An Invitation to Sin (15 page)

The door opened, and she shook herself. "There you—"

"I wanted to ask Zachary a question," Joanna said, slipping inside the conservatory. "I'll only take a sec—Where is he?"

"He's not here yet. And aren't you having luncheon with him? Ask him then, Joanna."

"You're very selfish. You have three entire hours this morning. I only have one."

Actually her three hours had shrunk to two hours and forty-three minutes with no sign of her subject. "I didn't make the schedule," she returned. "And you all agreed to it, anyway."

"That was before he set all of us to chase after Martin Williams. Do you know that Martin claimed a headache and left after only three dances? Now none of us will have him."

"None of you had him, anyway. You always approach him like a mob of Catholic cardinals after a Jacobin."

"Well, perhaps so, but I'm not the one whose man hasn't even made an appearance."

Caroline frowned. "He's not my man, and if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find him." She rose, setting the sketch pad on the stool and wondering whether she had stepped too far in speaking her mind last night. It was a fine line she had to tread, after all.

Joanna hurried for the door behind her. "I'll go with you."

From what Joanna had said, none of the Witfeld sisters was very pleased with Zachary this morning. Good. Perhaps his shiny veneer was beginning to wear off. It was about time. Too much more praise of his fine manners and handsome features, and she was going to vomit.

"Barling," she called, seeing the butler manning the front door, "where might I find Lord Zachary this morning?"

"He is out, Miss Witfeld."

"Out? Out where?"

"He and Mr. Witfeld and Mr. Anderton were to go sport fishing today, miss. They promised the cook a full basket of trout for dinner. Mrs. Landis is already making the butter sauce."

He wasn't there
. The morning she'd scheduled to begin the painting, he'd decided to go fishing.
Fishing
.

"Did Papa say when they'd be back?" Joanna asked, her expression annoyed.

Annoyed, though, didn't begin to describe Caroline's mood as she stood there trying not to gape at the butler. Damn Zachary.

"I believe they were heading toward Shaverton, so I don't expect them back until late this afternoon."

Joanna stomped her slippered foot. "But we were to have a picnic today."

Not trusting herself to say anything at all, Caroline turned on her heel. She hurried upstairs to the conservatory and slammed the door closed behind her.

"Damnation," she sputtered. "Damn, damn, damn."

And then she saw the dog.

Harold scrambled around in the corner, ripping apart several pieces of paper. Automatically her gaze went to her sketching stool. Her pad was gone.

"
No
!" she shrieked, storming forward to grab the shredded papers away from the dog.

With a whimper he backed away, his tail tucked between his legs.

Trembling, Caroline looked through the mangled pages. Bits of Zachary were now obscured by tooth marks and dog slobber, while other pieces were missing entirely. Her favorite sketch, the one of a bare-chested Zachary, was in six pieces, though she could only find four of them. With a heavy, shaking breath, Caroline sank to the floor.

"Oh no, oh no," she muttered, tears spilling from her eyes and onto what remained of the sketch pad.

Harold padded hesitantly up to her. Angry as she was, she'd seen the poor, scant level of the puppy's instruction, and she wasn't about to blame him for the disaster. No, she knew precisely who to blame for this.

Not only had Zachary thrown her painting schedule into disarray simply because someone had invited him somewhere and he'd been too polite and amiable to decline, but now, because of his lack of attention toward his dog, better than a week's worth of sketches were rendered unusable. She'd spent days on what amounted to nothing. Days she couldn't spare and couldn't ever get back.

This was too much. She was finished with only telling half her thoughts to Zachary Griffin. He was going to hear precisely what she thought of him—and if he didn't like it, he could go to the devil. He could go there, anyway. With her sisters' stupid schedule she would never have enough time to begin again.

With a half sob, she crawled over to her thankfully untouched stack of other sketches. At this point she would have to be happy with painting Lord and Lady Eades as Adam and Eve, if they would agree to sit for her. They probably wouldn't, but devastated as she was, she still couldn't make herself give up hope yet. Hope was all she had left now.

Zachary jumped down from the wagon as a groom appeared to take the horses. The two servants who'd accompanied them pulled the baskets of caught trout down from the wagon bed and hurried them into the kitchen.

"As I said before, you are a fine fisherman, Zachary."

"Second to you, Edmund," Zachary returned with a grin, stepping back as Mr. Witfeld climbed to the ground. "That reeling-in device of yours is remarkable."

"Ha, ha. A compensation for a severe lack of patience, and in consideration of the fact that I have well over two dozen mouths to feed."

Even with the basket of trout they'd left off with Frank Anderton in the village, the three of them had caught enough fish to feed two families the size of the Witfeld brood, servants included. Even if he hadn't caught a single fish, though, Zachary would have considered the outing worthwhile. No chits, no questions about his matrimonial inclinations or intentions—what a relief.

"If you'll excuse me, I'd best look in on my aunt. Thank you again for inviting me along."

"My pleasure, Zachary."

After his aunt, he would have a chat with Caroline, too, where he intended to make his point about flat portraits versus fully realized flesh-and-blood men. In addition he probably needed to cancel whatever appointment with a Witfeld girl he might have remaining for the day. He badly needed a bath.

The house, though, seemed eerily quiet and empty as he entered. Not even the ever-lurking Barling was about. Making his way upstairs, he knocked on his aunt's bedchamber door. "Aunt Tremaine?"

"Come in," she called, and he opened the door.

"Where is everyone?" he asked, taking in the cup of tea at his aunt's elbow and the borrowed poetry book across her knees as she sat in the overstuffed chair beneath the window.

"Sally's closeted with Barling the butler going over plans for the ball, and six of the girls went into Trowbridge."

