Page 17 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 17

T he moment of silence stretched out between them, with Cassian staring down at Emily with a baffled expression. She felt brief satisfaction, knowing without a doubt that she had surprised him.

She wagered that not many people were able to surprise the Duke of Clapton, a man who hadn’t even batted an eyelid when his true bride tried to pass her twin sister off as herself on their wedding day.

But then he let out a long sigh, and the moment was entirely gone.

“Absolutely not.”

Emily blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?”

“I only want to sketch you.”

“Then you are in for a disappointment.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest, staring down at her with those intense eyes as if daring her to argue.

Emily folded her arms too, mirroring him. “It is only a sketch. It won’t take me long. Fifteen minutes at most,” she insisted. “You must have had portraits of yourself painted before.”

“Of course I have,” he shot back. “And a ridiculous business it is, too. People these days are too focused on their own faces and figures. Who cares what another duke looks like? I have had one portrait of myself painted, and I have reluctantly hung it in the gallery beside my ancestors, and that is more than enough.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re afraid I’ll make you look silly.”

He glared at her. “I am not.”

“You are .”

“If you want a male subject for your drawing, Miss Belmont, I shall find you one. How about Alfred Stone? He’s shaped like a Greek god, by all accounts, and is entirely used to sitting for portraits. I shall fetch him for you.”

Before she could say a word, he turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, heading to the book-filled room they’d passed earlier. He paused, peering through the doorway—the door was now mostly pushed to—and hastily drew back. He hurried back up the hallway, looking a little red in the face.

“Perhaps we ought to leave them undisturbed for now,” he muttered.

Emily had been thinking, however, and she had already decided her next plan of attack.

“Well, if you don’t want me to draw you, of course I can’t make you,” she said, sighing theatrically. “I shouldn’t like to make you uncomfortable.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your game, woman?”

She shrugged, smiling in a way that she hoped was suitably innocent. “No game. I shall simply have to find somebody else. I bet Titus Greaves would let me draw him. I’d wager that he would jump at the opportunity.”

There was a taut moment of silence. Then, Cassian stepped forward, quite deliberately, until they were almost chest to chest.

“Don’t you dare ask that spindly, little wretch to sit for your sketches,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.

Emily was forced to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. If she tipped her head forward just a little, she would be able to rest her chin on his chest.

“I don’t want to ask Mr. Greaves.” She sighed theatrically again. “But I may have no choice .”

He held her gaze for a long moment.

Emily held her breath. The air seemed to crackle between them. It made no sense to her, but there was no denying the pulsing desire in the pit of her belly.

“ One sketch?” he said, almost warningly.

“Just one.” She nodded, biting back a smile. “And no more than fifteen minutes.”

He sighed deeply, rolling his eyes. “Very well. Follow me, then.”

“Won’t we do it in here?”

“No,” he answered shortly, turning on his heel.

Tucking her sketchbook under her arm, Emily scurried after him.

He led the way further down the hallway, turning onto an even narrower staircase. It led up and up until Emily’s legs began to ache.

At last, the staircase opened into a circular room with a dome-shaped ceiling. A glass dome-shaped ceiling. The velvet-blue night sky spread out above them, dotted with stars. The moon shone down, beaming with silvery light.

“Oh,” Emily breathed, her head tilted back to stare up at the stars. “Oh, that is beautiful .”

“Clara is a rather keen astronomer,” Cassian murmured, half-smiling. He set the candelabra down on a low, round table, illuminating the small space. “Now, shall we get this over with?”

Emily glanced around. There was a cluster of astronomy apparatus, including a telescope, some complicated-looking charts, and a pile of worn old books. Aside from the low, round table, all the flat surfaces were covered in books and papers. There was a high-back armchair facing the table, and a threadbare chaise lounge was pushed against the wall. There were scattered pencils, pens, and inkwells here and there, and she picked up a sharp-looking pencil.

“Move those books from that chair,” Emily instructed, pointing at the chair by the wall, “and pull it over here. You’ll sit on that one.”

Sighing, Cassian obeyed and plopped down on the chaise , crossing one leg over the other. “There isn’t enough light.”

“On the contrary, the candlelight will cast the most interesting shadows,” Emily countered, opening her sketchbook.

She began to draw. Her pencil skipped over the page, easily picking out his silhouette and the rough contours of his body.

He sat stiffly, his hands resting by his sides, clearly uncomfortable. Glancing up at him, Emily hesitated, her pencil hovering over the page.

“You can quite easily tell me to mind my own business if you like…”

“Why do I feel as though I might do just that?”

“… but may I ask, Cassian, why are you so against being sketched? It is me? Do you not want me to draw your picture?”

Cassian’s eyes, dark in the gloom, flicked to hers. For an instant, the silence hung heavily between them, and she thought that he was not going to answer.

“My father had quite a fascination with his portrait,” he said at last, his voice sharp, the words bitten off. “There were dozens, if not hundreds, of pictures of him scattered throughout our home. Portraits, sketches, and so on. He was a rather vain man, but it was more than that. He cared about his legacy, about posterity . It was of the utmost importance to him that he was remembered. He had everything his way, always.

