Page 29 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 29

The Following Evening

“I … I didn’t think that anybody would come ,” Emily gasped, pushing her way through the crowd.

“Well, you were wrong about that, weren’t you?” Daphne muttered.

She had one arm wound protectively around her middle, and her husband went in front of her, none-too-gently shouldering through the crowd, keeping the worst of the crush away from her.

Emily and Anna followed behind, hand in hand so as not to be separated. Their mother was here too, of course, as were Theo and Beatrice, but they’d been separated and were nowhere to be seen.

“It isn’t every day that the Duke of Clapton opens his home to the whole of Society and invites them to come in and look at his wife’s paintings,” Anna pointed out wryly.

Invitations had been sent out to important members of Society, as well as friends, family, and so on, but Cassian had somehow managed to let it be known that uninvited members of the ton might be admitted. And so the queue outside the Clapton residence snaked far down the street.

The road was clogged with carriages of all kinds, the drivers all shouting frantically and pointing their whips at each other. Emily had gawped out the window for a moment or two, watching a rather well-known family give up on being dropped off at the door.

They flung open the carriage door and climbed down right in the middle of the street, with carriages and pedestrians flocking all around them, and, with their heads held high, sailed across to the pavement and climbed up the front steps.

All this for my paintings?

The ballroom had been set up as the display room, and it was crowded with people. Guests spilled over into the hallways and into the other rooms, all jostling and pushing.

Nine of Emily’s works were displayed in the ballroom. There were three sketches she had done over the years, well-executed but not particularly interesting. There were two half-finished paintings, one of which was an early draft of Woman In The Window . She also included the sketch of Cassian, although her face reddened every time she passed by it.

Of course, she had not drawn him with his clothes off.

Two more paintings were complete works that she had never submitted to a gallery—one a seascape with drowning sailors, the other a young woman crying at a writing desk as she penned a letter.

And then, finally, hanging on a wall of its own, was the first painting she had done for the Prince Regent. It was entitled The First Day.

Emily was proud of it. It was entirely different from Woman In The Window , but in a good way. One almost felt as if one were sitting on the other side of the bed, watching the King and Queen stare down at their first child in terrified amazement.

The faint streaks of blood on the sheets were still there—she had been tempted to paint them out, to play safe, but had decided against it—and there was a sheen of sweat on Queen Charlotte’s face, her skin pale and eyes heavy, her hair tangled and untidy. It was not very regal , but it was, in Emily’s opinion, extremely honest.

Let us hope that the Prince Regent thinks so. If he arrives, of course.

That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? If the Prince Regent arrived, the party would be a success. If he liked her painting, then she would be a success.

They finally barreled through the crowd, finding themselves in a little pocket of space in front of the paintings.

“I’d better go and find Mama,” Daphne muttered miserably. “Edward, come with me.”

“I’ll try and find Theo, I suppose,” Anna sighed, shaking a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Emily, will you be quite all right to stay here by yourself?”

Emily flashed her sister a fond smile. All evening, her family had been like a bristling, protective hedge around her, glowering at anybody who dared to mention the scandal sheets or the newspapers.

They hadn’t been able to protect her from the disapproving glares and loud tuts, of course, but she had always known she was going to have to weather those.

Anna disappeared into the throng, but Daphne paused, then inched closer, putting a hand on her twin’s shoulder. “Do you want me to stay, Emily?” she whispered. “Where is the duke, by the way? He is your husband. I would have thought he would be here.”

Emily bit the inside of her cheek, mustering a faint smile. “Cassian has done a great deal for me. It was his idea, this party, and so far it seems to be a great success.”

Daphne eyed her for a long moment, a faint frown on her face.

“We are twins, you know,” she said. “Our lives might be diverging a little, but I still know you , Emily. And I know when you are hiding something from me.”

Emily swallowed, not meeting her twin’s eyes. “Not now, Daff,” she whispered.

Daphne’s jaw tightened, but she nodded, stepping away. “As you like, Emmie. Just know that when you are ready to talk, I am here.”

Emily nodded. “Thank you.”

And just like that, Daphne melted back into the crowd, her husband hot on her heels, and Emily was left alone.

Well, not alone . One couldn’t possibly be alone in a crowd like that. She took a moment to compose herself, glancing around.

