Page 5 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 5

E mily stared up at the duke for a long moment, a flush creeping up her neck. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to scream, throw something, stamp on the duke’s shiny Hessians, or just turn and flee.

Maybe she could do all of those things in that order. Yes, that would be nice.

The duke looked straight back at her, a faint smile playing on his lips. Waiting. Waiting for her reaction.

In the end, Daphne was the one who spoke first. She never could stay quiet for very long.

“Whoever this man is,” she interjected evenly, “he is not Anon.”

“I could be!” Titus Greaves argued. “I made paintings before. It doesn’t look particularly difficult. I mean, look at this one—it’s just a chit standing in a garden.”

Daphne shot him a withering glare. “Spoken like a true artist.”

The duke rolled his eyes and flapped his hand in the air. “Oh, Titus, you disappoint me. That’ll be all. Go on, off you go.”

Titus looked offended. “Well, what am I meant to do?”

The duke leveled a cool, even stare at the man, who had the sense to cringe. “Why don’t you look at some of the pictures, Titus? Take your time. Really have a good look, eh?”

Titus scurried away, muttering to himself under his breath, but not so loud as to risk the duke hearing him.

The three of them watched him go, and Emily was sure she saw something like chagrin on his face.

Sensing her gaze on him, he turned back to face her. In an instant, the mask was back, calm and impenetrable, that smile flashing once again.

To her horror, she felt a twinge of something that felt very much like attraction in her chest.

It’s entirely natural . Yes, his character is offensive and entirely off-putting, but he has a very nice face and a remarkable pair of shoulders, and it’s natural to find such a thing alluring.

All I must do is make sure that my silly fantasies do not get in the way of rational thinking. It’s not as if I want to marry this man. I had a narrow escape, after all.

“What are you doing here, Your Grace?” Emily heard herself asking, refusing to back away.

He was standing a little too close, with the excuse of being hemmed in by the crowds, and her skin was prickling.

The duke pursed his lips. “Can’t a man visit his betrothed?”

Emily sucked in a breath. “I am not your betrothed.”

“It’s true,” Daphne chipped in. “She’s not. You’d better go, or else I’ll hit you with my parasol. I have more at home, so it doesn’t matter if this one gets bent.”

The duke stared at her for a long moment. Daphne stared back.

“I see,” he said, eventually. “Well, I hoped to converse with Miss Belmont in private. Could we perhaps organize such a thing? In this busy art gallery, I am sure it would not be improper.”

Daphne clenched her jaw, glancing at her sister.

Emily felt torn. On the one hand, she did not want to talk to the duke any more than she had to. Talking with that man felt like being circled by a wolf, anticipating it to pounce at any moment. He had the most infuriating air about him, as if he knew everything and had all the answers.

Most irritatingly of all, it seemed that he often did .

If I don’t speak to him here, he’ll only waylay me somewhere else. It might be a more embarrassing incident.

She sighed, nodding at Daphne. “Five minutes. I’ll speak to him for five minutes, and then we’re leaving.”

They had planned to tour the gallery, of course, but Emily found that her joy in her own painting was now somewhat subdued. The thrill of seeing her work on display was rather muted these days, and she could only focus on the disappointing words beneath the frame: Anon .

Daphne pursed her lips, clearly displeased. “Fine. But you mustn’t go far. And after five minutes, I shall track you down and drag you away.”

This last part seemed more for the duke’s benefit than anything else. He executed an elegant bow, to which she glared.

Turning on her heel, Daphne flounced off, leaving Emily and the duke alone.

They were not really alone, of course. The circular room was filling up again, a new crowd gathering in front of Woman In The Window.

The duke’s fingers curled around her elbow without warning, leading her away.

Emily allowed herself to be led, more out of surprise than anything else. He led her across to a smaller painting of a bed of flowers, which had earned fewer spectators than Woman In The Window.

“What is your game?” she hissed, as soon as they were more or less alone. “You know that Titus Greaves didn’t paint Woman In The Window , or any of Anon’s other works. And you know it because you know that I am Anon.”

“Quite right,” the duke agreed. “My dear Titus is a rather accomplished artist himself, and I do believe that if he were put to the test, he could produce a very pretty painting.”

