Page 93 of His Tempting Duchess

(Although, of course, you are the Duchess of Clapton now, so I ought to call you Your Grace)

I hope you’ll forgive the forwardness of my writing to you. I daresay it is already too late. As you know, we met at Clara’s party. I am a writer, and so acquainted with the world of publishing. I am writing late at night, so I imagine you may not get this letter until morning, which, as I say, may be too late. But I would not forgive myself if I did not at least try to warn you.

I have heard a rumor that the identity of the famous Anon has been revealed and is to be published in a number of Society papers (you are familiar with the usual gossip rags, I’m sure) for the world to read. I did not worry too much at first, as I know there have been many people credited to be Anon only to be as swiftly discredited.

But I overheardyourname, Emily.

There was talk of an insider, as many publishers offer quite a substantial reward for information on Anon. I fear that your identity has been discovered somehow, and I did not want the news to come as a shock to you. There may be nothing you can do to stop it from getting out, but I hope you can at least prepare yourself.

Your Friend, Corderoy Jenkins.

Emily set aside the letter with a shaking hand. It was quickly written, the writing little more than a scribble, scrawled on a page torn out of a journal or a notebook. The note had arrived at breakfast.

It was, indeed, too late.

Half a dozen different scandal sheets and a variety of newspapers were spread out over the breakfast table, where the dishes of bacon, eggs, and herrings were congealing, forgotten, toast going cold on its racks.

She was not hungry. Every single newspaper and scandal sheet mentioned, on the front page, the reveal of Anon’s true identity. Some of them still referred to her as Miss Emily Belmont, and they all remarked upon her recent marriage to the Duke of Clapton. Some papers seemed rather admiring, others disapproving, while others outright suggested she’d hastily married him to cover up the scandal of who she really was.

What am I to do? Will the Prince Regent withdraw his offer? To be sure, he wasn’t to know that Anon was not a woman, but it was clear he expected me to be a man!

She rested her elbows on the table, lowering her head into her hands. The endless stream of newsprint blurred before her eyes, certain words leaping out at her.Scandal! Shock! Disgrace! Unexpected! Forgery!

Because, of course, at least a couple of articles suggested that she could not possibly be Anon at all—after all, she was a mere woman, and painting these works of art whileunmarriedwas simply ludicrous.

On top of it all remained the memory of last night, of Cassian’s lips on hers in the carriage as they rumbled through the night together.

“No, Emily. This has gone far enough.”

“I cannot give you what you want… You want my heart, but you cannot have it.”

She closed her eyes, her treacherous heart beating miserably in her chest.

I wish I had known I would never have his heart before I gave him my own.

The door creaked open, making her jump. She twisted around to find Cassian himself standing in the doorway.

He looked rather the worse for wear—unshaven, his hair ruffled and uncombed, having not dressed without his usual care.

“I read the papers,” he said shortly.

She bit her lip. “You know of my shame, then.”

“I should hardly call it shame. And it’s certainly not the first time your name has graced the pages of those rags.”

She swallowed thickly, glancing down at the assorted selection of vitriol and accusation. A faint draft rushed into the breakfast room through the open door, rustling the crisp pages ever so gently.

“I imagine that it is the first time the Duchess of Clapton has been mentioned in the scandal sheets, though,” she remarked. “I am sorry, Cassian.”

He said nothing for a moment. She wondered if he, like her, was dwelling on the events of last night.

Or perhaps he is not. Perhaps he put them out of his mind right away and is untroubled by concerns of any kind.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

Cassian took a few steps closer, craning his neck to peer down at the papers. “I think not,” he said. “And even if it were, this was our plan, was it not? As a duchess, you can weather a scandal like this, unlike plain Miss Belmont. A duchess—people will be thrilled by the idea of you producing great works of art. If we play our cards correctly, this will make Anon’s popularity swell even more.”

She glanced up at him, a lump forming in her throat.

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