Page 25 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 25

E mily woke up with a headache.

That was not surprising, considering the amount of champagne she’d ingested at the wedding.

I should not think of it as ‘the wedding . ’ It is simply ‘my wedding.’

Her room was a fine one, exceptionally large and immaculately furnished, but the endless swathes of blue velvet and drooping curtains—which rather clashed with the fluffy carpet—made it seem more like a guest room than anything else. To be sure, her things were there—folded neatly in trunks, shaken out and hung in the vast closets, shoes polished and set out on low racks—but it did not feel as if any of it was hers.

The bed was also ridiculously large. A medium-sized family could sleep in it, and get lost in it, too. During the night, Emily had sunk deep in the feather mattress, the pillows piling up around her until she felt almost as if the bed was eating her alive.

She struggled to get out of it now, flailing her arms and legs in a most un-duchess-like manner in a bid to sit up.

One would think that, when I lie in the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in, I would be able to sleep.

At last, Emily managed to roll herself out of the great dip in the center of the bed and crawled over to the edge. The wretched bed was high , too, making her feel as though she had to take a great leap down to the ground.

Instead, she reached for the bell pull beside her bed. She tugged it, hearing mechanisms click within the walls, no doubt shooting all the way down to the kitchen, where a bell bearing her name would ring shrilly.

She sat there, surrounded by a tangled mess of blankets and pillows, and could not help but feel dissatisfied. The feeling of desire had simmered inside her throughout the rest of the wedding breakfast.

Cassian had managed to avoid her without seeming to do so. Rather impressive, Emily had to admit. Still, every now and then, she would catch his eye across the room. He would always be doing something, like lifting a glass of champagne to his lips, which he would then lift towards her in a mocking sort of toast, that eyebrow of his quirking wildly.

And just like that, the lust would roar back.

I do not like that word . It is a most unpleasant word, and probably not very ladylike.

Although perhaps, considering the things I have done, it is too late to worry about what is ladylike and what is not.

The door creaked open, and a dark-haired girl with large dark eyes stood there, almost swallowed up by her maid’s gown and apron, and the old-fashioned mobcap jammed on her dark curls.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, bobbing a lopsided curtsey. “My name is Isabel. I’m to wait on you until you can get a proper lady’s maid. Unless, of course, you’re happy enough with me, Your Grace,” she added slyly.

Emily swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Well, you should know that I’m not in the habit of being waited on, or getting help to get dressed. However, my new gowns are so complicated that I simply can’t put them on by myself.”

Isabel tilted her head to the side. “Really, Your Grace? You dressed yourself?”

“Of course. I wasn’t always a duchess , was I? I don’t even feel like one now.”

She added that last part in an undertone, but judging by Isabel’s sharp glance, it was overheard.

Isabel was a pretty girl, to be sure, but there was something a little too incisive in her stare, something that made Emily uncomfortable.

Don’t be a fool . You’ve been a duchess for only a day, and already you’re finding faults with the servants’ behavior? Ridiculous.

“How about the ruched violet silk gown for today?” Isabel suggested, half-drawing an exquisite gown out of the closet and stroking it lovingly. “It is a present from His Grace, I hear.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Emily admitted. “But it would be wasted. Today, I shall be doing some painting. Have my painting supplies been set up, by the way? I asked for them to be put in a quiet, little room that nobody uses, so long as it has good light.”

Isabel’s face lit up. “Oh, Your Grace, you don’t know, then.”

Emily frowned. “Don’t know what?”

“I don’t know if it was meant to be a surprise or not. Here, you’d better get dressed, and then I’ll tell you. Oh, Your Grace, you’re going to love it!”

Emily followed the maid down hallway after endless hallway. Carpeted hallways, ones with polished wooden floors, ones with cold stone floors worn down by countless years of tramping feet.

“This place is very old, you know, but some parts are older than others,” Isabel said over her shoulder. “I believe previous dukes added sections to the house. But the room we’re heading to is one of the original rooms. It’s very old.”

Emily said nothing. She was frantically trying to remember the way back to her room, but it was no good. They’d taken so many turns, taken ‘shortcuts’ through countless rooms, gone down corridor after corridor.

