Page 26 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 26

“I t’s been a week, Cass,” Richard said testily. “You can’t avoid the woman forever.”

Cassian pursed his lips. “I don’t intend to. And this is none of your concern, Richard. Why do you insist on speaking about Emily constantly?”

Richard gave a too-loud hoot of mirthless laughter. Several gentlemen in the club threw annoyed glances their way.

“You cannot be serious, Cassian,” he snorted, shaking his head. “ You are the one who brings her up at every turn. They served trout for supper here yesterday, and all you can talk about was how much Emily hated trout, how she hated fish altogether and despised the smell.”

“It was a relevant comment.”

“Yes, for a man in love.”

Cassian flinched. He always did when he heard that word. Moodily, he swigged back the rest of his brandy and caught the eye of a passing footman. The man gently inclined his head. Message received. More brandy on the way.

“For the last time, Richard, I am not in love,” he snapped, setting down his glass with a thump. “I wish you’d cease this nonsense.”

Richard yawned. “It’s not nonsense. And avoiding your new wife will not make these feelings go away.”

Cassian said nothing. He ached to tell Richard about what had happened, how Emily had bartered for a little more time before embracing motherhood. It had been a painful, jarring reminder that while she might feel some desire towards him, she did not love him.

Of course she did not. Carrying his child was simply part of her duties, just as his providing her with shelter and protection so she could produce her marvelous paintings was part of his duties.

I promised her freedom, but can I truly deliver?

He closed his eyes, not wanting to embark on this line of reasoning. Motherhood was hardly freeing .

She doesn’t want me. Not truly. Why would she?

“Cass?” Richard spoke again, cutting into his thoughts. “What are you thinking about? You’ve grown pale.”

Cassian opened his eyes and plastered a smile on his face. “I’m just recovering before my next glass of brandy.”

Richard scowled. “You’ve had too much to drink. Aren’t you going home to your wife tonight?”

“I’m sure that she will scarcely notice whether I am there or not.”

Richard pursed his lips. “You’re a fool, Cass.”

“Tut-tut, Richard. Men have been challenged to duels for less, you know.”

Richard rolled his eyes. “Enough of your cleverness. The thing is, Cassian, you aren’t thinking this through. You can ignore your feelings for the woman all you like, but that will not make them go away. And in the meantime, what will you do if you lose her? I’d wager every penny I own that you want more than just a child from her. You are in love, Cassian.”

Cassian turned away abruptly, scanning the crowded dining room for the footman with his drink.

“How could I lose her?” he responded snippily. “She’s my wife.”

Richard stared at him. “And you think you can never lose her simply because of an exchange of vows? Come on, Cassian. I thought you were meant to be clever.”

At long last, the footman appeared, with a glass of brandy resting on a silver tray. He glided over to Cassian, handing over the glass, and glided away again.

Cassian took a large gulp of the brandy. It burned, but pleasantly so.

“Clever? Me?” he responded airily. “Come, Richard, where did you get that idea?”

* * *

“A visitor?” Emily echoed, blinking.

The butler nodded, looking rather grave. That seemed to be his usual expression, as far as she could tell.

“Yes, Your Grace. I have shown her to the parlor, while you…” He hesitated, almost imperceptibly. “While you prepare to greet her. If you are not indisposed, of course. His Grace always tells me if he is not at home, and I neglected to ask you, Your Grace. My apologies.”

“Oh, no apologies necessary,” Emily managed, trying not to fidget with her paint-splattered smock. She was fairly sure there was a streak of cobalt blue in her hair and an itchy patch of bone white on her neck, just underneath her jaw. “As you can see, I am at home.”

The butler looked at her as if she were rather slow. At least, he looked at her in that way for a fraction of a second, before his professionalism took over and his face returned to its usual placidness.

“I only meant whether or not you would be receiving visitors. As I understand it, giving excuses to visitors on the doorstep is entirely unnecessary, and so the simple excuse of you not being at home is sufficient.”

Emily felt the color rising to her cheeks. Of course, somebody as exalted as Cassian—a duke, as people loved to remind her—would be bombarded with visitors. Chancers, mostly—eager young ladies and gentlemen hoping to make a powerful friend, spongers, old friends and distant relatives in need of money, ambitious mamas with pretty daughters, and so on.

