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Not that there was anything wrong with being either of those things, but sometimes a woman craved more. There was not, it seemed, room for a woman tobemore than a wife and a mother. Society seemed to be very strict about that, and most unforgiving to ladies who dared to hope that they might be anything else.

With a jolt, Emily realized that she had drifted into a reverie, and was most likely standing there with her mouth open and her eyes glazed over, looking like a soft-headed fool. When she glanced up, however, the Duke was looking down at her with what seemed likefondnessin his eyes.

The moment their eyes met, however, the fondness disappeared, replaced by his habitual heavy-lidded look of impassivity.

“Well then, Emily,” he said, a little too brightly. “Who is your unfortunate subject? Tell me, who has caught your eye? Who are you going to paint?”

She stared at him.

For such a clever man, he really isn’t very observant.

“Why, you, of course,” she answered.

CHAPTER17

The moment of silence stretched out between them, with Cassian staring down at Emily with a baffled expression. She felt brief satisfaction, knowing without a doubt that she hadsurprisedhim.

She wagered that not many people were able to surprise the Duke of Clapton, a man who hadn’t even batted an eyelid when his true bride tried to pass her twin sister off as herself on their wedding day.

But then he let out a long sigh, and the moment was entirely gone.

“Absolutely not.”

Emily blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?”

“I only want to sketch you.”

“Then you are in for a disappointment.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest, staring down at her with those intense eyes as if daring her to argue.

Emily folded her arms too, mirroring him. “It is only a sketch. It won’t take me long. Fifteen minutes at most,” she insisted. “You must have had portraits of yourself painted before.”

“Of course I have,” he shot back. “And a ridiculous business it is, too. People these days are too focused on their own faces and figures. Who cares what another duke looks like? I have hadoneportrait of myself painted, and I have reluctantly hung it in the gallery beside my ancestors, and that ismorethan enough.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re afraid I’ll make you look silly.”

He glared at her. “I am not.”

“Youare.”

“If you want a male subject for your drawing, Miss Belmont, I shall find you one. How about Alfred Stone? He’s shaped like a Greek god, by all accounts, and is entirely used to sitting for portraits. I shall fetch him for you.”

Before she could say a word, he turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, heading to the book-filled room they’d passed earlier. He paused, peering through the doorway—the door was now mostly pushed to—and hastily drew back. He hurried back up the hallway, looking a little red in the face.

“Perhaps we ought to leave them undisturbed for now,” he muttered.

Emily had been thinking, however, and she had already decided her next plan of attack.

“Well, if you don’t want me to draw you, of course I can’t make you,” she said, sighing theatrically. “I shouldn’t like to make you uncomfortable.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your game, woman?”

She shrugged, smiling in a way that she hoped was suitably innocent. “No game. I shall simply have to find somebody else. I bet Titus Greaves would let me draw him. I’d wager that he wouldjumpat the opportunity.”

There was a taut moment of silence. Then, Cassian stepped forward, quite deliberately, until they were almost chest to chest.

“Don’t youdareask that spindly, little wretch to sit for your sketches,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.