“He was a most controlling man. I recall him bellowing at some poor artist for hours because the fellow hadn’t depicted him exactly as he had wished to be drawn. He had portraits of my brother and I done, too. It took… hours. Days, on some occasions. He would scream at us, and nothing was ever good enough. I always swore that once I was a grown man, I would be as different from him as a man could be.”

Emily swallowed hard, setting down her pencil. “Oh. Oh, I had no idea, Cassian. How awful.”

He shrugged, inspecting his nails. “Cruel fathers are hardly unusual, especially amongst the ton. Save your pity; I don’t need it.”

She bit her lip, waiting to see if he would speak again. He didn’t, so she picked up her pencil once again and resumed drawing.

Almost imperceptibly, Cassian’s posture had relaxed a little, the lines of his body less stiff. Emily hastily drew in those lines, adding rough shading to indicate the shadows thrown by the candelabra.

“I did not know you had a brother,” she commented idly.

Cassian clenched his jaw. “I don’t. He died when I was young. He drowned.”

The silence was heavier this time.

Emily met his gaze across the low table. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, I am sorry.”

He shrugged. “As I said, Emily, save your pity. Don’t take offense, but I would rather not discuss my father or my brother. Not now.”

Emily bit her lip and said nothing. Of course, she had many questions, but he’d made it clear that he would not answer them. Besides, if he chose to keep what was clearly a painful past to himself, she ought to let sleeping dogs lie.

To distract herself, she glanced down at the drawing. It was good, technically speaking, but there was something missing. Something bland about it.

It’s just a man sitting in a chaise . It isn’t Cassian .

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his dark eyebrows drawing together.

“Nothing, I just… Oh, I don’t know. The picture is missing something.”

He leaned forward, and she held the drawing out for him to see.

“I haven’t even begun drawing your face,” she added apologetically. “It’s just not right .”

He leaned back, sighing. “It’s unsatisfactory, then.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say…”

“Would that feeling have anything to do with the other sketchbook we perused earlier? Where the models were wearing less clothes?”

Emily’s cheeks flushed. “It’s not as if I could forget,” she mumbled.

Cassian turned his head, effectively shadowing his expression. “I can’t help but notice,” he drawled, “that your desire to draw the male form came after you saw those sketches.”

She was sure her head was going to explode. Her cheeks were practically glowing in the dark.

“Please do not remove all of your clothes,” she said, as staunchly as she could manage. Her voice, thankfully, did not wobble.

“Perhaps,” the duke murmured, leaning forward, “we might compromise .”

Before she could ask what that meant, he lifted a hand, hooking one finger beneath his cravat. He tugged at the knot, and it unraveled at once. Then, he slid the crumpled fabric away from his neck. His shirt dipped, revealing a neat V of skin at his collar, fine dark hairs curling towards the base of his throat.

Stripping neatly and smoothly out of his jacket, Cassian tossed it carelessly aside. He was watching her, staring hungrily. That familiar sensation of desire curled in the pit of her belly. Emily swallowed hard.

Cassian tilted his head, almost coyly, and lifted a hand to the brass buttons on his waistcoat, undoing them carelessly. The waistcoat slipped off his broad shoulders, and he tossed it aside.

The shirt underneath was thin white linen, falling loosely over his frame.

With a little light behind it, Emily mused dizzily , he would look like one of those Grecian statues.

And then, between blinks, Cassian took off his shirt and tossed it neatly aside.

He sat there, bare-chested, and leaned back a little, watching her.

Emily was fairly sure she had stopped breathing. His torso was lean yet sculpted, his narrow waist a counterpoint to wide, thick shoulders. The faint fuzz of hair bloomed in the center of his chest, trailing down in a line to the waistband of his breeches, tight around his muscular thighs.

“Is this a little more than what you had in mind?” Cassian asked, his voice low.

Emily found that her mouth was dry.

“I…” she squeaked.

A vulpine smile spread across Cassian’s face. He held out a hand, faint veins trailing down thick forearms and spreading across his knuckles.

“Come here,” he said, so quietly that she almost did not hear him.

Her hand was in his before she even knew what she was doing.

Emily found herself hauled forward. She gave a most undignified squeak, the sketchbook falling from her hand and clattering somewhere. Whisked off her feet, she found herself flat on her back on the chaise, with the Duke leaning above her, grinning like a wolf who had just spotted an oblivious rabbit.

“I take it you are enjoying the party, then,” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to echo in her chest.

She swallowed thickly. Desire was flooding through her, making her limbs tingle, making her heart beat faster and faster until her legs turned to jelly and she was sure that if she tried to stand up, she would swoon.

“It’s most memorable,” she gasped, a little embarrassed by how breathless she had become.

Cassian lifted his hand, his warm, dry palm cupping her cheek just for a moment. Emily held her breath. Carefully, hesitantly, she let her fingers trail up his bare arm, the curves and swells of muscle flexing under her fingertips.

