Page 28 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 28

M y Dear Miss Belmont,

(Although, of course, you are the Duchess of Clapton now, so I ought to call you Your Grace)

I hope you’ll forgive the forwardness of my writing to you. I daresay it is already too late. As you know, we met at Clara’s party. I am a writer, and so acquainted with the world of publishing. I am writing late at night, so I imagine you may not get this letter until morning, which, as I say, may be too late. But I would not forgive myself if I did not at least try to warn you.

I have heard a rumor that the identity of the famous Anon has been revealed and is to be published in a number of Society papers (you are familiar with the usual gossip rags, I’m sure) for the world to read. I did not worry too much at first, as I know there have been many people credited to be Anon only to be as swiftly discredited.

But I overheard your name, Emily.

There was talk of an insider, as many publishers offer quite a substantial reward for information on Anon. I fear that your identity has been discovered somehow, and I did not want the news to come as a shock to you. There may be nothing you can do to stop it from getting out, but I hope you can at least prepare yourself.

Your Friend, Corderoy Jenkins.

Emily set aside the letter with a shaking hand. It was quickly written, the writing little more than a scribble, scrawled on a page torn out of a journal or a notebook. The note had arrived at breakfast.

It was, indeed, too late.

Half a dozen different scandal sheets and a variety of newspapers were spread out over the breakfast table, where the dishes of bacon, eggs, and herrings were congealing, forgotten, toast going cold on its racks.

She was not hungry. Every single newspaper and scandal sheet mentioned, on the front page, the reveal of Anon’s true identity. Some of them still referred to her as Miss Emily Belmont, and they all remarked upon her recent marriage to the Duke of Clapton. Some papers seemed rather admiring, others disapproving, while others outright suggested she’d hastily married him to cover up the scandal of who she really was.

What am I to do? Will the Prince Regent withdraw his offer? To be sure, he wasn’t to know that Anon was not a woman, but it was clear he expected me to be a man!

She rested her elbows on the table, lowering her head into her hands. The endless stream of newsprint blurred before her eyes, certain words leaping out at her. Scandal! Shock! Disgrace! Unexpected! Forgery!

Because, of course, at least a couple of articles suggested that she could not possibly be Anon at all—after all, she was a mere woman, and painting these works of art while unmarried was simply ludicrous.

On top of it all remained the memory of last night, of Cassian’s lips on hers in the carriage as they rumbled through the night together.

“No, Emily. This has gone far enough.”

“I cannot give you what you want… You want my heart, but you cannot have it.”

She closed her eyes, her treacherous heart beating miserably in her chest.

I wish I had known I would never have his heart before I gave him my own.

The door creaked open, making her jump. She twisted around to find Cassian himself standing in the doorway.

He looked rather the worse for wear—unshaven, his hair ruffled and uncombed, having not dressed without his usual care.

“I read the papers,” he said shortly.

She bit her lip. “You know of my shame, then.”

“I should hardly call it shame. And it’s certainly not the first time your name has graced the pages of those rags.”

She swallowed thickly, glancing down at the assorted selection of vitriol and accusation. A faint draft rushed into the breakfast room through the open door, rustling the crisp pages ever so gently.

“I imagine that it is the first time the Duchess of Clapton has been mentioned in the scandal sheets, though,” she remarked. “I am sorry, Cassian.”

He said nothing for a moment. She wondered if he, like her, was dwelling on the events of last night.

Or perhaps he is not. Perhaps he put them out of his mind right away and is untroubled by concerns of any kind.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

Cassian took a few steps closer, craning his neck to peer down at the papers. “I think not,” he said. “And even if it were, this was our plan, was it not? As a duchess, you can weather a scandal like this, unlike plain Miss Belmont. A duchess—people will be thrilled by the idea of you producing great works of art. If we play our cards correctly, this will make Anon’s popularity swell even more.”

She glanced up at him, a lump forming in her throat.

We?

“I wish I could believe you,” she muttered. “I… I only wish I could have been more prepared for this.”

