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He leaned forward, close enough for her to breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne. Carefully, gently, he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

“A man has his pride, after all,” he continued, with an arch smile. “When I lie with you, my dear, it’ll be at the height of your happiness, not the lowest depths of your spirits.”

Before Emily could demand to know what exactly he meant by that, Cassian dropped her hand and stepped past her, striding over to the door. He opened it, the draft making the fire gust and flicker, a few pieces of half-burned paper dropping onto the hearth to smolder there.

She turned to face him, feeling a little breathless, not entirely sure how her most blatant offer had been declined.

Cassian grinned at her. “Get out that first painting of yours, and whatever other paintings you wish to display. Unfinished sketches, unpublished watercolors—whatever you like. But make sure that the Prince Regent’s painting is in pride of place, the center of attention. And, of course, make sure that it isperfect.”

“I—”

“Don’t stand there and stare, duchess. We have work to do. Chop, chop!”

CHAPTER29

The Following Evening

“I… I didn’t think that anybody wouldcome,” Emily gasped, pushing her way through the crowd.

“Well, you were wrong about that, weren’t you?” Daphne muttered.

She had one arm wound protectively around her middle, and her husband went in front of her, none-too-gently shouldering through the crowd, keeping the worst of the crush away from her.

Emily and Anna followed behind, hand in hand so as not to be separated. Their mother was here too, of course, as were Theo and Beatrice, but they’d been separated and were nowhere to be seen.

“It isn’t every day that the Duke of Clapton opens his home to the whole of Society and invites them to come in and look at his wife’s paintings,” Anna pointed out wryly.

Invitations had been sent out to important members of Society, as well as friends, family, and so on, but Cassian had somehow managed to let it be known that uninvited members of the ton might be admitted. And so the queue outside the Clapton residence snaked far down the street.

The road was clogged with carriages of all kinds, the drivers all shouting frantically and pointing their whips at each other. Emily had gawped out the window for a moment or two, watching a rather well-known family give up on being dropped off at the door.

They flung open the carriage door and climbed down right in the middle of the street, with carriages and pedestrians flocking all around them, and, with their heads held high, sailed across to the pavement and climbed up the front steps.

All this for my paintings?

The ballroom had been set up as the display room, and it was crowded with people. Guests spilled over into the hallways and into the other rooms, all jostling and pushing.

Nine of Emily’s works were displayed in the ballroom. There were three sketches she had done over the years, well-executed but not particularly interesting. There were two half-finished paintings, one of which was an early draft ofWoman In The Window. She also included the sketch of Cassian, although her face reddened every time she passed by it.

Of course, she had not drawn him with his clothes off.

Two more paintings were complete works that she had never submitted to a gallery—one a seascape with drowning sailors, the other a young woman crying at a writing desk as she penned a letter.

And then, finally, hanging on a wall of its own, was the first painting she had done for the Prince Regent. It was entitledThe First Day.

Emily was proud of it. It was entirely different fromWoman In The Window, but in a good way. One almost felt as if one were sitting on the other side of the bed, watching the King and Queen stare down at their first child in terrified amazement.

The faint streaks of blood on the sheets were still there—she had been tempted to paint them out, to play safe, but had decided against it—and there was a sheen of sweat on Queen Charlotte’s face, her skin pale and eyes heavy, her hair tangled and untidy. It was not veryregal, but it was, in Emily’s opinion, extremely honest.

Let us hope that the Prince Regent thinks so. If he arrives, of course.

That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? If the Prince Regent arrived, the party would be a success. If he liked her painting, thenshewould be a success.

They finally barreled through the crowd, finding themselves in a little pocket of space in front of the paintings.

“I’d better go and find Mama,” Daphne muttered miserably. “Edward, come with me.”

“I’ll try and find Theo, I suppose,” Anna sighed, shaking a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Emily, will you be quite all right to stay here by yourself?”