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“What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn’t be back today.”

She blinked. “Frances came to tell me you wished to see me.”

He stared at her for a long moment, before giving a short, mirthless laugh. “The clever, little rascal. I think she played us both for fools, then.”

Emily stepped a little further into the room, still trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“I… I don’t understand. What are you doing?”

He gestured helplessly with the paintbrush. “Painting. I used to draw a little when I was young, and I rather foolishly thought that it would be easy. It is not easy.”

She gave a wry smile. “Drawing and painting are two very different skills. What is it meant to be, then? The picture, I mean.”

He eyed her for a long moment. “You, of course.”

She hadn’t expected that.

She cast a wide-eyed glance at him. “M-Me?”

“Yes. Aphrodite in Spectacles. It made rather an impression on me at the time.”

She swallowed thickly. “I… I don’t understand.”

Cassian carefully set the paint palette on top of the canvas and took a step towards her.

“I… I have tried to ignore my feelings and pretend that yours did not exist. You told me that you loved me, and it made me feel… it made me feel raw. Vulnerable andopen, the way I did after I lost Matthew. I always swore that I would never feel that way again. And Father, of course, used such feelings to his advantage, and I—” He broke off, his throat bobbing. He lifted a paint-streaked hand, combing his fingers through his hair. “I suppose I have become him, in the end,” he murmured.

Emily wrung her hands. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that. That awful man you described isnotwho you are. He just isn’t!”

Cassian breathed in, lifting his head and meeting her eyes. “I am not looking for pity, Emily. I’m not here for excuses, or to try and explain away my actions. This painting was meant to be a gesture, to show you that I care. It… It all seems rather childish now.” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “I suppose I’ve been trying to make myself hard and unyielding for so long that I don’t know what words to use.”

Emily took another step closer, unable to tear her eyes away from him. “I think perhaps you do know what words to use, Cassian,” she breathed. “In your heart, you know.”

He met her gaze, his eyes dark and hungry. Tentatively, Emily stepped up onto the platform. He was within reach now. If she wished, she could extend her hand and touch the firm planes of his chest, feel the warm skin beneath his thin shirt. Her fingersitchedto touch him.

He breathed out, long and slow, still holding her gaze. “I love you, Emily,” he confessed, the words clear and simple. “I can hide from the truth no longer. I swore to my brother that I would not give my heart away, but I think… I think that if he were alive now, he would not like what I have become. So, if I wish to honor his memory, I must choose a different path, and I think I would like to choose love. I choose you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her words failing her.

Cassian tilted his head to the side, that wolfish smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “Well? Are you still angry with me? Can you forgive me?”

She barked out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I find it exceptionally hard to be angry with you,Your Grace.”

His grin widened. Taking a step forward, he wound an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Heat and aching desire swept through her, making her heart pound faster and faster.

“Well, how about if Imadeyou angry, duchess?” he murmured, his eyes dark and hungry. “You’re most becoming when you are angry.”

She lifted a hand tentatively, just as she had the night she left, her fingertips trailing across his cheek.

“I don’t want to be angry with you right now,” she whispered.

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. The touch, gentle and chaste as it was, sent tingles down her arm. His hand rose, his fingers curling around her wrist, and he kissed her.

It was an odd, paint-scented kiss, sending desire prickling down her spine in the most thrilling way.

His arm tightened around her waist, his hand coming up to pull at the laces holding her gown together. He somehow managed to loosen them, and suddenly Emily was aware of a gust of cool air on her back, her dress gaping open.

She pulled away, gasping in surprise, her eyes flying open. However, she knocked into the easel. For a moment, the thing stood there, teetering. The tins of paint wobbled, already unsteady. Slowly, and then all at once, the tin fell first, a bold slash of colour rolling from top to bottom of the canvas. The mostly-empty tin clanged when it hit the ground, sending a spray of bright coloured paint across the floor.