Page 92 of The Dueling Duchess

Now he couldn’t follow his heart because the woman he loved obviously hated him. Or wanted to cause him pain, or both.

Not only that, but it appeared she’d moved on from him in every way and had already taken a new lover.

Perhaps she’d not fallen out of love with him at all; perhaps she’d never been in love to begin with. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, it had been Guy who’d been left wanting more when an affair ended?

Guy gritted his teeth. No, he couldn’t think about that. At least not now. He might consider it by the time his six months at the Fayre were over. But until then, he needed to keep his spirits up. And he also needed to find some way to get through to Cecile.

If you love her so much, then why aren’t you back at the house talking to her instead of hiding from her?

“Ha!” He startled himself with the bitter bark of laughter and then glanced around to see if he’d been overheard. But the chilly, windswept streets were mostly empty at this time of night and the only traffic was a shocking quantity of rats scurrying in the shadows.

As little as he wished to consider it, Guy was beginning to wonder if Cecile really was as adamant about not wanting him as she sounded. Had he ruined things between them forever? Or had there never been anything to ruin?

No, that latter thought could not be right. He’d felt something between them—some frisson that had been special. He was simply too hasty and hadn’t given her enough time. If their situations were reversed—if she’d tossed him aside to marry somebody else, like Whitfield, for example—he’d be beyond bitter.

Whitfield.

Guy’s hands clenched at the thought of the younger, richer, still titled man.

He’d heard rumors of Whitfield casting lures out to Cecile—he’d made it his business to keep up with matters at the Fayre, although most of the information he gleaned was general in nature—but he’d not believed that Cecile had succumbed to Whitfield. Tonight had been a shock, to say the least.

That kiss . . .

Good God. It was lucky he’d been too paralyzed with astonishment to jump on top of Whitfield. But he’d give no guarantees if the man had the nerve to show his face again next Wednesday.

The thought of Cecile with another man was more than he could bear. If he were wise, he’d move out of her house immediately. He’d get on the next ship leaving for Boston and put Cecile firmly in his past.

But he couldn’t.

A blast of wind made him realize that it had got cold since he’d begun his walk. He looked up and took in his surroundings, frowning at what he saw. Lord! He’d almost walked all the way to his house on Hanover Square.

No, not your house, Barry’s house.

Guy stared; was that a light in the library window? At this time of night and with no knocker on the door that he could see?

He’d just have a quick look . . .

The rumble of carriage wheels on cobbles drew his attention, and he paused in the middle of the street to watch as a wagon rolled out from the mews that served Fairhurst House. Two men sat on the bench seat, the wagon behind them piled high with—he squinted—furniture? Paintings? And something that looked suspiciously like the longcase clock from the library.

What the devil?

“You there!” Guy shouted, jogging toward the wagon. “Stop.”

The man driving whipped around, his eyes widened, and his hands snapped the reins before he even turned to his team. “Haw!” he yelled, and the two old nags leaped forward so quickly they almost dislodged the longcase clock from its precarious perch.

Guy ran after the wagon, shouting for the driver to stop. He knew he was behaving like a madman—it wasn’t his house, after all—but he chased the men for two streets, the wagon getting smaller and smaller as it pulled ahead.

Finally, he had to stop. He dropped his hands to his knees and fought to catch his breath.

Obviously, the men were thieves. Why did the servants—Jerrod, the butler—not do something? Surely, they couldn’t have slept through men hauling out clocks, furniture, and portraits?

What if the thieves had hurt the servants?

Grimly, Guy started back toward the house.

But just as he reached the corner, a carriage turned onto the street.

Guy gawked at the escutcheon on the side of the big black coach as it rumbled past him. It was the bloody Fairhurst traveling carriage—the newer family coach that was kept in the country, not in town!