Page 51 of His Arranged Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #5)

Emily took a step backward, panic and anger fighting for dominance inside her. She wanted to scream, to hit him, to do something, even if that something was turning and running for her life. Most of the congregation had filed out by now, and they would soon be alone at the head of the church.

Another part of her was—it was awful to admit it—enjoying their exchange. It was rather like playing a game of chess with a truly worthy opponent. A challenge .

“You can’t possibly think that I’ll marry you now,” she gasped. “The whole of London will know that my sister took my place at the altar and that I let it happen! You’d be humiliated.”

“Weren’t you listening, Miss Belmont? Humiliation barely touches me. I can assure you, there’s no need to change a thing.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You agreed to marry me. We are engaged. You aren’t about to go back on your word, are you?”

He took a step closer, and Emily suddenly found that they were standing too close together. Spectacles or not, she could see him very clearly now. There were flecks of gold in his eyes, and up close, his eyelashes were even longer.

Are those freckles on his nose? Surely the infamous Duke of Clapton, blackmailer extraordinaire, does not have freckles.

She swallowed hard, refusing to let herself be cowed. Tilting up her chin, she looked him dead in the eyes. She wanted very much to take another step back, to retreat into her shell. But that would be a weakness, and so it could not be allowed.

“If you wish to marry me,” she said, as coolly as she could manage, “you are going to have to court me like a gentleman should. I can’t marry a man of whom I have such a dire opinion, so you’d better work hard to make me think better of you.”

He gave a sudden bark of laughter, pitched higher than she might have expected. It gave him a faintly unhinged air.

It was entirely too much for Emily, and she took the opportunity to put a little distance between them, banishing him back to distant blurriness, just out of arm’s reach.

“Oh, my dear! You are very bold, I must say, but what are you playing at? Do you believe you have any leverage at all? I’m afraid there are no choices here for you. Beggars cannot be choosers, as the saying goes. Why, if your little secret were to come out…”

“I’ll deny it,” Emily snapped, suddenly determined. “I’ll deny it like I denied you .”

He pursed his lips, looking down at her. In a flash, before she could react, he wrapped long, cool fingers around her wrist and hauled her close to him, so close that her chin almost brushed his chest. It wasn’t a painful grip, but it was tight enough that she could not wriggle away.

There was a sharp, spicy smell of sandalwood and crushed grass, and it took her a moment to understand that it was his cologne. There was something remarkably pleasant about the scent, and Emily fought to keep herself from sniffing him.

He leaned down, putting himself almost nose to nose with her, and she held her breath.

I do not like this, she told herself severely, ignoring the flutter in her gut. There was no reason, none at all, to feel even the faintest twinge of attraction towards this man. She would just have to ignore those feelings until they had the decency to fade.

“We’ll see about that,” the duke whispered, a wolfish smile spreading across his face. “We shall see whose word holds stronger—yours or mine. You’ve made a promise to me, my dear Miss Belmont, and you will be keeping it, at any cost.”

Emily swallowed thickly but did not allow herself to look away. Instead, she forced herself to speak.

“Unless your time runs out, of course.”

He blinked at that, and she had a faint sense that perhaps it had shaken him, just a little.

Leaning forward, she hissed out, “ I am not afraid of you anymore, Your Grace .”

Before anything further could be done or said, the click of approaching bootheels rang out on stone.

“Release my daughter at once, Your Grace, or you’ll be sorry!”

Emily felt a knot of worry untangle in her chest at the sight of her mother advancing on the Duke of Clapton with a faintly murderous look in her eyes.

Her mother, of course, did not know the whole situation. Emily had not told her about the blackmail, and certainly not what had led her to being blackmailed in the first place.

Nevertheless, Octavia Belmont, the Dowager Viscountess St. Maur, was a formidable woman and fiercely protective of her children.

The duke wisely released Emily’s wrist and stepped back, bowing graciously.

“Lady St. Maur. I hope you have recovered from the shock of all this.”

Octavia curled her lip. “I’ll recover when I have my other daughter safe and sound, and when this one deigns to explain to her mother what’s going on. In the meantime, Your Grace, perhaps you should keep your distance from us.”

The duke bowed again but said nothing.

Octavia seized Emily’s elbow and prepared to drag her away. Hesitating, she glanced over at the duke for good measure and said loudly, “Come along, Daphne .”

Emily bit back a smile. “Mama, he knows I’m not?—”

“Hush. Let’s keep it up, just in case.”

Octavia ushered her daughter out of the church and into the fresh air, and hastily across to the carriage. They crawled inside, and Emily flopped bonelessly onto the seat.

“Anna and Theodore have started the search for Daphne,” Octavia explained bluntly. “We’re going back home in case she goes there. In the meantime, you can explain to me why you are doing all of this. What hold does this man have over you? What can he reveal?”

Emily closed her eyes. “Mama, I can’t… I can’t tell you.”

Octavia pursed her lips, shifting in her seat. “I am your mother, and I would like to know what this secret is. I have never pried into your life or your sisters’, but are we not family, Emily? Do I not deserve to know?”

Emily breathed out slowly, before opening her eyes and meeting her mother’s gaze.

“It will be easier, I think, if I just show you,” she murmured.

Octavia frowned. “I don’t understand.”

At that moment, the carriage drew to a halt in front of the house. Emily scrambled out, hurrying across the gravel. She was faintly aware of her mother calling after her, following close behind.

The drawing room was cold and empty, with no fire in the grate.

Emily crossed the room to the writing desk that she used every morning, kept locked with the key tucked underneath the drawer.

Before she could give herself a chance to think twice, she unlocked the drawer and took out her sketchbook.

She flipped directly to the drawing at the very back, the first sketch of her most famous piece now on display in a London gallery.

Turning to her mother, she held up the sketchbook.

“I know I have never really shown you my work,” she murmured, “and this is why.”

Octavia stared at the sketch. “Why, Emily, that isn’t your work at all. It’s that painting that the Society papers keep talking about. It’s…” she trailed off, her eyes bulging. “Oh. Oh .”

“Yes, Mama,” Emily whispered. “I… I’m Anon. I’ve been selling my paintings.”

Octavia sank onto an armchair. “If this was found out,” she managed at last, gulping audibly, “you’d be ruined. A lady painting such things? Oh, Emily. Who else knows about this?”

“Well, Daff knows, of course. And…” Emily steeled herself. “The Duke of Clapton knows. He knows, and if I don’t agree to marry him, he’s going to expose me.”

Octavia sank back in her seat, looking rather dazed.

“Oh dear,” she murmured. “And to think I always thought you were the quiet one.”