Page 82 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

“How very odd of him,” said James. He saw Cecelia catch his tone. They exchanged a look of mingled humor and sympathy for his grandmother’s victim. “Might he have gone to his mother’s family?”

“She had none.”

“Everyone has a family, Grandmamma.” James was rather wishing that he did not.

Lady Wilton waved this aside. “The worst sort of riffraff.”

“What was her name?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then how do you know…?”

The old woman leaned forward and spoke softly, as if fearful of being overheard, and murmured, “Her people were Travelers.”

James frowned. He had heard of this rambling tribe. “They are rather like gypsies?”

“Quiet!” hissed his grandmother. “We donotwant that known!”

James’s pity for the new earl increased. If he did return to London, he was not going to have an easy time of it.

“I wonder if he might have gone to see Ferrington Hall?” Cecelia asked.

“To take a look at his inheritance?” said Lady Wilton. “But if he saw the place, why has he not come back to claim it? It’s a substantial estate.”

“I’ll send the agent up there to look around,” said James.

“And what else?” demanded the old woman. Impatience was an inadequate description of her tone.

“What do you suggest?” James asked her.

“I don’t know. You’re the head of the family now. Think of something!”

All the responses that occurred to him were ones his grandmother would not appreciate. Thankfully, the play was beginning, and he was able to drop the conversation to listen. But James wondered if this new earlhadreturned to America. Faced with Lady Wilton’s scorn, he would have been tempted to do so. Presumably the fellow had a life of some sort across the sea.

Laughter at an actor’s antics filled the theater, including a ripple from Cecelia at his side. James turned to gaze at her delicate profile. He could trace signs of strain in her face, though they would not be visible from other boxes. He hated to see it. Throughout their long association she had been the calm solver of problems, the one who found a way to untangle the worst snarls. She’d never turned away from a dispute. To see her shaken by this wretched excuse for a prince was dreadful.

She turned, noticed his gaze, and smiled. The trust in her blue eyes, the lovely curve of her lips, led James to a moment of stark clarity. She mattered more to him than anyone else in his life. There was no one he knew better, none he valued so much. He realized that he couldn’t imagine his life without Cecelia. He…requiredher. He had for years, all unaware. But what did she feel? She’d refused his proposal. When she was in trouble, she hadn’t turned to him. Had he ever been more than a burden to her? A void seemed to open in James’s chest at the question.

But she’d kissed him. She’d wanted to. She’d melted in his arms. She was not the sort of person to do that lightly. She must feel the bond that linked them.

Unsettled by the demanding intensity in James’s face, Cecelia turned away. She watched the actors go through their speeches and tried to ignore the audience all around, many of whom continued to stare at her rather than the drama. Lady Wilton’s lost earl had temporarily diverted her from her own predicament. But now she was again conscious of innumerable sharp eyes focused on her. Much of society attended the theater to socialize and gossip rather than follow any action on the stage, and Cecelia felt that tonight she was the play. She was pretending nonchalance, presenting a picture of ease while emotion roiled unpleasantly inside her. She felt that she was succeeding, but the strain was considerable.

Some people loved being the center of attention, craved it even. But she had found over the course of this unusual season that she did not. Her early excitement had given way to unease. And now she had learned that a reigning belle was the target of envy and malice as well as admiration. She hadn’t quite understood that before, from the outside. There were many in society avid to see her fall. And one, of course, who was trying to ensure it.

She’d misjudged Prince Karl so completely. Any shame she felt was for her own blindness. Had her head been turned by the flurry of social success? Had the thrill of James’s offer addled her wits? She’d had no experience of a man like the prince, but this was no excuse in her eyes. She’d made an idiotic mistake.

Did Prince Karl really expect that she would now make another? Yield to him under the threat of disgrace? Could he be so blind? No, he was punishing her for refusing his advances. He was a smug, vindictive blackguard.

Cecelia diverted herself by imagining that she could challenge Prince Karl to a duel. It would be so very satisfying to slap his smug face with a glove. Did anyone do that these days? It was a sad loss if not. Think of his surprise and chagrin.

She would accuse him of tarnishing her name with lies. Bid him name his seconds and give her an opportunity to redeem her honor. And then to pace off the steps in some misty dawn, to turn, and take a shot at him. She had never fired a pistol, but it didn’t look difficult. She couldn’t kill him, but surely she could wound him a bit, drain off some of his infuriating complacency?

But the prince would choose swords, Cecelia realized as she embroidered on this fantasy. Of course he would. He’d delighted in besting James, who knew how to handle a blade. Prince Karl would make her look like a clumsy fool on the dueling ground. He would thoroughly humiliate her. She could not…

Cecelia shook her head. She was pretending she could actually fight him. In fact, she could only sit here, as decoratively as possible, looking as if she didn’t care. It was no wonder that beleaguered ladies of the past had resorted to underhanded weapons, like poison.

“Now we are for it,” said Lady Wilton.

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