The Duke had judged her and thought the worst of her from the beginning. She had allowed him to think it, and now she did not wish to acknowledge the truth. It felt more mortifying, more vulnerable and dangerous, to tell Tremaine he was right. She must never admit to this man she had no feelings for the Comte beyond that of fear. She couldn’t confess it to anyone. That revelation might be used against her.

“I do not think so.”

“You are very confident, Your Grace,” Emilie said, turning the conversation back towards him. “One would think you were an expert in love.”

“Only in that I understand the pain it can entail.”

“You have been crossed in love?” Emilie asked before she could stop herself.

His honesty took the wind out of her indignant sails. She had not expected it, nor the earnestness of his tone, nor the agony she could now discern on his handsome face.

No matter how provoking the Duke was, or the judgements he had so ignorantly passed against her, Emilie never desired to cause another pain. She attempted to cover her thoughtless question with humour. “No doubt your désagréable questions put her off.”

The Duke was not dissuaded from her original question. “It was not my interrogations.”

His gaze was no longer upon Emilie—it had wandered towards where the Austrian violin master had returned to his music stand to review his next pieces. She followed his gaze but was sure that the Duke did not take in the sight before him. There were the shadows of memories passing over his expression, bringing hurt with them, and writing it across his face for her to see.

“It was my lack of prospects.”

Emilie frowned. “I find that hard to believe. You have a ducal title and estates. How could any woman view you as anything but an advantageous match?”

The Duke’s eyes refocused on her. “I see your point, but I do not have a healthy estate. As you know my uncle has retained control after my father’s death thanks to my gambling habits. Doesn’t trust me to safeguard the family’s fortunes. A duke in possession of title alone is not the catch he might hope to be.”

Who was this woman who had captured the Duke of Tremaine’s attention and then broken his heart? A woman who had caused him pain that was still evident when he spoke of it.

“Though they may not think it, those without title and fortune are better suited to finding love. They are not prey for fortune hunters—only for hunters of their true love’s heart.”

“Perhaps you should reform your dissolute ways and no longer pursue opera singers and actresses. Women such as I, as you have implied numerous times, can only be ensnared by money.”

There was no malice in his next revelation, as if he forgot it was to Emilie that he spoke. “The woman I spoke of was a lady.”

A lady. Those two words segregated Emilie from any woman who might ever aspire to the hand of a gentleman, let alone a Duke. She might sit here conversing with a Duke—she might entertain an offer from a Comte—but she was not a lady. It was as Vergelles had told her. She was nothing. A feeling of worthlessness, hollow and bitter, filled her chest.

She was a common tavern owner’s daughter who had trod the boards, and soon she may be a mistress. That was all. There were no other avenues in life down which she might venture. She was a small, insignificant thing, with no chance at love and marriage.

Emilie was so wrapped up in thoughts of her own situation that she almost missed the change in her companion. The Duke shifted in his chair, shoulders rising, arms crossed and the lazy humour on his face thwarted by agitation. Clearly this line of conversation was not one he enjoyed and yet Emilie felt for the first time she was seeing the true Duke beneath all those layers of sarcasm and humour.

She fought the urge to press him. “I have no doubt it was her who failed to see your charm, Your Grace.”

Tremaine turned to her and smiled, the gesture so earnest it brought real warmth to her heart. “Finally, you admit I have charm.”

The joke took her by surprise as much as the laugh it conjured within her.

“But we were talking of your lover, not mine, and I fear our tête-à-tête will soon be drawn to an unwanted close.”

Sure enough, the Duke was right. She followed his gaze to where the Austrian master was taking up his instrument and beginning to re-tune it for the next piece.

“I believe your story was more interesting.”

“Others’ stories are always more interesting. Be that as it may, I must ask you, Mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to change the subject. I find questions about it… painful.”

The temptation to press her advantage home was tempered once again, this time by the bare and pained expression on his face—one in complete contrast to the Duke’s usual facade of bored amusement.

“As you wish,” she murmured.

“May we turn back to the matter of your disguised warnings? I shall make myself plain—your benefactor has offered me the opportunity for an investment. I wish to pursue it, but have little knowledge of exactly what he offers, and then you warn me off engaging with him on the Champs-Élysées. What am I to think?”

He was like Lutin with a bone. He would not desist and Emilie began to regret ever warning him.

No.

She calmed her frustrated thoughts—no she did not regret it. Especially after seeing the Duke’s humanness just now. But any further conversation along these lines put Emilie at risk. Not only Emilie, but her friend as well.

“Your Grace’s thoughts are not for me to discern or persuade. I’m afraid I cannot serve your purpose for you grossly overestimate my importance. I have no knowledge of the Comte’s business dealings. I am only his mistress.”

She hoped her plain speaking might put him off further questioning. He had shown such aversion to her position before. He might want more information, but he did not realise the danger he put her in. Allowing her gaze to casually survey the room, she tried to spot another seat next to an acquaintance she might move to.

“Yet you warned me—you know enough of his dealings to want to warn me off.”

Emilie struggled to cover a huff of frustration. Anxiety rose within her chest. She needed to get out of this conversation.

“I know nothing,” she whispered harshly, holding a tight rein on her feelings that were beginning to buck and plunge away from her, “except that you are a fool determined to involve yourself with dangerous men.”

“And what,” asked the Duke, leaning closer to her, locking his eyes onto hers, “does that make you?”

Emilie bit her lip, surprised by the sudden emotions boiling within her, and not sure whether she was going to cry or shout for this impertinent man to leave her alone. He had no concept of the trap she was ensnared in.

She tried to slow her breathing, swallowing against the emotions, forcing them into check. “You may think of me what you want—just as you will do whatever business you want with the Comte.”

“I have upset you.”

Emilie’s eyes darted to him and she was horrified to find herself looking through unshed tears. This man was determined to subvert her attempts to keep him at arm’s length and scale the defences which kept her real feelings safely away from the prying eyes of others.

“That was not my intention.”

During the conversation Emilie had clung to the arm of her chair. Her hand was lying parallel with the Duke’s and she felt the briefest brush of his against hers.

“I apologise. You have intrigued me, Mademoiselle Cadeaux. You are unlike any woman I have met before. I find myself unsure what to think of you.”

“Then perhaps,” Emilie said, the faintest waver in her voice, “you should not think of me at all.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, and she saw a light enter his eyes. The action was so at odds with the emotion of the situation it surprised her.

“Would you believe me if I said you are not the first woman to tell me that in as many months?”

She found the weight of her fears shift. With a blank expression she replied in the affirmative.

The Duke’s slow chuckle transformed into a full laugh. The atmosphere lifted and with it her mood.