Page 31 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 31

I t was close to noon. Emily had dragged herself out of her childhood bedroom and sprawled on a couch in the parlor, watching her mother through narrowed eyes.

Octavia was humming to herself, working on a piece of embroidery.

“You don’t seem very upset,” Emily remarked.

“Upset? Why would I be upset? The ball last night was a roaring triumph. The Prince Regent adores your art, which means that all of England adores your art, and you are a duchess, safely married. Why should I be upset?” Octavia snorted. “Few mothers can boast about marrying off three daughters to dukes. I consider myself a success in that regard.”

Emily propped herself up on her elbows. “I have left my husband, Mama!”

Octavia clicked her tongue. “Let me tell you something, my dear. I have had both of your sisters lying on that couch at one time or another, crying or raging over something, blissfully unaware that they are madly in love with their husbands and that they are madly in love with them in return. Forgive me for not being too worried.”

Emily bit her lip. “This time is different. Cassian doesn’t love me. He never can.”

She waited for her mother to tear her eyes away from her embroidery, but Octavia only kept working, smiling mildly.

“When you live as long as I have, my dear,” she murmured, snipping off a thread, “you’ll learn to read people. You young people believe you’re so very discreet, so very clever, but I’m afraid that your thoughts are written plainly on your faces, just like everybody else.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Emily demanded, a little snippily.

At that moment, the butler appeared at the doorway. “A Miss Rawdon for Her Grace, Your Ladyship,” he announced, looking faintly surprised.

Emily sat upright. “Frances? Show her in, please.”

Frances came shuffling in, looking a little nervous. She smiled faintly at Emily, eyeing Octavia nervously.

“I’m sorry for coming over without prior notice,” she murmured. “But it’s… Well, it’s rather urgent.”

Emily rose to her feet, glancing over at her mother.

Octavia had finally put down her embroidery, and was now eyeing Frances curiously.

“Well, sit down, my dear. I shall order tea,” she responded, smiling encouragingly.

Frances drew in a breath. “I… There is no time. Emily, please, you must go home. Cassian is acting strangely, and I… I think you ought to speak to him. He’s quite desperate.”

Emily frowned, folding her arms. “Well, perhaps I don’t wish to.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emily,” Octavia sighed. “Surely you do not mean to be more stubborn than Daphne?”

Emily flushed. “Of course not! I was only saying… Oh, I will go home, then.”

Octavia smiled, pleased. “Excellent. Well, while you prepare yourself to go out, Miss Rawdon and I will sit down and have some tea. How does that sound, Miss Rawdon?”

Frances smiled shyly. “I should like that very much, My Lady.”

“Oh, you must call me Octavia .”

Feeling slightly piqued, anxiety squeezing her chest, Emily hurried out of the room, leaving the two of them talking as companionably as if they really were mother and daughter.

* * *

Where is everybody?

Emily peered up and down the empty corridors, frowning. Aside from the footman who’d let her in, there seemed to be no servants around.

A cough from behind her made her jump, and she turned to see Reeves standing before her.

“I believe His Grace is in the Art Room,” he said gently.

Emily swallowed hard. “I see. Thank you.”

He bowed, melting away, leaving her alone once more.

She stood still, frowning, picking at her cuffs and trying to work out exactly what she wanted.

Why have I come here? Why should I care about him? He hurt me.

Sighing, she closed her eyes.

Unfortunately for me, I am in love with the wretch. Oh, well done, Emily. And everybody thought that you were the clever one.

Opening her eyes, she set off a brisk pace towards the Art Room.

As she approached, she noticed that the door was ajar, and sounds of movement came from inside. Slowing down, she frowned, pushing open the door a little and peering through.

Inside, stripped down to his trousers and shirtsleeves, Cassian toiled at a huge canvas, nearly as tall as he was. It sat lopsided on the easel, streaked with smears of color and roughly sketched shapes. A rough, paint-daubed blanket was laid out beneath him in an effort to catch any paint drips.

As she watched, he swore under his breath, wiping away sweat from his brow. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his forearms were splattered with paint. He picked up a brush, swirling it in an already murky pot of water to clean it, and began to painstakingly draw a long brown line on the canvas.

“What are you doing?”

He flinched, his hand skidding across the canvas, leaving a sharp line of color behind it. Spinning around, he stared at her.

“What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn’t be back today.”

She blinked. “Frances came to tell me you wished to see me.”

He stared at her for a long moment, before giving a short, mirthless laugh. “The clever, little rascal. I think she played us both for fools, then.”

Emily stepped a little further into the room, still trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“I… I don’t understand. What are you doing?”

He gestured helplessly with the paintbrush. “Painting. I used to draw a little when I was young, and I rather foolishly thought that it would be easy. It is not easy.”

She gave a wry smile. “Drawing and painting are two very different skills. What is it meant to be, then? The picture, I mean.”

He eyed her for a long moment. “You, of course.”

She hadn’t expected that.

She cast a wide-eyed glance at him. “M-Me?”

“Yes. Aphrodite in Spectacles. It made rather an impression on me at the time.”

