Page 56 of The Dueling Duchess

Sin’s stern features softened at the mention of his wife. “She is taking to her new life surprisingly well.” He gave an almost shy smile. “Well, it’s not so surprising given the fact she is a born fighter.”

Guy chuckled at his friend’s obvious pride. Who would have believed the serious, proper Duke of Staunton—the man everyone called Lord Flawless for both his appearance and impeccable behavior—would have fallen in love with a female pugilist? And then married her.

“Is she ready for the Season?” Guy asked, not wanting to think about how he might have been happily married to Cecile—had he been braver.

“She says she is—so does my aunt Julia. The two of them get on so well, I sometimes feel as if I am the one to have married into their family.”

Guy could tell that thrilled his friend.

“You are going to Trentham’s ball next week?” Guy asked.

The Countess of Trentham’s ball was an annual event that signaled the beginning of the Season proper, although there had been ‘lesser’ functions for weeks. Invitations to the gala were highly prized. Guy had been shocked to discover he’d received one this year—addressed to Mr. Gaius Darlington, which meant Lady Trentham had meant to send it to him.

“Yes, that will be her first big function.” Sin paused. “Are you—”

“No. I already sent my regrets.”

“You know that most people don’t think the less of you for what happened, Guy.”

“That doesn’t mean they won’t stare at me like a novelty if I were foolish enough to show my face. Can you imagine the scene? Me appearing at the same ball where the current Duke of Fairhurst is dancing with his betrothed—my former fiancée?” He laughed. “No, I think it would be best to avoid that sort of farce.”

“I do hope you’ll make an exception for our first ball,” Sin said. “Marianne and my aunt have been plotting and planning, and you should get your invitation soon. It would make both of us happy to see you.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Guy said, pleased when his little white lie made his friend smile.

“I think you might be surprised how many people are happy to see you for you—not because you are a figure of speculation. Who knows? It might be the beginning of a new life for you.”

“No, your ball will be the only one I attend this year. But perhaps in a few years, once the dust has settled, I will accept an invitation or two.”

Although by that time, Guy doubted he’d be receiving invitations.

No, by that time, he hoped to be so far beyond the pale that he’d receive the cut direct from just about everyone he knew, with the exception of Sin and Elliot.

* * *

“Are you ready, Miss Tremblay?”

“Yes, send the next person in.” Cecile forced herself to smile at Richie, the young stagehand who was keeping an eye on the three dozen women who’d shown up today to interview for the position. It was only the third day of interviewing, and already she’d spoken to over forty applicants.

Some of the women might have done in a pinch, but nobody stood out.

Because her new employee wouldn’t just train with pistols but would also serve as her new stage assistant, part of each interview was to hold a playing card while Cecile shot it out of the applicant’s hand. At least a third of the women declined to participate and left at that point.

And of those who stayed, another three-quarters screamed even louder than Gerry.

She sighed, shuffled the papers on her makeshift desk—two sawhorses and a plank of wood—and looked up when the stage door opened.

Gaius Darlington, the Duke—no, just Gaius, now—stood in the doorway, filling it as if he were a second, more attractive door.

“Hello, darling,” he said.

Guy might have lost a dukedom and been publicly jilted by the second richest woman in England, but he wore the same irresistible smile that charmed birds from the trees, and his whisky-colored eyes sparkled with good humor.

And sensuality.

Cecile scrambled to her feet as he sauntered toward her, his big body garbed in a criminally well-fitted black clawhammer coat and skintight fawn pantaloons whose fabric was stretched to within an inch of its life to cover his powerful thighs.

How dare he look like a god while she resembled a frazzled washerwoman with the sleeves of her old gray gown rolled up and her hair curling like corkscrews from humidity and exertion!