How will I ever get to know this place? How will it ever feel like home?

Any such thoughts were abruptly wiped out of her mind, however, when they stepped through a large, arched doorway and into the most beautiful room she had ever seen.

“His Grace calls it the Art Room,” Isabel revealed, sounding faintly amused. “He was very specific about what he wanted. I helped get it ready for you, Your Grace.”

The room was circular, with a high, domed glass ceiling. The windows were wide and high, filling the space with clear golden sunlight.

Through the windows, Emily could see the gardens; high, swaying grass dotted with wildflowers, thick trees in the distance, and purplish hills sprouting beyond. Curved bookshelves ran around the walls, with chairs, tables, desks, and other pieces of furniture littered here and there in an artfully alluring way. There was a wide stone hearth with a pair of armchairs angled towards it, looking for all the world as if a pair of ghosts sat there, warming their feet on a ghostly fire, enjoying each other’s company.

In the center of the room was a circular platform, an easel, and a blank canvas on it, in front of which sat Emily’s paint-splattered painting chair. She spotted her things here and there—unfinished canvases propped up in a corner, a battered old trunk containing her art supplies pushed against a wall, with her wooden paint palette resting on top of it.

Emily simply stood there, breathless, taking it all in. The longer she looked, the more details she noticed—empty shelves and cupboards for further supplies, a well-polished kettle sitting by the hearth for tea while she worked, and a neat stack of what she guessed were fresh, empty sketchbooks.

“This… this is all for me?” she whispered.

“It certainly is,” came a male voice.

Flinching, Emily spun around to find Cassian lounging in the doorway, his hands tucked in his pockets. He was smiling wryly.

“Can I assume that you like it, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She swallowed. “Yes. Yes, I do. It’s… it’s beautiful, Cassian. I only asked for a quiet, little room to paint. You didn’t have to do all of this .”

Cassian opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and closed it again, glancing at Isabel. “You may go,” he said curtly.

Isabel, who appeared to be hiding a smile, bobbed a neat curtsey and slipped out of the room.

“What do you think of the maid, by the way?” Cassian asked, abruptly changing the subject. “She’s called Isabel, isn’t she? The housekeeper thought she’d make a decent maid for you. The poor girl supports her family, I believe, and sends every penny of her wages back to them. A lady’s maid, naturally, would be paid more. Of course, if you want a proper French lady’s maid, then?—”

“I like Isabel. But, Cassian, why did you do all of this? Especially after—” Emily broke off, biting her lip. “I know I disappointed you with my request to delay… things. But I imagine you did this beforehand.”

A shadow passed over Cassian’s face. He turned away, under the pretense of examining a nearby bookshelf.

“I had this arranged beforehand, yes. The final touches were added to the room only this morning. But as to the business to which you refer, I can assure you that I am more ashamed of my behavior than yours.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

He shrugged lightly. “I’m not a child to throw tantrums when I do not get what I want.”

“You hardly threw a tantrum.”

He chuckled. “No, but I was not gracious. This commission from the Prince Regent is a great thing, Emily. You are right to take him up on it. As to this room… well, I had always intended to give it to you for your art.” He glanced down at her, smiling faintly. “I believe I had intended to give it to you since our first wedding day.”

She flinched. “What?”

“Oh yes. Even after your sister ran away, leaving us alone, I found myself looking at you, and I saw you standing here, just as you are now, as mistress of this house. Isn’t that the strangest thing?”

Emily stared up at him, breathless, her eyes wide.

Say something, she urged herself, desperately trying to form some word or another.

But then he glanced away, and the spell was broken.

There was a creaking by the door, as if somebody stood there, and Emily wondered vaguely whether Isabel was eavesdropping. She could see no one by the door, however, and so she put the thought out of her mind.

“But I must confess that I find myself hoping to get a glimpse of the paintings you’ll present to the Prince Regent,” Cassian continued, his voice brisk. The emotion she’d heard in it moments ago was gone altogether, as if it were never there. “Just a peek will do.”