She swallowed thickly. “I… I don’t understand.”

Cassian carefully set the paint palette on top of the canvas and took a step towards her.

“I… I have tried to ignore my feelings and pretend that yours did not exist. You told me that you loved me, and it made me feel… it made me feel raw. Vulnerable and open , the way I did after I lost Matthew. I always swore that I would never feel that way again. And Father, of course, used such feelings to his advantage, and I—” He broke off, his throat bobbing. He lifted a paint-streaked hand, combing his fingers through his hair. “I suppose I have become him, in the end,” he murmured.

Emily wrung her hands. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that. That awful man you described is not who you are. He just isn’t!”

Cassian breathed in, lifting his head and meeting her eyes. “I am not looking for pity, Emily. I’m not here for excuses, or to try and explain away my actions. This painting was meant to be a gesture, to show you that I care. It… It all seems rather childish now.” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “I suppose I’ve been trying to make myself hard and unyielding for so long that I don’t know what words to use.”

Emily took another step closer, unable to tear her eyes away from him. “I think perhaps you do know what words to use, Cassian,” she breathed. “In your heart, you know.”

He met her gaze, his eyes dark and hungry. Tentatively, Emily stepped up onto the platform. He was within reach now. If she wished, she could extend her hand and touch the firm planes of his chest, feel the warm skin beneath his thin shirt. Her fingers itched to touch him.

He breathed out, long and slow, still holding her gaze. “I love you, Emily,” he confessed, the words clear and simple. “I can hide from the truth no longer. I swore to my brother that I would not give my heart away, but I think… I think that if he were alive now, he would not like what I have become. So, if I wish to honor his memory, I must choose a different path, and I think I would like to choose love. I choose you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her words failing her.

Cassian tilted his head to the side, that wolfish smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “Well? Are you still angry with me? Can you forgive me?”

She barked out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I find it exceptionally hard to be angry with you, Your Grace .”

His grin widened. Taking a step forward, he wound an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Heat and aching desire swept through her, making her heart pound faster and faster.

“Well, how about if I made you angry, duchess?” he murmured, his eyes dark and hungry. “You’re most becoming when you are angry.”

She lifted a hand tentatively, just as she had the night she left, her fingertips trailing across his cheek.

“I don’t want to be angry with you right now,” she whispered.

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. The touch, gentle and chaste as it was, sent tingles down her arm. His hand rose, his fingers curling around her wrist, and he kissed her.

It was an odd, paint-scented kiss, sending desire prickling down her spine in the most thrilling way.

His arm tightened around her waist, his hand coming up to pull at the laces holding her gown together. He somehow managed to loosen them, and suddenly Emily was aware of a gust of cool air on her back, her dress gaping open.

She pulled away, gasping in surprise, her eyes flying open. However, she knocked into the easel. For a moment, the thing stood there, teetering. The tins of paint wobbled, already unsteady. Slowly, and then all at once, the tin fell first, a bold slash of colour rolling from top to bottom of the canvas. The mostly-empty tin clanged when it hit the ground, sending a spray of bright coloured paint across the floor.

Then the easel tipped over altogether, toppling off the platform, and the canvas fell face-up to the floor. Streaks of color from the spilled tin of paint skidded across the surface of the canvas, obscuring Cassian’s artistic efforts.

“Cassian?”

“I will stop if you wish,” he breathed, his fingertips ghosting over the nape of her neck. “This need not go further. The choice is yours, Emily.”

Emily closed her eyes, desire and anxiety warring inside her.

I want this more than I have wanted anything, I think.

She opened her eyes, meeting his carefully.

“I want this,” she declared, as confidently as she could. “I want you.”

Hunger and relief crossed Cassian’s face, his eyes darkening, his smile widening. He said nothing, only leaned down and kissed her again, hard and passionate.

Abruptly, he pulled back, spinning her around by the shoulders so that she had her back to him.

“You should take your hair down,” he said, picking at the rest of the laces at the back of her dress. “I adore the way you look with your hair down.”

Emily lifted a nervous hand to her hair, pulling out the few pins that secured it. Cassian deftly undid the laces at the back of her gown, loosening it until she could step out of it altogether, and he kicked the crumpled fabric away.

She turned slowly to face him, her skin breaking out in goosebumps in the cold room, covered by her petticoats and shift. And her corset, of course. The last hairpins came out, and the weight of her tangled hair dropped onto her shoulders, warm and soft.

Cassian’s heated gaze slid down her body, ravenous.

“Now, you take something off,” Emily heard herself say, lifting her chin.

Cassian met her eyes, grinning, and hastily tore off his shirt, carelessly tossing it away. Now that he was bare-chested, she could see where globs of paint had soaked through the fabric and colored his skin, streaks of azure blue and canary yellow and vibrant red dappling his skin.

Her petticoats came off next—horrid, bulky things that they were—and Emily lifted shaking fingers to the laces of her corset.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I thought ladies wear corsets that fasten at the back. Only maids and women of ill repute wear front- lacing corsets.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know you are teasing me, but I would like to point out just how much more practical a front-lacing corset can be.”

