The Art of Sinning (11 page)

With a scowl, Damber crossed his arms over his chest. “Why d'ye want to know? I like her ladyship. She's nice. Sounds to me like you want to stir up trouble for her.”

Great. Damber actually had a notion to protect Yvette. Probably had an infatuation with her. Just what Jeremy needed.

Or maybe it
was
. “Actually, I'm trying to look out for her. I think a man is trying to . . . harm her, and I'm hoping to find out who so I can help her. But she won't tell me.”

That was the truth. Perhaps not all of it, but still the truth.

Damber's face cleared. “Well, she does seem dis
tracted of late. That's what the servants say.” He lifted an eyebrow. “They blame it on you.”

“It's not me. Her troubles began before we came here. I can't tell you more than that.” He didn't
know
more than that.

His apprentice nodded. “I'll see what I can learn.”

“Don't be too obvious. But try to find out something before tomorrow night.” He would be armed with ammunition before he and Yvette headed off to that brothel if it killed him.

“What's tomorrow night?” Damber asked.

“A masquerade that the Barlows and I are going to.” He grimaced. “And Knightford.”

“Ah. Then I won't fail you in this, sir. You can be sure of it.” Damber walked off.

“One more thing!” Jeremy called out.

The earl's words earlier about the younger Barlow brother nagged at him:
By the time I found out about the women he
. . .
What exactly had Samuel Barlow done? The earl couldn't have meant the kidnapping that Manton had thwarted, because everybody already knew about that. But Jeremy couldn't see any other way that Barlow's shenanigans could relate to Yvette.

When Damber halted, Jeremy murmured, “See if you can also learn what got Samuel Barlow banished from the family.”

Damber blinked, then nodded. “I'll do my best.”

As Damber left, Jeremy headed for his bedchamber and an ice-cold pitcher of water. He meant to dunk his head in it a few dozen times, until he had better control of his senses. Because he needed to be sober by the time he saw Yvette.

He refused to head off to a brothel with her tomorrow night without having some idea of what he was getting into. And that meant acquiring information about her past however he must. Even if he had to coax it out of her himself.

Eleven

Yvette raced up the stairs to the schoolroom. She'd remembered to bring the costume that he called a
chiton
, but had forgotten to throw her shawl on over her wrapper and nightdress. Pray heaven no one caught her roaming the house like this. She was so flustered she'd never be able to lie her way out of it.

She wasn't late, but she had only minutes to spare. Jeremy was going to complain, the dratted grump. Well, let him. She wasn't his to order about.

Still, she hadn't meant to stay gone from home so long. But between Clarissa's amusing dithering over what to wear and Warren's dry remarks, she'd been having so much fun that dusk had turned into full dark and then dinner before she even knew it. Only her maid's remark about the advancing hours had prompted her to leave.

And now it was back to dealing with Jeremy. As amusing as he could be, he also exhausted her. She spent all her time trying to figure him out. For once,
she'd rather be anywhere but here. But she'd made a bargain, and she meant to keep it.

She slipped into the schoolroom just as the hour struck eleven.

“Where have you been?” he barked from behind his easel.

Oh, Lord. “You know where I've been.”

She headed for the coat rack to hang up her wrapper. Odd how she'd begun to feel perfectly comfortable half-dressed around him. No man had ever seen her in her nightdress, not even her brothers, yet here she was prancing about in front of a known rogue without a thought.

As she turned, he moved into the open space between them. His cravat and coat were missing and he was in his shirtsleeves, though the temperature in the room fell well below comfortable. His hair was disheveled, his features drawn.

In short, he looked rather wild. It did something disturbing to her insides, especially given how his gaze ate her up. He seemed somehow more dangerous than usual. She couldn't put her finger on why until he neared her and she smelled brandy.

“Why, Mr. Keane,” she said uneasily, “I do believe you've been drinking.”

“I was, yes.” When she lifted her eyebrow, he added, “But I stopped a while ago. Long before your brother and I expected you home.”

With a snort, she shook out the chiton. “I seriously doubt that Edwin was even remotely concerned about my return. Sometimes I stay over at Clarissa's as late as midnight. He's used to that. My maid always goes with me, and Warren always sends
us back in his carriage with a footman for protection.”

“Does he?”

When he crossed his arms over his chest, she realized with a jolt that his sleeves were rolled up to expose his forearms. How . . . titillating. His forearms were well corded with muscle, and she was reminded of how those arms had encircled her only last week.

He stepped closer. “You and
Warren
seem awfully chummy.”

