Page 15 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 15

“T hey call it a painter’s party,” the duke said, leading the way through a narrow, gloomy hallway towards an open doorway spilling out light.

His fingers were laced through hers. Emily’s heart thundered.

“Oh, and another thing,” he added over his shoulder. “This is quite an informal gathering. First names only.”

“Does that mean you’ll be calling me Emily?” she asked, mustering a smile.

He grinned at her, his teeth glinting in the gloom. “I was thinking that you might wish to call me Cassian.”

Cassian.

Emily rolled the name around in her mind, savoring it. She’d known, of course, what the duke’s first name was, but using it—even in her head—was another matter.

“I like it,” she found herself saying. “It suits you.”

He chuckled. “Only for tonight, mind you. Then back to formalities.”

“Why, am I to still call you Your Grace once we are married?”

He stopped dead, turning to face her. “You mean to marry me, then?”

She flushed at her mistake. “I was speaking hypothetically.”

His eyebrows twitched. “Of course.”

He turned and led her into the main room, and she sucked in a sharp lungful of air.

It was a ballroom, she could tell, but it was almost unrecognizable from the ballrooms she was familiar with. The place was full of people wearing a wide array of clothes. A plump, middle-aged man walked by in a velvet, feathered cloak, the hem trailing behind him. A pair of gentlemen scurried by, hand in hand—no, they were not gentlemen, Emily realized in amazement. They were ladies , their hair tucked under worn caps, wearing breeches .

She saw women and men in ordinary, working-class clothes and more than a few people in gowns and suits as fine as those of any duke or duchess in the land. They all mingled together, talking and laughing at the tops of their voices, mixed drinks in their hands.

There was a pianoforte in a corner, and a gentleman sat there, playing a jaunty song that Emily did not recognize. A pair of women played violins, and a third woman sat at a harp. There were couples dancing nearby, but it was no dance she recognized.

That is, she did recognize some of it—it seemed to be part waltz, part jig, and part cotillion, and nobody was paying much attention to the steps. As she watched, a man in a patched waistcoat seized the hands of a woman in a silk gown and swung her around in a fast circle, the two of them hanging onto each other for dear life. She was laughing, her head thrown back, hair streaming down her back.

A lump formed in Emily’s throat.

What must it feel like to be so free?

“Everyone here is an artist of some kind,” the duke revealed. “Or a patron of the arts. Musicians, actors, painters, writers—you name it. For example, do you see that woman over there?”

Emily blinked, taking a moment to connect the word woman with the stocky youth in breeches sitting on the window seat. She was, to Emily’s endless amazement, smoking a pipe .

“I see her.”

“That is none other than Corderoy Jenkins.”

Emily sucked in a breath. “The novelist? Here ? Oh, do introduce me to her, please!”

The duke— Cassian —laughed and headed towards the woman. She glanced up as they approached, her eyes narrowing. She had a round face, dusted with freckles, and auburn curls hung loose around her shoulders. She was not at all like the willowy Society beauties that were so praised, but there was an intriguing quality about her features and a spark in her brown eyes.

“Good evening, Corderoy,” Cassian greeted, executing a neat bow. “My friend requests an introduction.”

“I adore your books,” Emily burst out. “I read Haunting Of St. Cuthbert’s in one night. It was thrilling . And The Mystery of Io was simply perfect. And I?—”

“Hold on, hold on, let me introduce you ,” Cassian interrupted, laughing. “Corderoy, this is a good friend of mine, Miss Emily Belmont. You might know her as Anon.”

Emily flinched, staring up at him wide-eyed. She’d never heard herself introduced that way before.

Corderoy’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward.

“The painter ? Heavens, how exciting! Do you know that they’re selling copies of your work in galleries? Everybody wants a framed Anon in their drawing rooms. Me included.”

She had a deep voice and a drawling northern accent. In a smooth motion, she tapped out the contents of her pipe into a small saucer on the windowsill.

Emily flushed. “Thank you. I… I am trying to remain anonymous, you know. I don’t want people to know that I’m the artist. Not yet, at least.”

“Understood.” Corderoy nodded. “I agree. That’s why I chose my pseudonym. My real name, you might as well know, is Cordelia Roy. My nickname as a child was Cordie-Roy, hence my pen name. It seemed to fit. I worry that nobody would buy my books if they knew I was a woman. You know, I have the duke here to thank for publishing my works. Is he your patron, too?”

Before Emily could answer, Cassian spoke up.

“Ahh, Emily here requires no patronage.” He chuckled.

Corderoy glanced briefly between them, her gaze giving away nothing.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she said, refilling her pipe. “Can I tempt either of you to some whiskey? Titus has brought a rather good bottle.”