The corset came undone easily, the laces loosening, and she heaved a sigh of relief as it fell away.

However, this left her standing in nothing more than her shift and stockings, the thin material showing every curve of her body. In the cool room, her nipples hardened and peaked, rubbing against the fabric.

Cassian’s eyes dropped to her bosom, and his chest heaved.

He kissed her, again and again, on the mouth, the cheek, the forehead. He kissed her closed eyelids, and then the soft skin of her neck, where a tender spot reminded her of his teeth ever so gently biting the flesh there.

Abruptly, Cassian dropped to his knees, his hands on her waist. His palms slid upwards, teasing the underside of her breasts. The surge of pleasure almost took Emily by surprise, forcing her to suck in a breath and steady herself against his broad shoulders.

Chuckling, he dropped his hands and slid them under her shift without warning. The material lifted as he did so, and the cool air on her skin made her shiver deliciously. His fingers found the juncture between her thighs, moving in a now-familiar but no less thrilling way. He watched her for a moment, her cheeks flushing and her breath coming hard.

Emily’s fingers wound into his hair. “Cassian,” she gasped, feeling as though she was asking for something that she did not entirely understand.

He tugged at the hem of her shift, and in a burst of bravery, she hauled it up over her head, leaving herself standing entirely naked with one of his hands on her hip and the other hidden between her thighs.

That took him by surprise, she could tell, for his eyebrows shot up and his jaw slackened, his gaze turning lustful. Then, he grinned, his eyes hot and intense, all wolf and all man at once.

Suddenly, the world spun around her. Emily found herself swept effortlessly off her feet and lowered gently, but not too gently, onto her back.

The familiar rough-but-soft surface on which she’d been painting all her life shifted under her back, and she realized hazily that she was lying on the canvas. There was something cold and slippery underneath her.

The spilled paint.

But there was no more time to ponder that because then Cassian was on top of her, his elbows sliding in the smeared paint as he supported his weight, his bare chest pressing against hers.

Oh, skin against bare skin was entirely a different thing, searingly hot and yet not quite enough.

He kissed her, his hand sliding down her bare stomach again, and she wound her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close.

Emily felt as though she were about to burst, the feeling bubbling up inside her with nowhere to go, when he abruptly sat back on his heels. She propped herself up on her elbows. Her hair must have gotten in the paint, for a wet lock slapped against her skin, leaving a long streak of vibrant leaf green on her shoulder.

“What is it?” she whispered, breathless.

“You,” Cassian responded, his voice catching. “You’re so beautiful.”

She bit her lip. “I am covered in paint.”

“Yes.” He paused, tilting his head. “I wanted to paint Aphrodite in Spectacles. I think I may have gotten my wish.”

His hand strayed to his waistband. Emily watched, fascinated, as he undid the placket of his trousers.

She had seen the occasional sketch of a man’s member in various anatomy textbooks, but the real thing was something a little different. Larger, for one thing.

“As I said,” Cassian murmured, his voice still hoarse, “you may stop at any time.”

She swallowed, holding his gaze. Desire pulsed inside her, a hot ache that throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

“I don’t want to stop,” she declared, meeting his eyes. “I want you, Cassian.”

He threw himself on her, paint-smeared limbs tangling, her stockinged leg hooking around his hip. She noticed, dizzily, that there were patches of blue, gold, and black on her stocking, which was probably ruined.

Cassian angled his hips, sliding inside her. It was the strangest sensation—a little uncomfortable at first, but not as painful as Emily had feared.

“Emily?” he whispered, smoothing back her hair from her forehead. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh, don’t stop. Don’t.”

He chuckled throatily, pressing his lips to the side of her neck.

He began to move, slowly at first, then growing in confidence, while she threw back her head and closed her eyes, feeling her pleasure slowly but surely grow to a peak. His hands slid from her hip to her shoulder, leaving sticky patches of paint. She was fairly sure she had left two full handprints on his shoulders, and more on his chest and sides. Beneath them, sticky, slippery paint shifted, painting the strangest picture anybody had ever seen.

Her eyes flew open when her climax shuddered through her, something new and more intense than before. She breathed his name, arching her back and pressing herself against him.

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut, his hips still moving and stuttering, until he pressed himself against her with a ragged gasp, spilling inside her.

They lay there for a few moments, their breathing labored, until Cassian gingerly pulled out of her.

“Emily?” he asked, sounding groggy. “Are you well? Was that…”

“It was excellent ,” she breathed, giggling.

Grinning, he extended a hand, and she pulled herself into a sitting position. There was an odd sucking sound as her back slid away from the paint-covered canvas. Twisting around, she grimaced at the strange, colorful picture they had made.

“Well, it’s safe to say that your painting is ruined.” Emily giggled.

Cassian grinned widely. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it looks better than ever. We should hang it in the gallery, and see if our friends can guess what it is.”

“You had better be joking.”

He took her paint-covered hand and lifted it to his lips. “I am afraid, my dear duchess, I am deadly serious.”