Page 159 of The Dueling Duchess

“Before you make any decision at all, why not come and visit Château de La Fontaine and meet my family, which is your family, too. Not only are there all of us, but there are several of your own blood relatives who were most eager to meet you upon learning you were alive and well.”

She frowned. “But . . . I don’t have any family. Just one cousin here.”

“Perhaps that is true on your father’s side, but your mother—Vivienne Tremblay—has a large family.”

“How do you know about them?”

“Even before returning to Fontaine, I have helped Dumas search for you.” He gave her a slightly embarrassed look. “You see, the old duke’s estate was in a state of limbo until you could either be located or . . .”

“Declared dead,” she supplied.

He nodded. “In the course of our investigations I met your mother’s family, hoping they would have some word of you. But apparently the estrangement between your father and mother predates—”

“Estrangement? What estrangement? My mother is dead.”

The duke frowned and then leaned toward her and took her hand. “But no, my dear, your mother is very much alive—as is your younger sister, Sandrine.”

Chapter 29

Guy didn’t return home until almost two o’clock in the morning.

He’d walked for miles and miles struggling to come to terms with the cauldron of emotions inside him, telling himself to consider what was best for Cecile rather than what he wanted.

Yes, he wanted her. But she’d not once told him that she wanted to marry him or loved him or even that she had missed him. Indeed, she’d been most emphatic in her refusal to marry him.

It had been all Guy, pressing his suit from the moment he’d reentered her life.

Cecile had given him a job, a place to live, and had—probably without realizing it—helped him gather the tattered remnants of his dignity.

Guy knew most people would think performing in front of his erstwhile friends was yet another indignity, but, strangely, it hadn’t left him feeling ashamed.

The truth was that he’d been tested by life and had proven he could do what was necessary to feed and house himself. His sisters and mother were not materially worse off, thanks to his sale of Darlington Park, so he’d taken care of all his responsibilities.

He loved Cecile and had done, he now knew, almost from the beginning. But he could not force her to love him. She had to choose him.

And now . . .

Well, he had to laugh out loud at the irony that it was now she who had a family and a title with responsibilities.

Cecile was a duchess.

And he could not deny that he had refused to marry her when he’d been in a similar situation. How could he expect her to do otherwise? In fact, his present circumstances were considerably worse than hers had been. She’d at least been gainfully employed with a valuable skill. He was a man whose only possession was a farm on the edge of civilization—and he had no idea how one grew anything.

Guy owed her the same courtesy she’d given him over a year ago—that of leaving when their affair had run its natural course, which was apparently two days.

Thinking of her married to the handsome Frenchman he’d met earlier was like swallowing a pint of broken glass.

Was that how Cecile had felt when he’d become betrothed to Helen? As she wasn’t in love with him, he could only hope he’d not caused her that much pain.

He would be a hypocrite if he begged her to stay and marry him—or even begged her to go on as they’d planned, as lovers. She was a wealthy duchess. Whether she realized it yet or not, her life with the Fayre was already a thing of the past.

The house was dark and silent when he unlocked the door. Good. The last thing he wanted was to talk to—

“Guy?”

He yelped and spun around to peer into the book room; the door was open but no candles were burning.

“Good God, Cecile. You scared me half to death. What are you doing in the dark?”