There was more silence. Cassian reached out, as if to rest a hand on her shoulder, then pulled away at the last moment.

Emily’s heart ached.

I never will have his heart. What a pity, because he has mine.

“Corderoy Jenkins wrote to me this morning,” she heard herself say, “warning me about it. Of course, it was too late, but it was kind of her to try.”

“I cannot understand how word got out.”

Emily bit her lip. “I believe I know. Isabel, the maid, she… she is gone from the house, I hear. The housekeeper was in quite a panic about it. I believe Isabel overheard something about my identity as Anon, and therefore took the information to a publisher and claimed the reward.”

Cassian sucked in a breath. “The little wretch. She’ll be sorry for this.”

“No, Cassian, leave her. She has lost her position here, of course, but I cannot blame her. Didn’t you say that she supported her aged parents and sent all of her money back to them? I imagine the reward was too big to resist.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Truly, I cannot blame her. I do not blame her. Besides, the damage is done, and striking out at her will do nobody any good. If it had not been her who exposed me, it would have been somebody else. This was inevitable, I think.”

“If you say so,” Cassian muttered.

There was a moment of silence while he crossed his arms, eyeing the papers. Suddenly, his face brightened.

Imbued with a burst of energy, he dropped his arms and strode across the room to the fireplace. Of course, at this hour of the morning, with the sun streaming into the breakfast room, there was no need for a fire, although the logs were all laid out in preparation for later in the day.

Bewildered, Emily watched him squat down by the hearth and set about lighting it.

“What on earth are you doing, Cassian?”

“What does it look like?”

She sighed. “We can summon a servant to light the fire.”

He chuckled. “You’ve already begun to grow into the role of duchess, I see. I can light a fire myself, my dear.”

She bit her lip, reddening. “If you say so. You haven’t yet told me what you’re doing.”

“We must take action, and swiftly,” he responded curtly, not looking back at her. “We must show that you are Anon—I noticed the doubt some papers cast on your identity—and that I, as your husband and the Duke of Clapton, support you. We must throw a party, my dear. We will send out invitations to everybody, including the Prince Regent, and we will showcase your very first painting of his commission.”

Emily sucked in a breath. “Won’t the Prince be angry if I show off his paintings to other people? Aren’t they only for his eyes?”

The fire caught, flames licking up the kindling, growing in strength. Cassian rose to his feet, striding back to the breakfast table. Without further ado, he snatched up handfuls of paper and crumpled them in his hands. Scandal sheets and newspapers alike were screwed up into tight, little balls, reduced to… well, kindling.

He turned back to the fire and tossed some of the paper balls into it. At once, the flames eagerly ate up the paper, turning the cruel words and accusations into ash. Emily watched, transfixed, as a particularly unkind scandal sheet— The Mincing Miss, it was called—was reduced to a faint greyish powder.

“There,” Cassian uttered. “That nonsense is where it belongs. Now, let’s talk about the party.”

“Party?” Emily echoed, a little baffled.

“Yes, the party we will throw to showcase your art. Weren’t you listening, dear? All will be well.”

Emily bit her lip, staring at the now-roaring fire. It was too hot for the small room, filling the space with a sticky heat that made her skin prickle. It didn’t matter in the slightest that the papers were burned up. The words were not gone. A variety of choice sentences bounced around in her head.

“Miss Belmont’s shockingly ambitious grab for influence and attention is a most unladylike business.”

“One must wonder how deeply the duke regrets his rather charitable choice to marry a woman who will undoubtedly bring the deepest shame upon the family name.”

“The subjects of Anon’s paintings, the style and details most unsuitable for a true lady, are greatly controversial, and likely to drop quickly out of the hearts of the public due to this shocking turn of events.”

“The style and quality of the paintings cannot be denied, so one must wonder where Miss Belmont—now the Duchess of Clapton—learned to paint in such a manner, or even if the paintings are hers at all.”

