Page 15 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

Emilie ignored the Duke of Tremaine’s blunt statement about her and the Comte’s relationship. One grenade needed to be dealt with at a time, and right now, she wanted to know exactly how the Duke had found out about her philanthropic ventures.

“How did you know about my visit to the ?le de la Cité?”

“The night I attended Mademoiselle Saint-Val Cadette’s play I was outside the theatre and saw you exit and begin to walk alone. I could not in good conscience leave you to make your way through Paris on foot without protection, and something told me you would not have responded well to my offer of assistance.”

Emilie’s eyes narrowed as she weighed his explanation. On the one hand she was shocked he had found out about her night-time visits himself rather than through some lackey. And his care for her wellbeing was admirable—if it was genuine. On the other, his secrecy about following her did not ring true.

“I did not need your assistance—nor your surreptitious following, nor your opinions on whether the Comte and I suit. What makes you an expert on such matters anyway?”

The Duke’s mouth pulled down at the edges and his brow puckered as he considered her challenge.

“I am not—though I have seen love matches, and I do not see any love, or affection even, between yourself and the Comte.”

“And you believe affection is necessary in such an arrangement? I thought you had already made it clear that I am motivated solely by financial gain. Other considerations are not… considered.”

“I was wrong about you.”

“Perhaps you are wrong about my relationship with the Comte.”

The Duke had judged her and thought the worst of her from the beginning. She had allowed him to think it, and now she did not wish to acknowledge the truth. It felt more mortifying, more vulnerable and dangerous, to tell Tremaine he was right. She must never admit to this man she had no feelings for the Comte beyond that of fear. She couldn’t confess it to anyone. That revelation might be used against her.

“I do not think so.”

“You are very confident, Your Grace,” Emilie said, turning the conversation back towards him. “One would think you were an expert in love.”

“Only in that I understand the pain it can entail.”

“You have been crossed in love?” Emilie asked before she could stop herself.

His honesty took the wind out of her indignant sails. She had not expected it, nor the earnestness of his tone, nor the agony she could now discern on his handsome face.

No matter how provoking the Duke was, or the judgements he had so ignorantly passed against her, Emilie never desired to cause another pain. She attempted to cover her thoughtless question with humour. “No doubt your désagréable questions put her off.”

The Duke was not dissuaded from her original question. “It was not my interrogations.”

His gaze was no longer upon Emilie—it had wandered towards where the Austrian violin master had returned to his music stand to review his next pieces. She followed his gaze but was sure that the Duke did not take in the sight before him. There were the shadows of memories passing over his expression, bringing hurt with them, and writing it across his face for her to see.

“It was my lack of prospects.”

Emilie frowned. “I find that hard to believe. You have a ducal title and estates. How could any woman view you as anything but an advantageous match?”

The Duke’s eyes refocused on her. “I see your point, but I do not have a healthy estate. As you know my uncle has retained control after my father’s death thanks to my gambling habits. Doesn’t trust me to safeguard the family’s fortunes. A duke in possession of title alone is not the catch he might hope to be.”

Who was this woman who had captured the Duke of Tremaine’s attention and then broken his heart? A woman who had caused him pain that was still evident when he spoke of it.

“Though they may not think it, those without title and fortune are better suited to finding love. They are not prey for fortune hunters—only for hunters of their true love’s heart.”

“Perhaps you should reform your dissolute ways and no longer pursue opera singers and actresses. Women such as I, as you have implied numerous times, can only be ensnared by money.”

There was no malice in his next revelation, as if he forgot it was to Emilie that he spoke. “The woman I spoke of was a lady.”

A lady. Those two words segregated Emilie from any woman who might ever aspire to the hand of a gentleman, let alone a Duke. She might sit here conversing with a Duke—she might entertain an offer from a Comte—but she was not a lady. It was as Vergelles had told her. She was nothing. A feeling of worthlessness, hollow and bitter, filled her chest.

She was a common tavern owner’s daughter who had trod the boards, and soon she may be a mistress. That was all. There were no other avenues in life down which she might venture. She was a small, insignificant thing, with no chance at love and marriage.

Emilie was so wrapped up in thoughts of her own situation that she almost missed the change in her companion. The Duke shifted in his chair, shoulders rising, arms crossed and the lazy humour on his face thwarted by agitation. Clearly this line of conversation was not one he enjoyed and yet Emilie felt for the first time she was seeing the true Duke beneath all those layers of sarcasm and humour.

She fought the urge to press him. “I have no doubt it was her who failed to see your charm, Your Grace.”

Tremaine turned to her and smiled, the gesture so earnest it brought real warmth to her heart. “Finally, you admit I have charm.”

The joke took her by surprise as much as the laugh it conjured within her.

“But we were talking of your lover, not mine, and I fear our tête-à-tête will soon be drawn to an unwanted close.”

Sure enough, the Duke was right. She followed his gaze to where the Austrian master was taking up his instrument and beginning to re-tune it for the next piece.

“I believe your story was more interesting.”

“Others’ stories are always more interesting. Be that as it may, I must ask you, Mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to change the subject. I find questions about it… painful.”

The temptation to press her advantage home was tempered once again, this time by the bare and pained expression on his face—one in complete contrast to the Duke’s usual facade of bored amusement.

“As you wish,” she murmured.

