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“The style and quality of the paintings cannot be denied, so one must wonder where Miss Belmont—now the Duchess of Clapton—learned to paint in such a manner, or even if the paintings are hers at all.”

Emily closed her eyes. She would never forget what those papers had said. Besides, burning their own copies would do nothing at all. Copies of those papers and scandal sheets resided in just about every home in London, her shame being read about and dissected again and again.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Emily?”

She glanced up to find Cassian standing over her, his brow creased.

“What’s wrong?” he pressed, frowning. “You look almost ill. Should I summon a physician?”

She stared up at him. “I find it odd that you are so kind to me now, when last night, you left me alone in the carriage in that manner.”

The words were out before she could stop them.

Cassian flinched, blinking. He looked almost hurt.

No, not hurt. He is not hurt. He’s simply offended that I said something very true and fair.

“I should not have done what I did last night,” he murmured, avoiding her gaze. “We both know it. I was… abrupt, to be sure, and for that I am sorry.”

She rose to her feet, trying in vain to make him look her in the eye. “You say you cannot love me. I understand that, and I accept it.”

He met her eyes. “Do you?”

She tilted her head, holding his gaze. “Doyou?”

Cassian’s brow crumpled. Whether out of anger or confusion, she could not tell.

Either way, Emily did not allow herself to think twice. She dived forward, put her hands on either side of his face, and pressed her lips urgently to his.

It was not exactlyeasy, what with the duke being a good deal taller than her. She was forced to pull his head downandstand on her tiptoes. As well as that, it was most certainly not a good kiss at all. She could almost taste her roughness and desperation.

Go on, you fool.Put your arms around me. Kiss me back. Kiss me back. Can’t you?

He placed his hands on her arms, and for one blissful second, Emily believed that she’d won. But then he pushed her away, gently but firmly, straightening up. She let her hands drop from his face.

There was a moment of silence where he stared down at her, baffled.

“Emily,” he said, his voice quiet and careful, as if he was speaking to an invalid, “what are you doing?”

She bit her lip. “What does it look like I am doing? You want a child. I am ready to give you one.”

He frowned. “But the paintings… your work…”

“I doubt that the Prince Regent will want my paintings after all of this. I daresay he’s embarrassed. It is over, Cassian. I… I had better stick to watercolors and concentrate on being a duchess and a mother.” She gave a faint, watery smile. “That is what you wanted from me, is it not?”

He stared down at her, a deep groove etched between his eyebrows. He did not smile back.

“You are wrong if you believe I wish to lock you up,” he responded at last, his voice a little gravelly. “I need a child, to be sure, but I never intended for you to give up what you love.”

She swallowed thickly, her throat tightening. “You are refusing me, then? Come, Cassian. You say you do not love me, but I know youdesireme, at the very least. Besides, it is our duty, is it not?”

Tilting her head, she flashed a weak smile, placing one hand on his chest and sliding it up to his shoulders.

Cassian’s hand rose, resting on hers. For a moment, she thought she had won. Then, his long, cool fingers closed around her wrist, gently removing her hand.

“Duty? Darling, please. When you next summon me to your bed—or wherever else we may be—you will find thatdutyis the very last thing on your mind,” he murmured, his voice soft and thick, sweet like honey and deep enough to make her shiver.