Blinking, Emily shook herself out of her reverie. She could spot her canvases over in the corner with the rest. She had already made a start on the first painting of the series, which was, of course, the Prince’s birth.

“There are many paintings of the birth of famous people,” she explained. “They’re generally very grand. An ornate bedroom, packed with people, with a beautiful woman lying in the bed and her attendants around her, while somebody else holds the baby. I didn’t want this to be like that.”

The pencil outlined a woman lying in a rumpled bed by an open window. She was tired, and her brow glistened with sweat. At the edge of the canvas, where the penciled sheets dropped off the edge of the penciled bed, there would be a faint, pinkish smudge. In Emily’s opinion, these great paintings of birth scenes tended to gloss over the actual process of childbirth, which was apparently extremely bloody and rather horrible.

Of course, she could hardly present the Prince Regent a painting of his mother lying in a blood-spattered bed, but still, Anon was supposed to tread the boundaries of what was proper and what was not, and Emily was determined to deliver.

The woman—Queen Charlotte, of course—held a tiny bundle in her arms, staring down at it with wide-eyed amazement and disbelief. A man—King George the Third, naturally—sat about an arm’s length away.

“I only lightly penciled in the king’s expression,” Emily murmured, tracing the lines with her fingertip, “but he will be afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes, afraid. Aren’t new parents always afraid at the birth of their first children? See, here, he’s reaching out as if to touch his new baby, and the newborn’s arm is escaping from its swaddling as if reaching back. It’s a rather domestic and simple scene. I do not know what the birth of the Prince was really like, but I suppose I’m allowed a little poetic license, am I not?”

She glanced up to find Cassian staring down at her, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Delightful,” he murmured, the word slipping out as if by accident. Before Emily could say a thing—and she was not entirely sure what she would say—he spoke again, more briskly this time. “And what about the other four paintings?”

“Well, the second one is of the Prince receiving his establishment and moving into Carlton House. I shall make him very grand—it’s to be a large and complicated painting. The third one depicts the birth of Princess Charlotte, his daughter. The fourth one shows him receiving the honor of Doctor of Civil Law at Oxford. And the fifth one portrays his ascent to the Regency.”

Cassian’s eyes were still on her, making her skin prickle all over. It wasn’t unpleasant by any means, but Emily found that there was a lump in her throat that would not disappear, no matter how hard she swallowed. She stared down at her canvas, the odd blotches of color and blocked-in shapes making the picture look gaudy and almost childish. It took a while, after all, for a painting to truly come together. One never quite saw its perfection until the very end.

She reached out, almost but not quite touching the fine pencil lines that sketched out King George’s fingers, outstretched towards his first child and eldest son, tentative and longing all at once.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” she murmured. “How a painting, a simple picture, can make one feel. And then, the same painting that changes the life of one person hardly affects another. Is it not odd?”

“It is odd,” Cassian responded, missing a beat. “But then we humans are rather odd too, are we not? It only makes sense that our art reflects such a thing. Art must be imperfect because humans are imperfect.”

Emily dragged her gaze away from the half-finished painting, meeting his eyes. A familiar warm sensation ran through her, waves of heat rushing up and down her spine. Her breath caught in her throat, and she imagined it, nonsensically, tangled in a knot at the hollow between her collarbones.

Cassian’s gaze darkened, his pupils dilated.

Does he feel it too?

“Cassian,” she began, tentative and more than a little afraid. “Cassian, I?—”

He straightened up abruptly. “I had better go,” he said shortly, not looking at her. His hands twitched at his sides, as if he longed to fidget with his cuffs or tug at his cravat, but would not quite allow himself to do so. “You’ll want to get on with your work, won’t you? You have five paintings to complete. Will you be able to do it?”

“Yes, I think so,” Emily responded mechanically, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of her.

He gave a brisk nod, not meeting her eyes. “Very well, very well. I shall take myself away. To my club, you know. I’m meeting Richard there. And I shan’t be back for supper. You don’t mind dining alone, I hope?”

Emily swallowed. “Would it matter if I said that I did?”

He did meet her eyes there, just for an instant, then turned on his heel and strode away without a backward glance.