People were standing in clusters in front of her paintings and sketches, eyeing them curiously, their eyes wide, murmuring amongst themselves.

“You’re a talented woman,” came a familiar voice at her elbow.

Emily glanced up to find Margaret standing beside her, a glass of champagne in her hand.

“Thank you,” she managed. “Is Frances here?”

“Yes, she is. I lost her in the crowd, but I believe she intended to take a good look at all of your pictures. She is quite astounded, I must say. I suspect that when we get home, she will dig out all of her art supplies and begin drawing and painting again.” Margaret paused, chuckling. “I daresay she’ll do very well. Frances excels at whatever she puts her mind to. I often wonder how I came to have such a beautiful, sweet, and talented child.”

“You do yourself a disservice,” Emily found herself saying. “You were an opera singer, were you not? That is a remarkable talent, one that I do not possess. And you are beautiful and intelligent.”

Margaret eyed her for a long moment, saying nothing.

The two women stood side by side, angled as if to stare up at Emily’s seascape. It was framed by carved, dark wood, making the picture look darker than it already was. The focus of the image was, of course, the boat in the middle of the tumultuous sea, tilted dangerously to one side and taking on water.

Several sailors were frantically bailing out the water, their eyes wide with terror, while others clung to the masts and rigging, fear written all over their faces. A young man, barely more than a boy, crouched on the prow of the ship, peering down at the dark water below, almost meditatively. He alone was the only one not terrified.

“I do not mean you any harm, you know,” Margaret murmured, her voice so quiet that Emily could barely hear her over the roar of the crowd. “You seem to be a nice woman. But I saw how you looked at Cassian, and I simply had to warn you away. He… he has been good to me and Frances, but he is not a man to be trusted. He had his heart broken irrevocably when he was a child.”

“You mean his brother’s death?”

Margaret’s throat worked. “Yes,” she whispered. “Some people can deal with heartbreak well enough. Cassian is not one of those people. He withdrew into himself, and when he emerged, he was hard and cold and fearless. He cannot love. I have known him for years, and he has had mistresses and such. Not a staggering number, but some of them did have hopes of becoming the Duchess of Clapton one day. All of them were disappointed, of course. I believe that one or two of them did love him, but their feelings were never reciprocated. He can do that, you see. He can turn his back on those who love him. I… I fear not for myself but for Frances. She adores him. But now that he has a wife, children will soon follow, and I cannot help but wonder… Well, enough of that.”

She turned to face Emily, her expression serious.

“You do not deserve heartbreak,” she continued. “You are the duchess, and that is a fine thing. I imagine he likes you a good deal, and that is good. Keep your heart to yourself, and you’ll live a comfortable life. That is what I did with the Baron. I know how important security is to a woman. Keep your head, and you shall be quite all right. You are lucky to be a lady, you know. He cannot cast you out when he’s tired of you. You can have him in your bed and your parlor if you wish, but you will not have him to yourself.”

There was a pause, and Emily was sure she was meant to say something, but she simply could not summon the words.

Margaret’s expression softened, and she put a hand on her shoulder. “I do not mean to be unkind,” she said carefully. “I only want you to avoid the mistakes I made. I fell in love with Matthew, and I…” She paused, sounding a little choked up. “I still feel the pain of it. He did love me, and I betrayed him, but now I must live without him. Living without the one you love is a most singular and agonizing pain. Listen to me, Emily, and take heed.”

There was a brief pause between them.

“Do you regret it?” Emily whispered. “I know you do not regret Frances, but do you regret being in love with Matthew?”

Margaret held her gaze for a long moment, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Regret it?” she repeated, almost thoughtfully. “No, I do not regret being in love with Matthew. It hurts me every day that he is not beside me, and I will never escape the guilt of my cowardice. But that love… oh, it was something marvelous, Emily. It was the sort of thing the poets write about, the thing that everybody spends their lives searching for. Regret the love of my life? No, I could never do that.”

Before Emily could reply—not that she was sure what she would say—there was a commotion by the doors.

In a flash, Cassian was pushing through the crowd towards her, an easy smile on his lips, but the red spots staining his cheeks showed how hard he really had to push to reach her.

“He’s here,” he whispered.