She fisted the chiton in her hands. He dared to behave like a jealous boor after practically ignoring her for over a week? Idiot. “Yes, we are chummy. What of it?”

“I don't like him.”

“I don't care. He's not
your
friend.” Somehow she managed to keep her tone light. “And you won't ‘be around here long enough' for your feelings about him to matter, remember?”

The way he flinched was rather satisfying. About time she got some of her own back with him.

Then he smoothed his features. “My feelings will matter a great deal if your dalliance with him prevents me from finishing my paintings.”

Oh, that really tore it. She marched up to him. “First of all, I'm here, on time, to pose for your dratted painting. Second of all, I'm not having a dalliance with Warren. Not that it's any of
your
concern.”

He stared down at her, his expression unreadable, but she could see the pulse throb in his throat. Perversely, she wanted to touch it. It reminded her that he wasn't an automaton after all, but a flesh-and-
blood man. A very
attractive
flesh-and-blood man, who made her quiver with anticipation.

Something flickered deep in his gaze. “So Knightford isn't the one asking you to go into a Covent Garden brothel?”

“What? No! Don't be ridiculous.” When Jeremy's expression didn't alter, a chill coursed down her spine. “You don't believe me.”

“I'm not sure what I believe.” He circled her slowly. “Knightford just happens to come here the very night before the masquerade, and you just happen to go off eagerly with him. What am I supposed to think?”

“That I went to see my friend Clarissa? That I have things to do other than be at your beck and call night and day?”

“Maybe. Or maybe that the two of you wanted privacy so he could instruct you on whatever you had to do for him tomorrow night.”

“What a ludicrous notion.”

“Fine.” He paused to lower his head to her ear. “If he's not the one prompting this mad escapade, then who? Because he's the only mysterious man I can see in your life just now.”

Her pulse gave a panicky leap. She briefly considered telling him about Samuel, but then the stubborn side of her reared up. Why should she tell him anything? He wouldn't tell her a blessed thing about himself.

Besides, she dared not risk his blathering her family secrets to the world. Edwin deserved better than to see more scandal heaped on the family. And she highly resented Jeremy's acting as if this was an
interrogation. She was not in the mood for his nonsense tonight.

“I shan't listen to this.” Tossing the chiton down like a gauntlet, she turned for the door. “I'm going to bed.”

“The hell you are!” He hurried to block her path, his face a stormy mask. “You promised to model for me, then ran off for the entire day. You owe me a session tonight, at the very least.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts. “So I can lie there freezing and sore while you pepper me with ridiculous accusations about Warren?”

“They're not ridiculous,” he said sullenly. “They're perfectly logical.”

“To
you
. To me they sound like the product of a jealous mind, which has clearly—”

“Jealous! I'm not jealous.”

“Oh? After the way you've been lately, I can think of no other reason for your erratic behavior tonight.
You
don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me, either.”

“Now
who's making ridiculous accusations?” His hard gaze locked with hers. “My ‘erratic behavior' stems from my concern about this upcoming brothel visit. I want to know . . . I
deserve
to know the truth of why you're risking your reputation for it.”

She squared her shoulders. “And
I
deserve to know what sort of man I'm entrusting my reputation to. If you expect to hear all my secrets, you must tell me some of yours.”

That seemed to take him aback. With a sharp oath, he glanced away. “You don't want to know them, trust me.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“I don't want to tell them.” He dragged a shaky hand through his already tumbled hair. “I
won't
tell them.”

“Then you can't expect me to tell you mine.”

When he swore under his breath, she slipped past him, headed for the door, but he snagged her about the waist from behind and pulled her up against him. “You can't go yet!”

“Look here,” she said, digging her fingers into his arm, “I'm tired and cold and I don't feel like modeling.”

“I know. You don't have to pose. That's not why I want you to stay. I just . . . don't want you to go, damn it.”

“Why not? It isn't as if you actually wish to talk to me.”

“The hell I don't. I talk to you every day.”

She snorted. “If that's what you call it when you retreat behind your walls.”

His arm tightened about her waist. “I don't retreat behind anything. I've been perfectly amiable, a consummate gentleman, and entertaining to boot. Why, you laughed at all my stories.”

“I did. Yet they're still walls made up of practiced tales you've probably related a hundred times.” Frustration made her tense. “When you tell them, you refuse to show one iota of your real self or acknowledge one iota of mine. You barely look at me, and when you do, you stare right through me. You ignore me.”