“I can believe that,” she muttered. “Who is he?”

“An actor, of course.”

There was no of course about it. Emily stared up at him, trying to read his face. There was nothing there, of course.

“Why?” she bit out.

It was the only word that came to mind, and it seemed to encompass all the questions she wanted to ask.

The duke looked away briefly. “It is generally assumed that Anon is a man. A member of the ton, too. People often assume that talent and high birth go hand in hand. This is naturally ludicrous. Due to the rather horrifying periods of inbreeding among the nobles in previous generations, I would argue that the exact opposite is true, and high birth is really only awarded to the truly stupid. In any case, Miss Belmont, I had to make a point. Obviously, nobody is going to believe that Titus Greaves is Anon. But what if I were to find a more convincing gentleman?”

She clenched her jaw, lifting her chin. “He could be the most convincing gentleman in the world. He can’t paint like Anon because nobody can. Only I can. I am Anon.”

Was she really saying such a thing? Emily knew she did not have the confidence of her older sisters, who seemed to breeze through life with quick wit and sheer determination, while she scurried after them. And here she was, looking this man in the eye and loudly admitting to her talent.

It’s him. He makes me act strangely.

She put the thought aside, concentrating on the duke’s response, which would surely come at any moment now.

He was looking down at her, faint amusement in his eyes.

“Indeed you are, Miss Belmont. And indeed you could prove that you are Anon. However, such a thing would force you to expose your identity before you are ready. Your successes are great, to be sure, but some of your paintings are not considered ladylike. Bloody garden shears, for instance. I believe one of your earlier works featured Medusa chasing down Perseus. I wonder how you intended that scene to end?”

She clenched her jaw. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying exactly what you know already, my dear. This is the reason you agreed to marry me—so that I would keep silent about your work. Anon as a man is bold, his work striking and thought-provoking, his talent evident. Anon as a woman is a rather shocking thing, disgusting and most unladylike. Talent becomes blind luck if Anon is a woman, and the work is cheapened. Critics will start to bore holes in your work, the spectators will stop coming. Women ought to be painting flowers and so on, don’t you know?”

Emily stayed quiet. He was right—she did know this already. Female painters and writers and poets always faced a barrage of challenges that male artists avoided. Her reputation, of course, would be ruined. Painting for enjoyment was one thing, but having her work displayed? For money ? The scandal would be intense.

Of course, she’d dreamt of revealing her identity, of embracing the notoriety that would follow. She’d imagined how her life would change.

But then consequences would reveal themselves.

Can I really live on the fringes of Society? Can anybody?

Am I just making excuses? Am I just a coward?

She cleared her throat, putting the thoughts aside.

“What is your point?” she managed. “What are you trying to tell me?”

He grinned. “If you married me, if you were a duchess… well, people will forgive you anything. One is allowed to be eccentric if one is married to a duke. You’d be an incredibly wealthy woman, secure in her position. You could paint. You could reveal yourself as Anon. Yes, critics would attack you, but censure won’t affect a duchess the way it would a single woman who remains a simple miss . You can be a genius, famous artist if you wish.”

Emily swallowed thickly. “I… I’m not a genius. And I don’t understand, why are you going to all this trouble to convince me to marry you?”

There was a moment when she did not know whether he was going to respond or not.

At last, the duke heaved a sigh and glanced away. “The terms of my father’s will are very clear,” he began, an edge to his voice. “I must marry and produce an heir by my thirtieth birthday, or I forfeit everything. Hence the rush.”

She sucked in a breath. “And how old are you now?”

He met her gaze. “Nine-and-twenty and one month.”

Ah. Well, the man’s hurry to the altar made a great deal more sense, then.

Emily grimaced. Her father had been a good man, if an imperfect one. He’d loved his family, and while he’d had nothing much to leave them in the event of his death, she knew without a doubt that he would never have added any unpleasant conditions to their inheritance.

I don’t know much about the late duke, but I can’t imagine he was a very pleasant man.

This, however, added a new element to their arrangement. Emily had never envisioned sharing her bed with the man. After all, many marriages of convenience were bereft of any carnal desires. She’d always thought it a very sensible arrangement.

Now, however, she felt her cheeks heating, her thoughts going where she would rather they did not.

