Page 16 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 16

T he pair of them wound their way up a narrow staircase that twisted around and round, like a servants’ staircase, but this one was covered with a thick red runner. The carpet absorbed all noise, making their steps silent.

“This staircase led to the servants’ garrets at one time,” Cassian observed. He was leading the way, his broad shoulders almost brushing both walls at the same time. “Clara had them converted into… well, you shall see.”

The winding staircase gave way to a long, wide landing, with candles burning in various alcoves. It was untidy, with items scattered everywhere—canvases, sculptures, bags, and boxes with their contents spilling out, even a few plant pots with unfamiliar green plants rioting free. Music was playing from somewhere, drifting out of one of the rooms.

“Can anyone come up here?” Emily asked, feeling a little nervous.

The balls and parties she had attended were strictly confined to the main rooms in the house. It would be the height of bad manners for a guest to go poking around the other rooms.

“Yes, Clara doesn’t mind,” Cassian answered. “A few regular guests find crowds and noise a little disconcerting. They get distressed and most upset, but still wish to come and meet their friends and colleagues. When the noise is too much, those guests often come up here to relax.”

They passed the first doorway, and Cassian gestured for her to peer inside.

The room was clogged with books. Shelves lined the walls, but books were piled up on the floor too, in haphazard piles tilting sideways.

A slim young man with spectacles was curled up in a threadbare armchair, absorbed in a book. Another man of the same age, broader and classically handsome, sprawled on a chaise , scribbling something in a notebook.

Both men glanced up as Cassian and Emily paused in the open doorway. She flushed, feeling as though she were interrupting something.

“Evening, Cass,” the larger young man rumbled. “Evening, Miss. Enjoying your tour?”

“Very much,” Emily responded.

The bespectacled young man ducked his head, smiling shyly.

Cassian led her away. “Jonathan Styx and Alfred Stone,” he murmured. “Best of friends, those two.”

He seemed to be implying something, but Emily could not quite place it.

“Ah,” he chirped, leading her to a room with no door, only a curtain pulled across it. “ This room will interest you, I think.”

He swept back the curtain, and her breath caught in her throat.

The room was full of art. Paintings of all sizes, sketches, charcoal drawings, and more. Some were unfinished, others were completed to perfection. Some pictures hung on the wall, but most of them were piled up in the too-small space, covering the single table and filling what few chairs were available.

“Good heavens,” she gasped.

Cassian leaned against the doorway, grinning. “I wager that the tepid watercolor paintings that all the fashionable ladies make can’t hold a candle to any of these.”

“No,” Emily agreed, still a little dazed. “Speaking of candles, is there any more light?”

“Of course.”

The room had only one small window—curtained, of course—and naturally, it was dark outside anyway. Cassian retrieved a candelabra from one of the alcoves in the landing and brought it into the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Emily stepped a little closer, trying to observe all of the paintings at once.

She had never seen pictures quite like these. Of course, some of the designs were fairly simple and ordinary, the sort of drawings one might find in a genteel gallery, or framed and hanging up in a lady’s home. Bowls of fruit, pretty but bland landscapes, or beautiful women wafting around various locations—drawing rooms, gardens, kitchens, and so on.

Others were a little more… aggressive . One painting depicted a scene from Greek mythology—she could not identify the story behind it—and a vicious battle was taking place, angry red paint used in vast swathes to depict blood and violence. It was a large painting, and detailed. Emily turned away from it with a shudder.

The next set of pictures that caught her eye were charcoal drawings. She wasn’t entirely sure whether they were finished or not, and at first glance, they seemed almost childish. However, the firm, scribbled strokes of the charcoal had given the subject a sense of movement . The first picture was a pair of children playing with a ball, and Emily could swear that they were moving, the ball rolling between them. The other pictures were similar scenes, all imbued with the same fascinating power of movement.

“It’s quite marvelous how just a few lines can transform a picture from something static to something active, ” she murmured, half to herself, half to Cassian.

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t know. My artistic skills extend to stick figures.”

She had to laugh at that, shaking her head. “Drawing and painting are learned skills, you know. If you want to get better at them, you have to keep trying.”

“If you say so. Personally, I would prefer to simply enjoy the talents of others.”

Smiling, Emily put the last picture aside, keen to find more. Instead, she spotted a thick, leather-bound sketchbook. Curious, she picked it up, opening a page at random.

It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing.

A woman sat cross-legged on a chair, staring directly out of the page with a wry half-smile on her face. Curls of dark hair fell around her shoulders. It was a simple line drawing, efficiently done.