“Titus?” Emily echoed, frowning. “You don’t mean?—”

“Why, yes, we do,” Cassian interrupted, gently taking her by the shoulders and turning her around. A man was approaching—a familiar one. “Surely, Emily, you cannot have forgotten the ever-enterprising Titus Greaves.”

Emily remembered him at once, of course—the man who’d been presented to her as the author of her paintings. He wasn’t as neatly dressed this time. A crumpled shirt poked out from underneath a bright waistcoat, and his hair was disheveled and unbrushed, instead of pomaded to within an inch of its life.

He wasn’t scowling at her either.

Grinning at her, Titus executed a dramatic bow. “Miss Emily Belmont! We meet again. I hope the circumstances are better this time.”

Emily blinked up at him, then glanced at Cassian for an explanation.

Cassian chuckled. “Mr. Greaves here is an actor, as I told you. A rather good one, although he has yet to find a foothold on the London stages. More’s the pity.”

Emily twisted around, leveling him with a steely glare. “Yes, I recall. I met him when you introduced him to me as the author of my paintings. I’m sure you remember the occasion.”

Cassian grimaced. “I’m afraid so. However, that is all in the past, my dear.”

Corderoy chuckled. “He’s a wretch, isn’t he? Come along, Your Grace. Let’s get some whiskey for these two. Titus, is that bottle where you left it?”

“It is,” Titus said, grinning. “I’ll stay here and keep Miss Belmont company.”

Emily glanced up in time to see Cassian’s expression darken. However, Corderoy would not be dissuaded. She grabbed his arm and tugged him away, leaving Emily and Titus Greaves alone.

Titus cleared his throat. “What do you think, then? Of this place, I mean.”

Emily paused before answering, glancing around the room.

There was something so warm and happy about the place. Nothing seemed to match—not the decorations, not the art, not the carpet or wall hangings or the wallpaper—and yet it all did match, somehow. It all fit together. People gathered together in the most nonsensical groups, in all colors of clothing and styles of dress, entirely at ease with themselves and with each other.

In one corner, Emily spotted for the first time canvases stacked against the wall. A desk stood nearby, full of various paints, pencils, pens, and other drawing and painting supplies. A cluster of people stood nearby, inspecting one half-finished painting on a canvas and discussing it in low voices. Her fingers itched to pick up a paintbrush.

When was the last time I painted? The Season has just kept me so busy. There’s always some party or nonsense to attend, and I’m always so tired.

“These parties are one of the few places where people like us can really be ourselves,” Titus commented, leaning against the window seat that Corderoy had just vacated. “I never feel happier than when I’m in a place like this.”

“There’s certainly a magic about it,” Emily murmured. “I don’t know how I’ll manage going back to the stuffy Society parties after this.”

He chuckled, shifting a little closer. When Emily glanced up, she found him eyeing her thoughtfully.

“I never got the opportunity to apologize for the way we first met,” he said abruptly. “I saw in your eyes how distressed you were when I appeared, claiming credit for your work. I knew the details of the job when the duke first approached me, but I never thought much of it. But as soon as I saw the look in your eyes… well, I quite hated myself for it. I promise that I shall not impersonate you again, Miss Belmont.”

Emily laughed at that, shaking her head. “No offense was taken, I can promise you that. The duke is rather forceful, after all. Perhaps persuasive is the word. He’s very good at getting his own way.”

“That is true,” Titus conceded. He was still watching her, a faint flush painted across his cheekbones. “Tell me, Miss Belmont—may I call you Emily?”

“I don’t see why not. Everyone is being informal here. I think I rather like it.”

He gave a nervous smile, shifting closer. “Emily, then. Lovely name, by the way. Tell me about your process.”

She frowned. “Process? What do you mean?”

“I mean with your art. Corderoy has to be at least two whiskies down before she can start writing. I have to take a moment to myself and recite three Shakespearean sonnets before I can fully immerse myself in a character. I couldn’t say why, only that that is the way it must be. What do you do to prepare yourself for painting?”

Emily gave a short, self-conscious laugh. “Why, nothing. I pick up a paintbrush or a pencil, and I just… I just begin. I like to have an idea of the scene I want to depict in my mind, of course, but I often change it as I go along.”

Titus nodded earnestly. “You are quite a talent, Miss Belmont. Emily . And a beauty too, if I may be so bold. The duke told us about your Aphrodite with Spectacles costume, which would make a truly marvelous painting, don’t you think? I do wish I could have seen it.”

