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He downed his whiskey in one gulp and then handed the other glass to her. She sniffed it tentatively. Ladies did not drink whiskey, of course, and Emily wasn’t sure she’d ever tried the beverage.

“I believe that our enterprising Mr. Greaves was flirting with you,” Cassian murmured, leaning close enough for his chin to almost graze the top of her head.

Emily felt her heart fluttering in her chest. She bit back a smile, trying to control the tension building in her gut. She longed to lean towards him, to bury her nose in the soft skin at the side of his neck, to feel his thick arms around her.

“So what if he was?” she heard herself say, almost off-handedly. “I was enjoying the conversation. Perhaps I was going to ask him to dance. I assume that ladiescanask gentlemen to dance here?”

“They can,” Cassian responded, his voice a low growl. “Unfortunately for you, my dear, I don’t much like sharing.”

“Sharing?” She gave a short laugh. “Well, now, who asked you toshareme? Perhaps I don’t care to be fought over like a prize.”

“I am not sure that Titus Greaves would put up much of a fight,” Cassian muttered. “Are you going to drink that whiskey or not?”

She sniffed it and took a delicate sip. It tasted like fire, and not in a good way. If therecouldbe a good way.

She pulled a face, and tried not to notice the way Cassian chuckled at her.

“Mr. Greaves did not make me drink whiskey,” she muttered. “He was most obliging. I think he wanted to dance.”

“I imagine you know already what our dear Titus wanted from you,” he drawled. “And it was notdancing. At least, not the kind that is accepted in public.”

Emily suppressed a smile, trying to disguise how hard her heart hammered against her ribs.

“Come now, my dear,” Cassian rasped. “You’re far too clever not to have noticed. And he is something of a flirt.”

Heat rose to Emily’s cheeks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she responded stubbornly.

“The thing is,” Cassian said slowly, as if she hadn’t spoken, “the redoubtable Mr. Greaves wants exactly the same thing from you as I do, just less intensely. I rather fancy I’d win that particular battle.”

His eyes were boring holes into her, and Emily felt the heat climb up her chest, pressing down and lifting her at the same time, raising goosebumps all over her skin. Clearing her throat, she took another adventurous sip of the whiskey.

Ugh. Still awful.

“Do you think Mr. Greaves wants to marry me?” she wondered aloud.

The duke’s expression darkened. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time, and Emily felt the familiar prickle of desire deep in her gut. She made herself meet his gaze and hold it.

“Come with me, Emily,” Cassian said at last, seizing her wrist.

He didn’t grip tightly or drag her along. Emily found herself following him without ever having decided to do so, as if she were attached to him by a sort of magnetism.

“Where are we going?” she asked, a trifle breathlessly.

In an impulsive rush, she tossed back the whiskey—worse than ever, and she had already decided she would stick to wine and perhaps a little sweet sherry—and set down the empty glass.

He led her through the crowded ballroom, around clusters of people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and manners, all talking and laughing. Instead of taking her to the hallway they had come through, he led her to the opposite end of the room, behind where the musicians stood. A narrow doorway stood there, leading out into a dark, wood-paneled hallway.

“I thought you might enjoy a tour,” Cassian said smoothly, throwing an intense, hungry look at her over his shoulder. “I have a great deal to show you. And your reputation will be quite safe if we step into a room alone. What do you say, Emily? Would you care for a tour with me?”

The sensible answer, of course, was no. The sensible course of action was for Emily to remain in the ballroom, exploring in relative safety. Venturing into the dark underbelly of an unfamiliar house with none other than the Duke of Clapton was a very, very bad idea, indeed.

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

His wolfish smile widened. “Then follow me, Emily Belmont. Follow me.”

CHAPTER16

The pair of them wound their way up a narrow staircase that twisted around and round, like a servants’ staircase, but this one was covered with a thick red runner. The carpet absorbed all noise, making their steps silent.