“May we turn back to the matter of your disguised warnings? I shall make myself plain—your benefactor has offered me the opportunity for an investment. I wish to pursue it, but have little knowledge of exactly what he offers, and then you warn me off engaging with him on the Champs-élysées. What am I to think?”

He was like Lutin with a bone. He would not desist and Emilie began to regret ever warning him.

No.

She calmed her frustrated thoughts—no she did not regret it. Especially after seeing the Duke’s humanness just now. But any further conversation along these lines put Emilie at risk. Not only Emilie, but her friend as well.

“Your Grace’s thoughts are not for me to discern or persuade. I’m afraid I cannot serve your purpose for you grossly overestimate my importance. I have no knowledge of the Comte’s business dealings. I am only his mistress.”

She hoped her plain speaking might put him off further questioning. He had shown such aversion to her position before. He might want more information, but he did not realise the danger he put her in. Allowing her gaze to casually survey the room, she tried to spot another seat next to an acquaintance she might move to.

“Yet you warned me—you know enough of his dealings to want to warn me off.”

Emilie struggled to cover a huff of frustration. Anxiety rose within her chest. She needed to get out of this conversation.

“I know nothing,” she whispered harshly, holding a tight rein on her feelings that were beginning to buck and plunge away from her, “except that you are a fool determined to involve yourself with dangerous men.”

“And what,” asked the Duke, leaning closer to her, locking his eyes onto hers, “does that make you?”

Emilie bit her lip, surprised by the sudden emotions boiling within her, and not sure whether she was going to cry or shout for this impertinent man to leave her alone. He had no concept of the trap she was ensnared in.

She tried to slow her breathing, swallowing against the emotions, forcing them into check. “You may think of me what you want—just as you will do whatever business you want with the Comte.”

“I have upset you.”

Emilie’s eyes darted to him and she was horrified to find herself looking through unshed tears. This man was determined to subvert her attempts to keep him at arm’s length and scale the defences which kept her real feelings safely away from the prying eyes of others.

“That was not my intention.”

During the conversation Emilie had clung to the arm of her chair. Her hand was lying parallel with the Duke’s and she felt the briefest brush of his against hers.

“I apologise. You have intrigued me, Mademoiselle Cadeaux. You are unlike any woman I have met before. I find myself unsure what to think of you.”

“Then perhaps,” Emilie said, the faintest waver in her voice, “you should not think of me at all.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, and she saw a light enter his eyes. The action was so at odds with the emotion of the situation it surprised her.

“Would you believe me if I said you are not the first woman to tell me that in as many months?”

She found the weight of her fears shift. With a blank expression she replied in the affirmative.

The Duke’s slow chuckle transformed into a full laugh. The atmosphere lifted and with it her mood.

“At least you are honest,” he said.

“I try to be,” she replied unguardedly, and then quickly turned the conversation from her. “Are you used to women lying to you?”

The Duke did not immediately answer, his eyes switching between the Austrian master and Madame Pertuis who were discussing something about the next part of the performance.

“Yes.”

There it was again—honesty. This man was a bewildering mix of irritating fool and earnest gentleman. It placed another stone in the opinion of him she was building. She had been around enough actors to discern the real from the false. This Duke was disguising who he really was behind the facade of a pleasure-seeking fool.

“I find you—déroutant.”

“Confusing? Yes,” the Duke murmured, lounging back in his chair, gazing down at their hands lying in parallel but no longer touching. “I have been told that before. I am not easily read.”

That she could whole-heartedly agree with.

“But, I might add, neither are you.” He exhaled heavily, his expression relaxing. “I shall desist from my interrogation.”

Emilie breathed a little easier and the two sat in comfortable silence until they were disturbed by the Comte de Vergelles.

His cool clipped voice came across the room. “There you are Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”

An involuntary shiver ran down Emilie’s spine. There was displeasure in his tone and he hardly ever drew attention to himself in public as he had just done by speaking so loudly. She turned towards him and saw him lock eyes with her companion.

The Comte took his time walking across the room, all occupants pausing or slowing their conversation to watch his progress, until he stood before Emilie and the Duke. He leant back on one leg, displaying his clocked stocking to advantage, and was drawn up to his full height, looking down his nose at them both.

“You have been keeping my companion company?” the Comte asked, cold eyes on the Duke and one dark brow raised.

“I have,” Tremaine answered, unruffled.

Either he could not read the Comte’s obvious displeasure or he was wilfully ignoring it.

“And how were the tables? Did fortune smile her radiant face upon you, my Lord?”

“She did—and now I am well-satisfied, and desiring Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s company.”

He had come to stand beside her and Emilie felt his cold hand descend upon her bare shoulder. The touch was light at first, but soon his fingers closed around her, the tips pressing into her skin.

“I have been missing your company,” he murmured.

The Duke continued to lounge in his chair, smiling up at the Comte. “Mademoiselle Cadeaux and I have been enjoying an excellent conversation.”

The English noble’s affable tone seemed to irritate the Comte further.

“And what have you found to talk about?”

Emilie’s blood ran cold. The Comte’s fingertips began to pinch at her pale skin. The weight of his hand grew suffocating. Her stomach dropped. The way Vergelles was behaving—it was as if he had heard everything they had said.

Had he?

No, surely not. How could he have done so? She was imagining it. At least that was what she hoped, because once again she remembered the bruises on her arm and exactly what angering the Comte de Vergelles could lead to…