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

CHAPTER 4

TWO MONTHS LATER

E mily stood on her tiptoes, trying in vain to crane her neck over the crowd.

This would be the first time in longer than she could remember that it had been just her and Daphne.

Since the fateful day of her failed marriage ceremony, things had become rather interesting for Daphne. Her panicked dash from the church had led her straight into the arms of the Duke of Thornbridge, a famous recluse who had retreated from Society after the death of his first wife. Then, in a twist that made Society reel, she had married him.

Emily was not sure she would have done the same thing, but then she and her sister were entirely different people. Besides, Daphne did seem happy, rocky though the business had been at first.

I’m glad she was rescued. She deserved it, after trying to save me.

Abruptly, a blocky black carriage lurched through the crowded London streets. People moved respectfully out of the way of the high-stepping horses, gawking at the crest on the side as it moved by. Emily beamed, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

The carriage drew to a graceful halt in front of her, and a liveried footman leaped nimbly down to open the door.

Muffled curses came from within, and a red-faced vision in green silk began to maneuver her wide skirts through the doorway.

“Ouch. Oww, my heel! Never mind, James. I can get myself out. I’ll just… argh! There.”

With an undignified lurch, Daphne stumbled out of the carriage and beamed at her sister.

Emily bobbed an exaggerated curtsey. “Oh, I am in the presence of the Duchess of Thornbridge! You are resplendent, Your Grace.”

“Give over, or I’ll kick you in the shins,” Daphne muttered. “Don’t think these skirts will prevent me.”

Emily straightened, chuckling. “I didn’t think for a moment that they would.”

Daphne held out her arm, and Emily slipped her hand into the crook of her sister’s elbow. They turned to face the building in front of them.

“I should have known that you’d drag me to another art gallery, despite my elevated status as a married woman,” Daphne sighed.

Emily dug her elbow into her side. “I know you , Daphne, and you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to. Do you know, this is the first time we’ve been together, just the two of us, in an age.”

Daphne smiled faintly. “Yes, I know.”

There was something of a coolness between the twins, something that hadn’t been there before. Not a chasm , exactly, but something had changed. Emily knew that she was partly to blame. Daphne had pressed her to explain what had gone on between her and the Duke of Clapton in the two months since the failed wedding, and Emily had not told her.

In turn, Daphne had certainly not told her everything that had gone on between herself and Edward during her stay at his house. Not that it mattered, of course, since she and Edward were married, but it had been the first time they had kept secrets from each other.

It was inevitable, of course, that there would be secrets sooner or later. Emily and Daphne were twins, yes, but they were not the same person. Now, it seemed that their lives were pulling further and further apart. It pained Emily every time that she thought of it.

Stepping inside the art gallery, they found themselves in a vast foyer, with a few less important paintings hanging on the walls, and reproductions of some great Old Masters. There was a queue to buy tickets to get into the gallery proper, which the ladies joined.

“Married life suits you, I think,” Emily said at last.

Daphne gave a small, secret smile. “Yes. Edward is… well, he’s rather hard to describe. You like him, don’t you?”

“I suppose so. He’s nice enough. And you seem to like him and his little boy.”

“Oh, I adore Alex. Really, I do. I never imagined I’d be this happy, Emmie.”

Emily smiled, tightening her arm around her sister’s elbow. “I’m so glad for you, Daff. So glad.”

Daphne glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. “And what about you? What’s new with you?”

Emily shrugged. “Nothing. It’s just me and Mama now, living quietly and minding our own business.”

That was not entirely true. Despite herself, Emily found that she was thinking of the long, silent evenings in the parlor. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mother, but there had always been others to sit with them. Forthright Anna, now off and married, or chatty Daphne, who was also gone.

There were long periods of silence between Emily and Octavia now. With a jolt, she realized the truth—both of them were grieving. Missing their lost family members who would never live at home again, and struggling to adapt to the new reality of their quiet, dull, little life.

Well, it seems that it was Anna and Daphne who brought excitement into our lives. I daresay I am destined to remain a quiet and serious spinster.