But she was naked. Entirely naked, with not a stitch on her.

Emily sucked in a breath.

Genteel ladies did not look at such paintings, not even the ones done by the old Masters. They avoided Grecian sculptures of male and female figures in a state of undress. Oh, male art students were able to view such things, but ladies never did.

Her pulse pounded in her throat. She turned the page and found herself confronted by a similar image. This time, however, the naked figure was a man . He had wild curly red hair, and he was grinning, completely unabashed. Lean and wiry, he draped himself over a velvet chaise—she was fairly sure it was the chaise she had seen in the other room—and seemed entirely at ease.

Of course, one’s eye dropped at once to the mess of red hair between his legs.

Emily’s face burned. She turned the page hastily, but that was worse .

That drawing was of the young man and woman together, both sitting on the chaise—both naked—and his hand was on her breast . They were kissing—no, not quite kissing, but their lips were a hairsbreadth apart. It seemed so comfortable, so natural.

She turned the pages quickly and found herself faced with image after image, with the same couple, some finished and detailed, some little more than sketches.

“Oh dear,” Cassian murmured, his voice close to her ear. She flinched. “I see that you have stumbled upon some scenes of an unusual nature.”

“It is entirely inappropriate,” Emily managed. Her voice was a little strangled. “Who is this man?”

“I have no idea. And this sketchbook, by the way, is rather famous. It’s been here for years, and nobody is entirely sure who drew the pictures. We suspect that the artist is the rather comely young woman depicted in the previous page.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. Emily found herself imagining Cassian leafing through the pages. What would he think of them? What would he think of that woman ? Did he find her beautiful? She was beautiful.

The heat remained inside her, tightening her chest and reddening her face. She could feel Cassian’s eyes on her, and they seemed to smolder.

“If you are not comfortable, I suggest you put the book down,” he said, almost gently. “If you’d like to return downstairs, I shall take you at once.”

“No,” Emily responded, a little surprised to hear herself say it. “I am an artist. I cannot be squeamish about the human body.”

“Why, do you intend to draw pictures like this?” Cassian asked, his voice rumbling with amusement.

“No, I think I should die of embarrassment,” Emily muttered. “But the artist is very good.”

She turned to the last page, not daring to stop on it to investigate just how tangled together the young man and woman were. She closed the book with a snap.

I could always look at it later, I suppose. For my artistic progress, of course.

“If you wish to see other depictions of the human body,” Cassian suggested kindly, “you ought to look at the old Masters’ paintings. I know ladies aren’t generally meant to look at such things, but I rather think you would learn a great deal from them. And practice, of course, is key.”

Emily turned, eyeing him curiously. In the gloomy room, with the flickering candlelight, odd shadows flitted over his face, giving him a curiously intense air.

Hungry. That was the word. There was hunger in his eyes when he looked at her. Emily had never seen a man look at her in that way before. Something inside her tightened, the heat intensifying as if her own body was trying to burn her up from the inside out.

“Practice,” she repeated, almost unconsciously. “I should like to practice, yes. In fact, Your Grace , I think I have already found my new subject.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How delightful. That is, after all, why I gave you that sketchbook. If you intend to paint the naked human body, I would suggest retiring to a private room.”

She flushed, heat building within her. “I wasn’t going to paint anybody naked .”

“Ah. How disappointing.”

Emotions, of course, were crucial to a good painting. Emily could recall exactly how she felt for every single drawing and painting she had ever completed. It was rarely simple , of course. There were often tangled emotions to sort through. The original sketch for Woman In The Window , for example, was drawn late at night, when she had felt particularly furious over something and believed that she would never be anything besides a wife and a mother.

Not that there was anything wrong with being either of those things, but sometimes a woman craved more. There was not, it seemed, room for a woman to be more than a wife and a mother. Society seemed to be very strict about that, and most unforgiving to ladies who dared to hope that they might be anything else.

With a jolt, Emily realized that she had drifted into a reverie, and was most likely standing there with her mouth open and her eyes glazed over, looking like a soft-headed fool. When she glanced up, however, the Duke was looking down at her with what seemed like fondness in his eyes.

The moment their eyes met, however, the fondness disappeared, replaced by his habitual heavy-lidded look of impassivity.

“Well then, Emily,” he said, a little too brightly. “Who is your unfortunate subject? Tell me, who has caught your eye? Who are you going to paint?”

She stared at him.

For such a clever man, he really isn’t very observant.

“Why, you, of course,” she answered.