Emily closed her eyes. She would never forget what those papers had said. Besides, burning their own copies would do nothing at all. Copies of those papers and scandal sheets resided in just about every home in London, her shame being read about and dissected again and again.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Emily?”

She glanced up to find Cassian standing over her, his brow creased.

“What’s wrong?” he pressed, frowning. “You look almost ill. Should I summon a physician?”

She stared up at him. “I find it odd that you are so kind to me now, when last night, you left me alone in the carriage in that manner.”

The words were out before she could stop them.

Cassian flinched, blinking. He looked almost hurt.

No, not hurt. He is not hurt. He’s simply offended that I said something very true and fair.

“I should not have done what I did last night,” he murmured, avoiding her gaze. “We both know it. I was… abrupt, to be sure, and for that I am sorry.”

She rose to her feet, trying in vain to make him look her in the eye. “You say you cannot love me. I understand that, and I accept it.”

He met her eyes. “Do you?”

She tilted her head, holding his gaze. “Do you ?”

Cassian’s brow crumpled. Whether out of anger or confusion, she could not tell.

Either way, Emily did not allow herself to think twice. She dived forward, put her hands on either side of his face, and pressed her lips urgently to his.

It was not exactly easy , what with the duke being a good deal taller than her. She was forced to pull his head down and stand on her tiptoes. As well as that, it was most certainly not a good kiss at all. She could almost taste her roughness and desperation.

Go on, you fool . Put your arms around me. Kiss me back. Kiss me back. Can’t you?

He placed his hands on her arms, and for one blissful second, Emily believed that she’d won. But then he pushed her away, gently but firmly, straightening up. She let her hands drop from his face.

There was a moment of silence where he stared down at her, baffled.

“Emily,” he said, his voice quiet and careful, as if he was speaking to an invalid, “what are you doing?”

She bit her lip. “What does it look like I am doing? You want a child. I am ready to give you one.”

He frowned. “But the paintings… your work…”

“I doubt that the Prince Regent will want my paintings after all of this. I daresay he’s embarrassed. It is over, Cassian. I… I had better stick to watercolors and concentrate on being a duchess and a mother.” She gave a faint, watery smile. “That is what you wanted from me, is it not?”

He stared down at her, a deep groove etched between his eyebrows. He did not smile back.

“You are wrong if you believe I wish to lock you up,” he responded at last, his voice a little gravelly. “I need a child, to be sure, but I never intended for you to give up what you love.”

She swallowed thickly, her throat tightening. “You are refusing me, then? Come, Cassian. You say you do not love me, but I know you desire me, at the very least. Besides, it is our duty, is it not?”

Tilting her head, she flashed a weak smile, placing one hand on his chest and sliding it up to his shoulders.

Cassian’s hand rose, resting on hers. For a moment, she thought she had won. Then, his long, cool fingers closed around her wrist, gently removing her hand.

“Duty? Darling, please. When you next summon me to your bed—or wherever else we may be—you will find that duty is the very last thing on your mind,” he murmured, his voice soft and thick, sweet like honey and deep enough to make her shiver.

He leaned forward, close enough for her to breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne. Carefully, gently, he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

“A man has his pride, after all,” he continued, with an arch smile. “When I lie with you, my dear, it’ll be at the height of your happiness, not the lowest depths of your spirits.”

Before Emily could demand to know what exactly he meant by that, Cassian dropped her hand and stepped past her, striding over to the door. He opened it, the draft making the fire gust and flicker, a few pieces of half-burned paper dropping onto the hearth to smolder there.

She turned to face him, feeling a little breathless, not entirely sure how her most blatant offer had been declined.

Cassian grinned at her. “Get out that first painting of yours, and whatever other paintings you wish to display. Unfinished sketches, unpublished watercolors—whatever you like. But make sure that the Prince Regent’s painting is in pride of place, the center of attention. And, of course, make sure that it is perfect. ”

“I—”

“Don’t stand there and stare, duchess. We have work to do. Chop, chop!”