Page 88 of His Tempting Duchess

“Well, I am home now,” he drawled, glancing between them. “Would anybody care to tell me why a guest is being entertained here in the Art Room, instead of the parlor, as is customary?”

Emily wrenched her hand out of Margaret’s grip and took a step towards him, tilting her chin up. “Because I am the Duchess of Clapton,” she said quietly, “and I have decided to entertain her here.”

Cassian held her gaze, something akin to approval in his eyes. He nodded slightly.

“Very well,” he murmured. “Margaret, what areyoudoing here?”

“She refuses to believe that there is nothing between us,” Margaret responded, her voice clipped.

It did not escape Emily’s notice that the Baroness did not mention the other thing she had said—how Cassian was capable of loving nobody, and how she would only get her heart broken.

“I see,” Cassian responded, turning his gaze back to Emily. “Well, what should we do about it?”

“I came here to invite you both to supper at my home,” Margaret announced, visibly steeling herself.

Emily had the pleasure of seeing surprise cross Cassian’s face.

Margaret took a step forward, looking up into his face. “You may not love her, Cassian, but you had better tell her,” she responded, her voice quiet. “Or this business will spiral out of control, and it will all come out anyway. Let us hope she can keep a secret.”

“She can,” Cassian said in the same low voice.

“I’ll take my leave, then.” Margaret bowed her head to Emily and strode past Cassian, walking confidently down the hallway.

A heavy, charged silence fell over the room.

Emily stared at Cassian. Cassian stared right back.

“I don’t understand,” she muttered, breaking the silence. “What secret is she speaking of?”

Cassian let out a long, slow sigh and raked his hands through his hair.

“Get dressed,” he ordered bluntly. “We are going to Margaret’s house for supper.”

“You intend toaccepther invitation?”

“Indeed, I do,” he shot back, meeting her eyes. “It’s high time you met my niece.”

Emily blinked, sure she must have misheard.

“Your… yourwhat?”

CHAPTER27

It was plain that Frances was thrilled at their arrival.

“Weneverhave guests,” she kept saying, skipping gleefully around the room. “Never! Well, that is, sometimes friends of Mama’s come and visit, but they never want to seeme.”

She rambled on about something or another in an endearing, artless way. Emily watched the girl bounce around and found herself smiling.

“She is yourniece?” she whispered in Cassian’s ear, for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “I simply cannot believe it.”

They were seated in the drawing room at Margaret’s home. It was a warm, welcoming space, littered with Frances’s accomplishments: clever books and novels all mixed in together, a globe, a pianoforte, a dusty harp in the corner, watercolors and oil paintings framed on the walls, and so on.

Margaret had snatched up a glass of wine and reclined on a chaise lounge, watching her daughter chatter. There was a faint, adoring smile on her face.

“Yes, Frances is certainly Matthew’s child,” Cassian responded in a low murmur. “She was sired before Margaret married the baron. My father forced her to—she was only a lowly opera singer, and she truly believed that Matthew would be better off without her. Only, he decided that he would rather not live without her at all. I don’t believe he ever knew he was going to have a child.”

A lump formed in Emily’s throat. “I’m sorry, Cassian.”

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