I did not agree to their terms. Martha told me it would be easy to convince a magistrate that I was not stable or fit to be a mother. It would be my word—the word of an émigré who spoke broken English and had no visible means of support—against Curtis and Martha’s, both pillars of their community. I would be accused of getting pregnant by some unknown man who then abandoned me. She said they would take away my baby when it was born, and I would never see it again.”

“Oh God, Cecile.”

She dragged the back of her hand over her eyes, furious to discover she’d been crying.

A snow-white handkerchief appeared in front of her blurry gaze, and she smiled. “Thank you.”

Once she’d dried her eyes and collected herself, she went on. “It was Martha who dictated the terms. I was to sign over everything in exchange for quarterly payments. The payments were contingent on my going to America and remaining there, where I could cause them no embarrassment.” She shrugged. “It was my only real choice. And so I signed.”

Guy held her hand tightly, the sympathy in his beautiful brown gaze almost making her fall apart.

Cecile covered her eyes with her free hand and pinched the bridge of her nose until it ached, the pain driving away the tears.

“I lived in Boston as Mrs. Tremblay, a war widow who’d left England to have her child and start a new life. But—but the baby came early, too early to survive.” She squeezed her temples in a viselike grip, but even that wouldn’t stop the tears.

Guy came to sit on the settee beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his big body pressed alongside hers.

He took his crumpled handkerchief from where it had fallen and dried her cheeks. “You’ve had a terrible time of it, haven’t you?” He kissed her hair, the feel of his soft lips against her scalp quite possibly the most comforting touch Cecile had ever experienced.

It was that simple touch that broke the iron control she’d struggled so hard to maintain.

Cecile sobbed—releasing the tears she’d been too afraid to cry all those years ago—and Guy held her and murmured soothing nothings until she’d cried herself out.

Finally, exhausted, she sat back and risked a look at him from beneath her damp lashes. “I’m a mess.”

He curled a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up. “No, you are one of the fortunate human beings who looks even lovelier when they weep. But no matter how lovely you are, I don’t want to see you sad, darling. Is your past with Blanchard—the baby—the reason you refuse to marry me?”

“That is most of it.”

“What is the rest?”

“I saw how it was tonight, Guy. You may no longer be the Duke of Fairhurst, but the beau monde still sees you as one of their own; if you want to go back, they will welcome you with open arms. But if you are married to me? Well, I will never fit into your world.”

“You seemed to do just fine this evening, sweetheart. I was lucky to get two dances with you.”

“That was an unusual event—and I was a novelty. Besides, that was Marianne and Sin. Who else would invite you and your circus performer wife to their house? And the truth is that I will continue to operate this business because it is how I make a living; I am a circus performer.”

“You don’t think you could be a farmer’s wife?” he asked with such hope in his eyes that she hated to disappoint him, but . . .

“I want to be with you,” she said, charmed by the flush her words evoked. “But I do not wish to return to America, Guy. As for marriage . . . well, perhaps in time. But—” She broke off, not wanting to confess her fears.

“But you are—justifiably—leery of giving yourself and everything you’ve worked for over to a man,” he said. “I understand. I really do. The solution is that we shall stay here and go on as we have been.”

“You could be happy with this life?”

He pulled her close and obliterated her wits with a lingering, thorough kiss, leaving her breathless when he pulled away.

“I already am happy with this life. You may not believe it, but I enjoy the work I do for you. My mother and no doubt the rest of my family want me to do something else, but the truth is, darling, none of those other jobs would suit me. So, yes, to answer your question. I could be happy with this life as long as you are in it. And I have to admit I’ve become quite attached to a certain little waif.”

Cecile gave a watery chuckle. “Yes, Cat would be devastated if you were to move all the way to America.”

“Then let’s say I’ll stay, shall we?”

She nodded.

“There is one thing I am still wondering about.”