Page 31 of The Dueling Duchess

The first thing he was going to do was ingest a fortifying glass of the strongest spirits he could find. Perhaps even two glasses. Who knew that the addition of two hundred or so people could make the experience of being shot at so fraught?

“You did well tonight—better than you’ve done in rehearsal.”

Guy stopped and turned at the sound of Cecile’s unprecedented praise, his lips parted in shock.

Because they’d ridden in the same caravan together from Calais to Lille, they had spoken more in two days than in all the weeks before. But except for that brief conversation aboard the packet, their conversation had been only about impersonal matters—most especially the improbable rumor they’d heard two nights ago that Napoleon had escaped Elba and was gathering an army.

Once they’d reached Lille, she’d resumed her prior behavior, pretending that Guy didn’t actually exist.

Guy smirked at her. “Oh, are you actually speaking to me now, Princess?”

“You must be mistaking me for somebody else. I think the term you are searching for is ‘my queen.’ ”

He laughed.

“And I never stopped talking to you,” she said.

“No, you never stopped barking orders at me, but that’s not the same thing at all, sweetheart.”

She clucked her tongue. “Poor Mister Darling—so unused to encountering a female who doesn’t throw herself at his feet.”

“Actually, My Queen, if you’re going to throw yourself at my body, my feet would not be the first choice of appendage.”

She snorted and pushed past him, closing the distance between the stage door and dressing room in long, loose-limbed strides.

“Care to have dinner with me?” he called after her.

Her derisive laughter drifted back over her shoulder.

Guy wasn’t surprised by her rejection; why should anything change between them just because they were in a different country? She’d been rejecting his overtures of friendship since the very first day she’d shot at him. He watched her until she disappeared into the dressing room and then sighed. Lord, but he liked to watch her walk. Or stand. Or bark orders at him. And—yes—he even would put up with being shot at if he could look at her.

He’d really hoped the drive to Lille would have eased the barriers between them. They’d discussed—well, argued would probably be a better way to describe their exchanges—not just Bonaparte’s alleged escape from Elba, but books, plays, food, and a dozen other subjects. Yet never had they come close to talking about themselves.

Cecile was a fascinating woman, but she’d erected a barrier between them that Guy forced himself to respect, no matter how badly he wanted to scale her walls and discover the woman who lived behind them.

“So, how was your first evening on the stage?”

Guy turned at the sound of Sin’s voice. “For a moment I thought I might need to change my breeches after the show.”

Sin gave one of his rare laughs.

“Go ahead and laugh, my friend. It will be your turn to face the smoking end of her pistol tomorrow night, won’t it?”

“Don’t forget that I already volunteered to have knives thrown at my head and be mocked by a bird earlier tonight.”

“At least Blade doesn’t throw them at you while blindfolded.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Cecile’s show inspired her.”

Guy groaned. “Lord, I hope not, one blindfolded weapon-wielding woman seems like more than enough. I’d actually hoped to watch your show earlier but Mademoiselle Tremblay decided that she needed another of her countless trunks from the caravan, and no other lackey but me would do.”

“I’ve noticed she enjoys having you fetch and carry for her.”

Guy had noticed it, too. Actually, it was the only thing that made him think she might like him at least a little.

“Are you hungry?” Guy asked his friend. “The ostler at the inn said there was a café on Grand Place that stays open late to cater to theater people.”

Sin winced. “Lord, Guy—did you never practice your French when we were at school?”