Even now that Cassian was married, there would still be a string of people desperate to make their acquaintance. Having a duke and duchess in one’s portfolio of acquaintances was greatly beneficial, indeed.

“Of course,” Emily murmured. “This guest, the one you have already let in, they must be important?”

The butler hesitated, then leaned forward confidingly. “It is the Baroness Rawdon, Your Grace. She is a particular friend of the family, and His Grace has instructed that she be admitted whenever she calls.”

Emily’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I see. Well, I had better see what she wants, hadn’t I? I’ll go and meet her, after I—” She broke off abruptly, a faint frown appearing on her brow. “Wait a moment. First of all, what is your name? We were never properly introduced.”

Amazement flickered briefly across the butler’s face, hastily smothered.

“My name is Reeves, Your Grace.”

“It is good to meet you, Reeves. Now, I am the duchess, am I not?”

He eyed her warily. “Indeed, you are.”

“Well, if I choose to greet this particular friend of my husband’s, I can have her brought to me, can I not? I can greet her in here.”

Reeves blinked, something like understanding crossing his face.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, not missing a beat. “You certainly could. Shall I show the baroness into the Art Room?”

Emily tilted up her chin. “Yes, please, Reeves.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” He hesitated, glancing down at her paint-covered smock, which was probably comprised more of dried paint than it was fabric and thread at this point. “Shall I send a maid to help you out of your painting things?”

Emily grinned. “No, thank you. I think I shall keep them on.”

Something like a smile tugged at the corner of Reeves’ mouth, also dutifully smothered. “Very good, Your Grace.”

Once Reeves had gone, Emily darted about, throwing a sheet over the half-finished painting on her easel—she had just begun the third painting—and over the finished paintings stacked lovingly in the corner. She had just finished when she heard footsteps approaching.

Reeves’ velvet-soled shoes made no sound, but the Baroness wore heels that click-clacked loudly, echoing down the hall.

The baroness entered, never once glancing at the butler, and swept a possessive gaze around the room. Emily was the last thing her eyes landed on.

“Your Grace,” she greeted. “How lovely to see you. I do hope you don’t mind the informality of this visit. I did so want to see you.”

Emily forced a smile. “I imagine it was my husband you wished to see. He is out, I’m afraid.”

Margaret walked over to the window, boldly peering out. She tugged off one glove, then another, seeming quite at home.

“Yes, I know,” she responded idly. “At his club, I believe.”

Emily stopped just short of asking Margaret how she knew that.

There was a long, tense moment between them, with Emily standing on the raised platform and Margaret wandering idly through the room, peering at everything, lifting things and putting them down again.

“What are you painting?” she asked, after a moment’s pause.

Emily glanced over at the covered painting. “It’s a personal project. Nothing too exciting.”

“Oh. Can I see it?”

“It isn’t finished.”

Margaret paused her pacing, standing in front of the platform. That put Emily a little higher than her, perhaps by a head or so, but the difference did not make her feel any better.

A slow smile spread across Margaret’s face. “I know what you think of me, Your Grace,” she murmured, so quietly that Emily almost didn’t hear her.

Emily clenched her jaw. “Oh? And what do I think of you?”

“You think me a lady of ill repute. I certainly know how rumors have connected me to the duke. Your husband. I am here to tell you that they are emphatically untrue.”

Emily pressed her lips together. She longed to pick up a paintbrush and turn it over and over in her hands. It was a soothing thing, almost as soothing as painting itself, but of course, she would only reveal her anxiety if she did that.

I don’t believe you. I don’t know what to believe.

“I have never accused him of anything,” she said aloud. “Nor have I accused you of anything.”

“I didn’t say you had, dear. But tell me, why is the dear duke not at home now? You’re newlyweds, so I am surprised not to find him here.”

“I—”

“The thing about Cassian is,” Margaret interrupted, dropping all pretense at formality, “that he will always, always does what is best for Cassian. He is a fine man, to be sure, but will he make a good husband? I should say not.”

Emily stepped off the platform, jabbing a finger at her. “You have no right,” she hissed, “no right at all to speak to me in such a manner!”

