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There was noof courseabout it. Emily stared up at him, trying to read his face. There was nothing there, of course.

“Why?” she bit out.

It was the only word that came to mind, and it seemed to encompass all the questions she wanted to ask.

The duke looked away briefly. “It is generally assumed that Anon is a man. A member of the ton, too. People often assume that talent and high birth go hand in hand. This is naturally ludicrous. Due to the rather horrifying periods of inbreeding among the nobles in previous generations, I would argue that the exact opposite is true, and high birth is really only awarded to the truly stupid. In any case, Miss Belmont, I had to make a point. Obviously, nobody is going to believe that Titus Greaves is Anon. But what if I were to find a more convincing gentleman?”

She clenched her jaw, lifting her chin. “He could be the most convincing gentleman in the world. He can’t paint like Anon because nobody can. OnlyIcan.Iam Anon.”

Was she really saying such a thing? Emily knew she did not have the confidence of her older sisters, who seemed to breeze through life with quick wit and sheer determination, while she scurried after them. And here she was, looking this man in the eye and loudly admitting to her talent.

It’s him. He makes me act strangely.

She put the thought aside, concentrating on the duke’s response, which would surely come at any moment now.

He was looking down at her, faint amusement in his eyes.

“Indeed you are, Miss Belmont. And indeed youcouldprove that you are Anon. However, such a thing would force you to expose your identity before you are ready. Your successes are great, to be sure, but some of your paintings are not considered ladylike. Bloody garden shears, for instance. I believe one of your earlier works featured Medusa chasing down Perseus. I wonder how you intended that scene to end?”

She clenched her jaw. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying exactly what you know already, my dear. This is the reason you agreed to marry me—so that I would keep silent about your work. Anon as a man is bold, his work striking and thought-provoking, his talent evident. Anon as a woman is a rather shocking thing, disgusting and most unladylike. Talent becomes blind luck if Anon is a woman, and the work is cheapened. Critics will start to bore holes in your work, the spectators will stop coming. Women ought to be painting flowers and so on, don’t you know?”

Emily stayed quiet. He was right—she did know this already. Female painters and writers and poets always faced a barrage of challenges that male artists avoided. Her reputation, of course, would be ruined. Painting for enjoyment was one thing, but having her work displayed? Formoney? The scandal would be intense.

Of course, she’d dreamt of revealing her identity, of embracing the notoriety that would follow. She’d imagined how her life would change.

But then consequences would reveal themselves.

Can I really live on the fringes of Society? Can anybody?

Am I just making excuses? Am I just a coward?

She cleared her throat, putting the thoughts aside.

“What is your point?” she managed. “What are you trying to tell me?”

He grinned. “If you married me, if you were a duchess… well, people will forgive you anything. One is allowed to be eccentric if one is married to a duke. You’d be an incredibly wealthy woman, secure in her position. You could paint. You could reveal yourself as Anon. Yes, critics would attack you, but censure won’t affect a duchess the way it would a single woman who remains a simplemiss. You can be a genius, famous artist if you wish.”

Emily swallowed thickly. “I… I’m not a genius. And I don’t understand, why are you going to all this trouble to convincemeto marry you?”

There was a moment when she did not know whether he was going to respond or not.

At last, the duke heaved a sigh and glanced away. “The terms of my father’s will are very clear,” he began, an edge to his voice. “I must marry and produce an heir by my thirtieth birthday, or I forfeit everything. Hence the rush.”

She sucked in a breath. “And how old are you now?”

He met her gaze. “Nine-and-twenty and one month.”

Ah. Well, the man’s hurry to the altar made a great deal more sense, then.

Emily grimaced. Her father had been a good man, if an imperfect one. He’d loved his family, and while he’d had nothing much to leave them in the event of his death, she knew without a doubt that he would never have added any unpleasant conditions to their inheritance.

I don’t know much about the late duke, but I can’t imagine he was a very pleasant man.

This, however, added a new element to their arrangement. Emily had never envisioned sharing her bed with the man. After all, many marriages of convenience were bereft of any carnal desires. She’d always thought it a very sensible arrangement.

Now, however, she felt her cheeks heating, her thoughts going where she would rather they did not.