Emily laughed, not entirely sure what to make of this turn in conversation. Titus was staring at her a little too intently. She was just wondering whether she should make her excuses when he carefully laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I think you and I have a great deal in common, Emily,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on her.

Somebody cleared their throat nearby, and Titus leaped a foot in the air, withdrawing his hand from her shoulder as if it burned.

The duke stood there, his expression hard and steely. He carried a glass of whiskey in each hand. Behind him, a faintly amused Corderoy held another two glasses.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting,” he said sweetly.

Titus turned an interesting shade of red. Beet red, Emily thought, cataloging the color in her mind for later.

“N-No, of course not, Your Grace! I was just?—”

“Leaving,” Corderoy spoke up, fighting back a grin. “He was just leaving. Come on, Titus. You can take a look at the first chapter of my new book. Let’s leave the duke to entertain his guest, shall we?”

She cast a meaningful glance at Emily, which Emily could not quite interpret.

Still red-faced, Titus mumbled a goodbye and scurried across the room, with Corderoy at his heels.

That left Cassian and Emily alone.

He downed his whiskey in one gulp and then handed the other glass to her. She sniffed it tentatively. Ladies did not drink whiskey, of course, and Emily wasn’t sure she’d ever tried the beverage.

“I believe that our enterprising Mr. Greaves was flirting with you,” Cassian murmured, leaning close enough for his chin to almost graze the top of her head.

Emily felt her heart fluttering in her chest. She bit back a smile, trying to control the tension building in her gut. She longed to lean towards him, to bury her nose in the soft skin at the side of his neck, to feel his thick arms around her.

“So what if he was?” she heard herself say, almost off-handedly. “I was enjoying the conversation. Perhaps I was going to ask him to dance. I assume that ladies can ask gentlemen to dance here?”

“They can,” Cassian responded, his voice a low growl. “Unfortunately for you, my dear, I don’t much like sharing.”

“Sharing?” She gave a short laugh. “Well, now, who asked you to share me? Perhaps I don’t care to be fought over like a prize.”

“I am not sure that Titus Greaves would put up much of a fight,” Cassian muttered. “Are you going to drink that whiskey or not?”

She sniffed it and took a delicate sip. It tasted like fire, and not in a good way. If there could be a good way.

She pulled a face, and tried not to notice the way Cassian chuckled at her.

“Mr. Greaves did not make me drink whiskey,” she muttered. “He was most obliging. I think he wanted to dance.”

“I imagine you know already what our dear Titus wanted from you,” he drawled. “And it was not dancing . At least, not the kind that is accepted in public.”

Emily suppressed a smile, trying to disguise how hard her heart hammered against her ribs.

“Come now, my dear,” Cassian rasped. “You’re far too clever not to have noticed. And he is something of a flirt.”

Heat rose to Emily’s cheeks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she responded stubbornly.

“The thing is,” Cassian said slowly, as if she hadn’t spoken, “the redoubtable Mr. Greaves wants exactly the same thing from you as I do, just less intensely. I rather fancy I’d win that particular battle.”

His eyes were boring holes into her, and Emily felt the heat climb up her chest, pressing down and lifting her at the same time, raising goosebumps all over her skin. Clearing her throat, she took another adventurous sip of the whiskey.

Ugh. Still awful.

“Do you think Mr. Greaves wants to marry me?” she wondered aloud.

The duke’s expression darkened. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time, and Emily felt the familiar prickle of desire deep in her gut. She made herself meet his gaze and hold it.

“Come with me, Emily,” Cassian said at last, seizing her wrist.

He didn’t grip tightly or drag her along. Emily found herself following him without ever having decided to do so, as if she were attached to him by a sort of magnetism.

“Where are we going?” she asked, a trifle breathlessly.

In an impulsive rush, she tossed back the whiskey—worse than ever, and she had already decided she would stick to wine and perhaps a little sweet sherry—and set down the empty glass.

He led her through the crowded ballroom, around clusters of people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and manners, all talking and laughing. Instead of taking her to the hallway they had come through, he led her to the opposite end of the room, behind where the musicians stood. A narrow doorway stood there, leading out into a dark, wood-paneled hallway.

“I thought you might enjoy a tour,” Cassian said smoothly, throwing an intense, hungry look at her over his shoulder. “I have a great deal to show you. And your reputation will be quite safe if we step into a room alone. What do you say, Emily? Would you care for a tour with me?”

The sensible answer, of course, was no. The sensible course of action was for Emily to remain in the ballroom, exploring in relative safety. Venturing into the dark underbelly of an unfamiliar house with none other than the Duke of Clapton was a very, very bad idea, indeed.

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

His wolfish smile widened. “Then follow me, Emily Belmont. Follow me.”