Emily glanced at Daphne and found her sister staring at her, eyes narrowed.

“You keep your own counsel these days, I think,” Daphne remarked, half to herself. “There’s a great deal you don’t tell me.”

Emily bit her lip. “Perhaps I haven’t been as… as open as I could have been. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Daphne shrugged. “I’m not hurt. I know that things can’t go back to the way they were.”

They reached the front of the queue, paid for two tickets, and moved on to the spacious rooms beyond.

The gallery was busy for this time of day, flocks of ladies and gentlemen of all classes clustering in front of various paintings, murmuring. Brochures were available to buy, offering maps of the gallery and explanations of key paintings. Daphne bought one from an attendant, waving off Emily’s objections.

“I have a great deal of money now, you know. Edward is a rich man, and now that he is a little more happy with himself and his life, we’re spending a little more money. I have an allowance that I don’t even know what to do with. I could probably buy a couple of these paintings on a whim if I wanted.”

Daphne led the way through the crowded galleries, turning her head from left to right, looking for something. Emily felt nerves fizzle in her stomach. She followed, of course, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“We’re missing all the paintings, Daff,” she said, her voice a little wobbly.

Daphne threw a wry smile over her shoulder. “Come on, you know me by now. I don’t like art. I’m here to see one painting and one alone.”

“And you paid the entrance fee and bought a brochure for just one painting?” Emily commented. “Not exactly a bargain, is it?”

Daphne only smiled faintly, scanning the rows of pictures. “Worth every penny.”

They entered a large, circular room at the very center of the gallery. There were fewer paintings here, but more people gathered around them. A high glass dome let in plenty of light, and the white walls reflected the sunlight and gave the place an almost ethereal glow.

“There!” Daphne whispered, pointing. “There it is.”

Emily’s breath seemed to catch in her throat. A crowd of six people had gathered in front of a large painting. Unlike the others, it was a round canvas, ringed by a simple gilt frame. It gave the impression of looking through a window. There was the round window pane, swinging back and almost out of sight. A circle within a circle. Edges of a brick wall could be seen around the window, but one’s focus was drawn to the woman in the center of it all.

She was dressed a little strangely, in a high-necked gown with hardly any hoop underneath and puffed sleeves at the shoulders, her hair piled in a knot atop her head. Tendrils fell untidily around her face. A wide-brimmed straw hat hung loosely from her fingers. She was only half-turned towards the window and stood in a garden.

It was a pleasant garden, well-maintained, although a riot of birds fluttered above a hedge in the background, and a pair of abandoned, rusty shears sat in the grass by the woman’s feet. There was a basket of flowers, too, almost out of view at the edge of the window.

The woman was not the ethereal beauty found in other paintings. Her hair was drab brown, her eyes grey, her face uncompelling. What truly grabbed one’s attention, however, was her expression.

Daphne, bold as always, used her elbows and her glare to get them both to the front of the crowd. When they reached it, she withdrew the brochure and began to read.

“ Woman In The Window. Another classic painting from the mysterious artist who identifies himself only as ‘Anon.’ This scene initially gives viewers the impression of domestic bliss and contented womanhood. Or does it? On closer inspection, the woman’s face is not a vision of loveliness but bears an expression of anger, betrayal, and determination. One might notice that the flowers in the basket are wilted, the birds in the background are fighting, and the abandoned pruning shears have stains on them which caused something of a scandal upon the painting’s initial release, with some viewers claiming that the shears were, in fact, bloodied.

“ Woman In The Window has proved popular with female art connoisseurs, with ladies leaving the scene reporting feelings of energy and determination, even a sense of injustice. They found themselves pondering questions such as, what has this Woman done? Or more to the point, what is she going to do?

“ Gentlemen, however, have mostly complained that the primary figure is rather plain and wears old-fashioned clothing. As always, this submission is a thought-provoking work of art from the ever-enigmatic Anon, a gentleman we can only hope will reveal his identity to the Fashionable World very soon. ”

Daphne finished reading, glancing up at the painting again.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, quiet enough so that only Emily could hear. “Your best work.”