Margaret sighed. “I only say this because I know about your past. I know that your father ruined your family. I’ve heard of the rather shocking danger your mother was put in, trying to protect you. I know about the hasty marriage your elder sister was forced to contract to save the family. Don’t bother asking me how I know—I simply know things. And nor do I judge, as I have been through difficult times, too. I do not want to see you go through the same hardship as before.”

Emily blinked, a little taken aback. “I don’t understand.”

Margaret held her gaze for a moment, then turned away.

“Cassian loves nobody,” she said, her back turned and her voice strangely muffled. “He will never love you. I have known him long enough to say that with great certainty. You are a sweet girl, and a clever one. Pretty too, and I daresay he likes that. But don’t lose your head and heart over him. It will only hurt. Think of your papa, how he hurt you all. Would you like to experience that again?”

“You don’t know what you are speaking of,” Emily responded mechanically.

In her head, however, she had gone back to those awful days before they were ruined entirely, shortly before the disaster had fallen on their heads. She remembered the warning signs, although they were not seen that way back then.

Papa stayed out late, coming back drunk and white-faced. He grew snappish. He avoided us. He wouldn’t look us in the eyes. He showered us with gifts every now and then, and I still do not know how he afforded them.

They had been married a week, and Cassian had contrived to spend the majority of each day out of the house. Oh, they’d encountered each other occasionally—in the hallway, at the breakfast table—and once or twice they sat down together for supper. But he was spending more and more time away from her.

Well, if he cared for me, he would not do that.

A wave of misery washed over her.

Margaret took a step closer, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to hurt you,” she murmured quietly, her large eyes boring into her. “But you deserve to know the truth.”

“The truth?” Emily’s eyes snapped up to Margaret’s face, narrowing in sudden fury. “The truth is that you are in love with him, aren’t you?”

Margaret seemed taken aback. “No, of course not!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, you should. I am telling the truth.”

“Ha! You?—”

“What on earth is all this commotion about?” A deep voice from the doorway made them both flinch, spinning around.

Emily felt nonsensically guilty.

“Cassian,” she managed haltingly. “You’re home. I half expected you to stay out at the club all night.”

He had clearly just arrived home, for he was still dressed in his coat and hat, his gloves dangling from his hand.

Raising an eyebrow, Cassian took in the scene—the two women red-faced and angry, Emily covered in paint, Margaret still gripping her hand.

“Well, I am home now,” he drawled, glancing between them. “Would anybody care to tell me why a guest is being entertained here in the Art Room, instead of the parlor, as is customary?”

Emily wrenched her hand out of Margaret’s grip and took a step towards him, tilting her chin up. “Because I am the Duchess of Clapton,” she said quietly, “and I have decided to entertain her here.”

Cassian held her gaze, something akin to approval in his eyes. He nodded slightly.

“Very well,” he murmured. “Margaret, what are you doing here?”

“She refuses to believe that there is nothing between us,” Margaret responded, her voice clipped.

It did not escape Emily’s notice that the Baroness did not mention the other thing she had said—how Cassian was capable of loving nobody, and how she would only get her heart broken.

“I see,” Cassian responded, turning his gaze back to Emily. “Well, what should we do about it?”

“I came here to invite you both to supper at my home,” Margaret announced, visibly steeling herself.

Emily had the pleasure of seeing surprise cross Cassian’s face.

Margaret took a step forward, looking up into his face. “You may not love her, Cassian, but you had better tell her,” she responded, her voice quiet. “Or this business will spiral out of control, and it will all come out anyway. Let us hope she can keep a secret.”

“She can,” Cassian said in the same low voice.

“I’ll take my leave, then.” Margaret bowed her head to Emily and strode past Cassian, walking confidently down the hallway.

A heavy, charged silence fell over the room.

Emily stared at Cassian. Cassian stared right back.

“I don’t understand,” she muttered, breaking the silence. “What secret is she speaking of?”

Cassian let out a long, slow sigh and raked his hands through his hair.

“Get dressed,” he ordered bluntly. “We are going to Margaret’s house for supper.”

“You intend to accept her invitation?”

“Indeed, I do,” he shot back, meeting her eyes. “It’s high time you met my niece.”

Emily blinked, sure she must have misheard.

“Your… your what? ”