“Ignore you! I don't ignore you. I
never
ignore you.” His voice thickened. “The whole time you're
lying on that table, I'm aware of your every gesture, every smile. I know where every part of your body is at any moment, because I watch them all. And not just so I can paint them. So I can fathom them. Understand how they're put together. How
you
are put together, inside and out.”

She caught her breath, startled by the intensity of his words. The sudden fierce edge to them.

“I notice when you're angry or sullen or distracted.” He flattened her against his body, his heat seeping through her flimsy nightdress. “I notice what you wear at dinner, how you move when you climb the stairs.” His tone dropped low. “I notice
everything
about you.”

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to ignore his words. But how could she when he was saying what she'd wanted to hear? When he was holding her so close that she could feel the imprint of his hardened flesh against her bottom?

Heavenly day. So
that
was what the ladies of the evening called a “cock-stand.” She hadn't realized that a man's thing actually, well,
stood.

At least she knew he wasn't lying about desiring her.

As if to prove it, he spread his hands over her thinly clad belly, starting a quivering lower down. Then he kissed a path to her ear. “Watching you lying there every night in that chiton drives me mad,” he said in a rough rasp. “Watching you in your nightdress or your red gown drives me mad. Every gown you own drives me mad.”

She swallowed hard. “I—I couldn't tell.”

“I'm good at hiding it.” His hot breaths warmed
her cheek. “I didn't want to end up on a dueling field with your brother.”

“Edwin would never challenge you.”

“I'm not so sure.” He tugged at her earlobe with his teeth. “Yet here I am, risking it. For another taste of you, another chance to hold you, caress you. Even if only for a few moments.”

Let it be more than a few moments
.

“Tell me to leave and I'll go right now,” he murmured. “But tell me to stay, and I swear I
will
taste and hold and caress you. As much or as little as you'll allow. I'm tired of fighting it.”

So am I.

She caught her breath. Was she insane? Her choice was clear: Send him away. Never mind that he was saying such enticing things. She shouldn't fall prey to them.

But she couldn't help herself. For years, she'd hidden the wicked urges first ignited by the lieutenant. Even after he'd trampled on her heart, her wantonness had smoldered beneath the surface of her respectability. Whenever she flirted with a rogue, it was rekindled. And during the lonely nights in her bed, her wild imagination stoked the coals to a roaring blaze, which she attempted to soothe with her roaming hands.

For once, she wanted a
man's
hands roaming her. And not just any man's hands.
Jeremy's
.

“Yvette—”

“Stay,” she said, before she could change her mind. “Stay.”

A shuddering breath escaped him. “You won't regret it, I swear.”

“I'm quite sure I will, but—”

He filled his hands with her breasts.

Heavenly day—how
delicious
!

His thumbs grazed her nipples, sending her arching up on her toes with a moan. Touching her own breasts furtively under the covers was nothing to this heady onslaught of feeling.

She pressed herself into his hands, and his breathing quickened against her cheek. “I ached to caress these beauties the first night I saw you, my Juno.”

“I'm no goddess,” she said, even as she exulted in his flatteries. “I'm a woman, with earthly needs and wants, not a creature of fantasy.”

“How well I know. Because I'm a
man
with earthly needs and wants, all of which have been centered around you for days now. You have no idea how desperately I desire you.”

Just not desperately enough to offer marriage.

No, she had too much pride to say that. Besides, if she spoke those words, he would turn skittish again and this amazing encounter would end. She couldn't bear it. She wouldn't.

He reached for the buttons of her nightdress. “May I?”

Without even thinking about it, she bobbed her head. Because she would give anything just now to feel his fingers on her bare nipples.

And he, being something of a scoundrel, was perfectly happy to oblige.

Expertly, he opened her nightdress to her waist, then reached inside to cup one breast. A trembling breath escaped her. How incredible! His hand kneaded her flesh, his fingers deftly plucking, rousing
and soothing her cravings by turns, until she swayed against him.

“I want to look at you,” he said.

There was no asking this time. He must have guessed she would go along, because he didn't even wait for an answer. He simply turned her in his arms and knelt on one knee to spread her nightdress open so he could stare at her breasts.

A blush heated her cheeks. What if he didn't like them? They always seemed too big and unwieldy and—

“I wish I could paint you just like this, half-naked in the lamplight,” he said hoarsely. He brushed a finger over her nipple, and it hardened to an aching knot. His gaze darkened. “It would be only for me; no one else would ever see it.”

“I hope that's not a request,” she tried to joke. “You cannot paint me nude.”

“I know.” His eyelids lowered. “So I shall have to settle for tasting you.” And his mouth covered her breast.