Emily allowed herself a small smile. Woman In The Window had not taken her very long. She’d gotten the idea for the sketch only a few days after her failed wedding, and the painting itself took shape rapidly.

Despite her anonymous status, she was able to receive payment for her work. It was never a great deal before, but Woman In The Window was immensely popular. Already, her agent was pressuring her to produce another. He, like the rest of London, assumed that she was a man, even though he addressed his letters to a post office in the center of London, to one ‘Anon Smith.’

Daphne slid her arm through Emily’s, squeezing tight.

“It’s breathtaking,” she murmured. “Edward wants to see it, and so does Alex. Anna and Theo have already been to see it three times, you know. I do so wish I could tell people that my sister is the one who painted the picture that is taking London by storm.”

“Maybe one day,” Emily sighed. “But I think that if people knew that their favorite painting was done by an uninteresting miss, they’d stop being interested. I would lose everything.”

“I know, I know. But things might change.”

Emily doubted it, but Daphne looked so hopeful that she only smiled and nodded.

The crowd began to thin. It was only temporary, of course—a large group of people had entered the previous rooms, and would soon filter through here.

“He never contacted me again,” Emily blurted out, not sure where the thought had come from.

Daphne glanced at her, arching an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

Emily sighed. “You kept asking about me and the Duke of Clapton. I was cagey about it and only said that everything was taken care of. Well, all that happened was that he didn’t contact me. Not a visit or a letter—not even a note. After I left the church, I never saw him again.”

Daphne was silent. “So, you think he’s forgotten about you?”

“He must have.”

She sighed. “Well, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Sister, but I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because he is coming towards us at this very moment.”

Emily jolted, staring at her sister with round eyes.

Daphne’s gaze was fixed on the arched doorway. Emily followed her gaze, and there he was.

The wretched, infuriating, undeniably handsome idiot. There he was.

The Duke of Clapton had paused in the doorway—for dramatic effect, no doubt—and grinned when Emily met his eyes. He began to stride towards them.

“Miss Belmont!” he greeted, holding out his arms. “And the Duchess of Thornbridge! What a treat.”

A man scurried along beside him, a slim youth of about twenty-five, with a pair of truly marvelous mustachios and a thick mop of glossy dark hair. He would have been handsome had his face not been twisted in a perpetual expression of contempt. His sneering gaze darted over Emily and then away again, clearly deeming her of no interest.

Ordinarily, that would have rankled, but Emily found that she was entirely too distracted by the swaggering Adonis that was the Duke of Clapton.

It would be much easier to dislike him if he were ugly, I think.

“Your Grace,” she said icily. “Here to admire the art? My sister and I will leave you to your tour.”

He only smiled, glancing over at Woman In The Window .

“To be truthful, I don’t much care for paintings. This one, however, is taking London by storm. Anon is quite a refreshing voice in the art world, I’ve been told.”

“Indeed,” she murmured, glancing at Daphne for support.

Daphne was eyeing the duke with narrowed eyes, lost in thought.

“Oh, but I have not introduced my friend,” the duke added, gesturing to the man beside him. “This is Mr. Titus Greaves, an aspiring artist himself. But you see, Miss Belmont, I have a rather thrilling secret to share with you. Can you guess it?”

Emily stared up at him. He met her gaze squarely, that irritating smile playing on his lips. Her attention was then drawn to his lips—which, of course, was not good at all. His lips were a little lopsided, giving him that wry, twisted smile that suited him so well.

“I am not fond of guessing games,” she responded tartly.

The duke only chuckled. “Of course, of course. Well then, I’ll just tell you. Mr. Greaves here has his work on display in this very gallery.”

Emily bit back a sigh. “Oh?”

“Yes,” the duke said, his smile widening. He never glanced away from her, clearly eager to gauge her reaction to whatever he said next. “In fact, Mr. Greaves is none other than Anon himself.”