Is this allowed? Can I do this?

Cassian’s expression was impassive, allowing her to continue her exploration. She reached his shoulders and let her hand skim downwards across the warm skin of his chest, the soft hair tickling her. She reached the center of his sternum, hesitated only for a second, then let her fingers inch towards the waistband of his breeches.

She had no idea what she was doing, or even what she intended to do next. In the end, it did not matter. No sooner had her fingers touched his waistband than he snatched her hand, his fingers curling around her wrist. His grip was not gentle, but it was not painful either.

Pinning her wrist—both of her wrists—on either side of her head, he leaned close, his breath warm and smelling of whiskey.

“You just stay there, little Miss Belmont,” he murmured. “Be a good girl, won’t you?”

She cleared her throat, composing herself enough to recall what he had said to her when she’d requested to draw his picture.

“Absolutely not,” she breathed.

Candlelight glinted off his teeth when he smiled. “I would expect no less.”

Before she could make a witty retort, he was kissing her, all tongue and teeth, his sharp canines exerting the most delicious pressure on her lower lip. Emily automatically moved to wrap her arms around his shoulders, and perhaps run her palms down the warm planes of his back, but she recalled what he’d said and kept them in place.

Shifting, Cassian pressed his lips to the side of her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

The need built up inside her, like a shaken bottle of champagne, longing to burst out. Eyes closed, she let him kiss her, touch her. His fingers trailed confidently down her sides, skimming over the covered tips of her breasts.

Suddenly, Emily hated her corset and layers more than she could ever have imagined.

Should I ask him to remove it? Should I offer?

He shifted, and she opened her eyes without thinking anything of it.

Cassian was propping himself up on his arms, looking down at her with a heated, hungry expression. There was something in his eyes she could not interpret.

“You seem uncomfortable, Emily,” he noted, his voice slightly strained.

She swallowed. “I am not.”

He tilted his head. “Good. That is good.”

He bent down to kiss her again, his lips warm and softer than before. Emily found herself missing his wild hunger. His hand slid down the curve of her hip, his fist bunching in the fabric of her skirts.

Holding her breath, Emily felt him lift her skirts, inch by inch, until his palm slid across bare skin.

His hand on her knee, warm and gentle, sent a bolt of desire through her, a throbbing almost-ache that drew out a long, shuddering breath from the very bottom of her lungs.

He kissed her again, almost absently, his fingers sliding up her thigh. She knew before he touched her what was going to happen. Knuckles brushed against her mound, and pleasure shot through her, wringing out a gasp and a jerk. Her eyes flew open—when had she closed them?—and she found him watching her again.

“May I continue?” Cassian asked, his voice rough and his eyes glittering.

Emily swallowed thickly. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He grinned and then slid down her body.

Emily propped herself up on her elbows, a little confused. “What are you…” she trailed off when he knelt between her legs, gently nudging her knees apart.

“I am sure I told you to lie there quietly, Miss Belmont,” Cassian murmured, flashing her a truly wicked grin.

Bending down, he pressed a kiss to the side of her knee. Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure she could have spoken, even if her life depended on it.

He kissed her again, his lips sliding higher and higher until they pressed against her mound.

Emily could not be silent any longer. She let out a choked cry, before clapping her hand over her mouth.

Cassian’s mouth moved as though he were kissing her, lips and tongue and even a brush of his fingers, and she felt as though her very soul were being pulled out of her body.

The novels never mention this.

She felt something building inside her, pleasure building up and up until she thought she might burst from it all, the champagne cork ready to fly out of the bottle. Her climax came suddenly, unstoppably, and she cried out again, one hand gripping the cushion beneath her and the other tangling in Cassian’s hair.

She barely noticed that she’d touched him until she began to come down slowly from the peak of her pleasure, her breathing ragged as if she’d been running. Once she realized she was pulling his hair, she let go at once, flushing.

Cassian pulled back, dragging the back of his hand across his chin.

“Now, isn’t that better than sketching, Emily?” he asked, his voice a little raspy.

She propped herself up on her elbows again, still breathing heavily. “That… I… You…”

“I shall wait until you can form a sentence,” he teased, sitting back on his heels with a grin.

His gaze slid away from her, and his smile faded. Twisting around, Emily saw that he was looking at the clock in the corner.

“What time do your servants generally wake up?” Cassian enquired, frowning.

“I’m not sure. Five o’clock, I think.”

“Ah. Well, it is nearly half past four now.”

With a squawk, Emily scrambled into a sitting position, staring at the offending clock.

How had the night slipped away?

“We had better get you looking respectable at once, and then it’s time to get you home,” Cassian said decisively, snatching up his rumpled clothes and pulling them over his head. He wasn’t looking at her.

Emily eyed him, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Did he regret what he had done?

There was no time to worry about that, though. Smoothing out her skirts, she began her search for her sketchbook. She was not about to leave that behind.