He wants an heir. That means we’ll have to share a bed.

Don’t be childish, Emily. Not just sharing a bed—that implies sleeping, and there won’t be much… Goodness, I should not think this way.

She cleared her throat, praying for the flush in her cheeks to go away. Respectable ladies did not think about bedding gentlemen. Respectable ladies did not even know about the process until their wedding nights.

Octavia, of course, scorned such nonsense and ensured that her daughters were instructed in the facts of life well before marriage was on the horizon.

But that was not the point.

“You see, despite all this, I have no desire to be in love,” the duke drawled, making her jump. “I require a marriage of convenience, and I require a woman who thinks the same as I do on this subject. I require a woman who can be logical . Which is why I did not marry your most esteemed sister. While I’m sure she is a delight, perhaps logic is not her strongest suit.”

That was a fair point—Daphne never looked before she leaped, as it were—but Emily bristled anyway.

“Don’t speak of my sister in that way. You’d have been lucky to marry her!”

Only because I was too cowardly to stop her from taking my place.

He bowed apologetically. “Do forgive me. However, my point stands, Miss Belmont. I thought a great deal about what you said to me before—that we are not rivals. Well, of course, we aren’t. We are on the same side. If you were to marry me, you’d have the freedom that you seek. I will receive my inheritance if all goes to plan, and once an heir has been duly produced, Anon may step out of the shadows.”

She said nothing, nibbling on her lower lip. The duke slunk a little closer until she could smell his cologne—that sharp, alluring scent that she’d noticed before.

“You are a clever woman, Miss Belmont,” he murmured. “You know that I am right.”

She still didn’t reply.

Perhaps he is right. If I don’t marry him, what are my prospects? Daphne and Anna are married and safe. I am… I am forgotten. I’m not beautiful like Anna, and I’m not forthright and brave like Daphne. I’m not rich, I’m not charming, I… I’m Anon. Who would want to marry me?

She glanced up at him, slowly, and found his gaze resting steadily on her. Waiting for her reply. He tilted his head to the side, waiting.

“You make a good argument,” she relented slowly. “I understand your urgency. However, after our last disastrous attempt at marriage, you can’t blame me for taking my time to think it over. You’ll have to wait for my answer, or else find another woman to marry.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I can be a patient man, but not indefinitely so. How long do you need to think it over?”

She thought quickly. He certainly did not have a great deal of time before his thirtieth birthday, not if a child had to be produced before then.

“Two weeks,” she said.

He barked out a laugh. “Two weeks ? My dear Miss Belmont, surely not. You may have one day.”

She recoiled. “A day isn’t enough to think anything over.”

“Miss Belmont, do you think particularly slowly?”

She bristled again. “Do you think I do?”

They both took a step towards each other, almost involuntarily. Emily was faintly aware that they were standing too close for propriety, but it was as if she were trapped in a magnetic pull. Heat pulsed through her chest, dropping low into her gut. She did not particularly want to investigate the sensation, and she hoped that it would go away.

“Ten days, then,” she suggested.

“Two days,” he countered.

“That’s not enough time! Seven.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

“Done.” He extended a hand.

Emily blinked, staring down at it. They’d struck a bargain. She had five days to decide whether she was going to marry this man or not. At the end of it, if she said no, he would doubtlessly expose her as Anon, or force her to expose herself .

I can do it. I can weather the scandal. I’m braver than I think I am. Or perhaps I’ll simply force myself to be brave. Is that not what bravery is, anyway? Forcing oneself to do something while one is terrified?

She breathed in deeply and took his hand. His palm was rough and warm against hers, his long fingers curling over the back of her knuckles. She’d expected him to squeeze, like in a proper handshake, but he only held her hand as if he were holding something delicate.

“We have a deal, Miss Belmont,” he murmured. “I shall do my best to speed up your decision. Five nights from now, we shall meet and discuss your decision—and the consequences.”

Consequences . What a reassuring word.

Emily wrenched her hand back.

“Very well,” she snapped. “But you’d better not hire any actors to pretend to be Anon, or else I shall kill you myself.”

He turned away, but he didn’t manage to hide a grin. “Agreed, Miss Belmont. Agreed.”