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Even now that Cassian was married, there would still be a string of people desperate to make their acquaintance. Having a duke and duchess in one’s portfolio of acquaintances was greatly beneficial, indeed.

“Of course,” Emily murmured. “This guest, the one you have already let in, they must be important?”

The butler hesitated, then leaned forward confidingly. “It is the Baroness Rawdon, Your Grace. She is a particular friend of the family, and His Grace has instructed that she be admitted whenever she calls.”

Emily’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I see. Well, I had better see what she wants, hadn’t I? I’ll go and meet her, after I—” She broke off abruptly, a faint frown appearing on her brow. “Wait a moment. First of all, what is your name? We were never properly introduced.”

Amazement flickered briefly across the butler’s face, hastily smothered.

“My name is Reeves, Your Grace.”

“It is good to meet you, Reeves. Now, I am the duchess, am I not?”

He eyed her warily. “Indeed, you are.”

“Well, if I choose to greet thisparticular friendof my husband’s, I can have her brought to me, can I not? I can greet her in here.”

Reeves blinked, something like understanding crossing his face.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, not missing a beat. “You certainly could. Shall I show the baroness into the Art Room?”

Emily tilted up her chin. “Yes, please, Reeves.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” He hesitated, glancing down at her paint-covered smock, which was probably comprised more of dried paint than it was fabric and thread at this point. “Shall I send a maid to help you out of your painting things?”

Emily grinned. “No, thank you. I think I shall keep them on.”

Something like a smile tugged at the corner of Reeves’ mouth, also dutifully smothered. “Very good, Your Grace.”

Once Reeves had gone, Emily darted about, throwing a sheet over the half-finished painting on her easel—she had just begun the third painting—and over the finished paintings stacked lovingly in the corner. She had just finished when she heard footsteps approaching.

Reeves’ velvet-soled shoes made no sound, but the Baroness wore heels that click-clacked loudly, echoing down the hall.

The baroness entered, never once glancing at the butler, and swept a possessive gaze around the room. Emily was the last thing her eyes landed on.

“Your Grace,” she greeted. “How lovely to see you. I do hope you don’t mind the informality of this visit. I did so want to see you.”

Emily forced a smile. “I imagine it was my husband you wished to see. He is out, I’m afraid.”

Margaret walked over to the window, boldly peering out. She tugged off one glove, then another, seeming quite at home.

“Yes, I know,” she responded idly. “At his club, I believe.”

Emily stopped just short of asking Margaret how she knew that.

There was a long, tense moment between them, with Emily standing on the raised platform and Margaret wandering idly through the room, peering at everything, lifting things and putting them down again.

“What are you painting?” she asked, after a moment’s pause.

Emily glanced over at the covered painting. “It’s a personal project. Nothing too exciting.”

“Oh. Can I see it?”

“It isn’t finished.”

Margaret paused her pacing, standing in front of the platform. That put Emily a little higher than her, perhaps by a head or so, but the difference did not make her feel any better.

A slow smile spread across Margaret’s face. “I know what you think of me, Your Grace,” she murmured, so quietly that Emily almost didn’t hear her.