“W-What?” Emily stammered.

He seized her by the hand and began towing her through the crowd.

“Who do you think?” Cassian shot back. “The Prince Regent. He’s here!”

“His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent!” boomed an unfamiliar male voice near the entrance.

Cassian just managed to haul Emily to the front of the crowd, which was pulling back to allow respectful space for the footmen in royal livery trooping in. The Prince Regent and his entourage swaggered into the ballroom, and everybody dropped into low bows and curtseys.

Emily’s hand was still in Cassian’s as he gave a slight bow, and she followed his lead. It was probably a lapse of etiquette, but it was entirely too late for that.

Peering up, Emily noticed that a rather portly man in a resplendent, military-style red coat had stepped into the room, peering around somewhat myopically.

His eyes landed on them, and he approached, his highly-shined Hessians squeaking on the polished floor.

“Arise, please,” the Prince said, sounding a little bored.

His entourage shuffled in behind him, men in similar coats to his and women in bobbing feathered headdresses and tight silk gowns.

Cassian had already straightened up, when he gently pulled Emily with him, and she looked the Prince Regent square in the eye.

His clothes glittered with gold, silver, and endless medals arrayed on his chest, his hair swept forward in the latest style, his collar points high and fashionable. He had a rather petulant mouth and a very round face, and was rather taller than Emily had expected. His gaze shifted slowly from Cassian to Emily, and a hush fell over the entire ballroom.

“You are Anon, then,” he said, at last.

She gulped. “Yes, Your Highness, I am.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Surprising, for a woman to produce such excellent paintings. Am I to assume you intend to take me up on my offer?”

“I do, Your Highness,” Emily answered.

She was gripping the sides of her skirts like a child. Her spectacles had slipped down her nose a little, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to push them up again.

I cannot do this. My entire future hinges on the approval of this man, who so far looks thoroughly bored by me. I am not half as pretty as any of the women behind him.

Cassian stepped up beside her, taking her hand in his.

“My wife’s talent is remarkable, ” he said, his voice firm and confident. “It must be shared with Society. And I know that you, Your Highness, as one who truly loves and appreciates all that is beautiful, will enjoy this small offering.”

He glanced down at Emily, quirking an eyebrow. Say something, was the implication.

She cleared her throat and forced herself to meet the Prince’s eyes again.

“I will present all five of the paintings at the closing ball of the Season, as per your offer, Your Highness,” she declared, a little surprised that her voice had stopped shaking. “But I thought you would wish to see the very first painting now, ahead of time.”

The Prince eyed her for a long moment.

“I suppose I would,” he said, eventually. “Which is it?”

Emily let out a ragged breath. “This way, please.”

The crowd parted for her and Cassian as if by magic. They carved out a wide path towards The First Day, his hand still in hers. Stepping aside, they let the Prince walk up to the painting.

His eyes widened. He stepped forward, saying nothing. A tense hush fell over the ballroom.

“The colors are remarkable,” he murmured, half to himself. “And the intimacy of the painting… I must say, duchess, this is not what I expected.” He glanced at her as if expecting some response.

“I pride myself on being unpredictable,” Emily responded, tilting her chin up.

The Prince arched an eyebrow and gave the tiniest, tiniest smile, turning back to the painting.

“Blood on the sheets,” he noted, and a murmur rippled through the room. “A fine way of depicting my dear mother’s struggles to bring me into the world. Very subtle, though. Very discreet. And my father…” he trailed off, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows.

The Prince Regent half lifted his hand towards the painted King hunched at the end of his wife’s bed, mirroring the way the King reached out hesitantly to his firstborn child.

He seemed to compose himself, letting his hand drop to his side and clearing his throat loudly. Turning around, he faced the crowd, meeting Emily’s eyes first and then Cassian's.

“It’s perfect,” he said aloud.

There were a few surprised gasps—apparently, not everybody had believed that the Prince would be pleased with Emily’s painting—and murmurs broke out.

“I am so glad, Your Highness,” Emily gasped, feeling oddly weak.

“Yes, I like this painting very much. And I look forward to seeing the rest of your work, duchess.” He took a step forward, and his entourage surged around him. “Anon is Anon no more, it seems, and I for one am rather fascinated to see what she will do next.”