Six. "I'd best see to Miss Witfeld, then. I believe we were moving up to using paint today."

"Caro's not here, either. I believe she went for a walk."

Zachary lifted an eyebrow. "Really?" Focused on his portrait as she was, he couldn't imagine her leaving the house voluntarily. "Good. I'm going to change and have a bath, then, I think." He offered her a smile. "And I hope you're hungry for trout."

She lifted the book again. "And I hope you're still hungry by the time dinner has been prepared."

Halfway to the door, he stopped. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I suppose you'll find out. Or not."

"That's helpful."

Aunt Tremaine turned a page. "It's not meant to be."

Females. He would have been better off if he'd stayed out fishing. At least and despite his aunt he apparently had another hour or two until the horde returned.

Once the footmen had brought the bathtub to his bedchamber and filled it, Zachary shed his mud-and-fish-covered clothes and sank into the hot water. He sighed, closing his eyes and sinking all the way under, then slowly rose again just far enough that he could breathe. This was bliss.

"Comfortable?"

His eyes flew open. "Christ," he growled, grabbing for a towel and pulling it into the water to cover his hips. "What the devil are you doing in here?"

Caroline's gaze was steady on his face, but her color was high enough that a moment ago she'd been looking elsewhere. "We had an appointment this morning," she said, her voice steady, whatever she'd been staring at.

"Your father invited me to go fishing," he returned, refusing to feel at a disadvantage just because he was sitting naked in a bathtub.

"You might have told him that you had a prior engagement." She folded her arms across her pert bosom.

"You seemed only to require my parts, and you had them in your sketchbook. The rest of me wanted to go fishing."

"My sketchbook. I see. Unfortunately, today I required your parts all attached together."

Obviously she still didn't understand the point he was attempting to make. "You indicated that you had a week to box
me
up and send
me
to Vienna. As I said,
I'm
not going anywhere, Miss Witfeld. Have you—"

"I understood your meaning," she interrupted. "And I apologize if I've offended your sensibilities or affected your sense of self-worth."

Now she was making him sound like some kind of spoiled brat. Zachary stood, wrapping the wet towel around his hips. "That's not what my objection was about."

"Nevertheless, I would like you to hear
my
objections."

"If you can't wait until I dress, then please proceed."

Caroline took a step backward as he emerged, dripping, from the bathtub. "Stay where you are, sir!" she ordered, not sounding the least bit tantalized by his near naked self. "I understand you wanting a holiday away from us. I wish you'd waited another few days before you took it, but I understand. And I understand that once anyone suggests something interesting or amusing to you, you're incapable of resisting the temptation."

"I am not some half-wit infant, Caro—"

"Then why do you behave like one, Zachary? I needed your help. I asked for your help. I want to paint. I want to make it my livelihood. Lord and Lady Eades want me to be their governess and teach their children to paint. I would slice my own throat before I succumbed to a lifetime of that drudgery."

"Then allow me to dress, and I'll sit for you right now," he returned, the depth of her anger taking him by surprise. He'd only been gone a few hours, after all.

"I can't paint now, because I've lost the light. And I couldn't do it anyway, because your… dog destroyed every sketch I made of you."

His heart stopped. "He what?"

A tear ran down one smooth cheek. "I went looking for you, since you didn't bother to inform me that you'd made other plans. When I went back upstairs, he was ripping… ripping my sketch pad to shreds."

Zachary took another step toward her, but she backed away again. "I'm so sorry, Caroline. I'll send Harold back to Lon—"

"I don't blame Harold!" she exclaimed. "I blame you! You acquire a dog for God knows what reason, then decide you have better things to do than school it in proper behavior!" She flung a handful of crumpled, torn paper at him. "What did you expect?"

What remained of his good humor vanished. "I apologized, Miss Witfeld. If there's more I can do. let me know, and I'll do it."

"That's very nice, now that it's too late. If you'd shown the least sense of responsibility, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

That was enough of that. "I'm not the one who decided to divide up my time and section me like an orange. How do you expect me to accomplish anything with Harold when all my time is accounted for by your family?"

"If it wasn't the Witfelds, it would be someone else. It's never you, is it? You claim to have a goal to join the army, and yet here you sit on your backside doing what everybody else wishes. You can't blame us for that."

"Your point being?" he bit out.

"If you want to do something, then do it. Don't claim to have a desire just so you sound like more than the waste of fresh air that you are."

"That is enough, Miss Witfeld."

"Caroline!" Edmund Witfeld skidded into the room, his wife, a handful of sisters, and the butler on his heels. The Trowbridge party had returned. "Remove yourself at once!"

She kept her gaze steady on Zachary. "Go join the army, Lord Zachary. Do it now. At least then if you get killed, you'll provide some useful fertilizer."

"Caroline!"

With a last sniff she turned on her heel and stomped out of the room. Zachary stared after her, scarcely noticing the herd of stammering, apologetic Witfelds as they backed out of the doorway and left him in private. Once the door closed, he ripped off his towel and slammed the wet thing as hard as he could back into the bathtub. The resulting splash soaked the floor for ten feet around, but it did nothing to cool his temper.

"Fertilizer?"
Fertilizer
? She had no idea what he wanted from life; how dare she criticize the way he went about achieving his goals. He hadn't abandoned his army idea by any stretch. Doing a favor for Melbourne and for Aunt Tremaine didn't mean he was some sort of mental butterfly. It only meant he was being polite and responsible. And as for Harold, they'd barely given him a second with the damned dog. What did she expect?

He was not a waste of space, he was not without goals, and he was most definitely not fertilizer waiting to be put under the ground to grow cabbage or something. What he was, however, was leaving.