The Art of Sinning (3 page)

Mr. Keane gazed steadily at her. “I sometimes exaggerate when speaking with the press, madam. But this particular portrait is one I am more than willing to execute, I assure you.”

“Eager for the challenge, are you?” Such raw anger boiled up in her that it fairly choked her. “Eager to try your hand at painting me attractive enough to convince some hapless fellow in search of a wife to ignore the evidence of his eyes?”

Belatedly, her brother seemed to realize how she'd taken his words. “Yvette, that's not what I was saying.”

She ignored him. “Or perhaps it's the money that entices you. How much did my brother offer in order to gain your compliance in such an onerous task? It must have been a great deal.”

“I didn't offer him money,” Edwin protested. “You misunderstand what I—”

“I
want
to paint you,” Mr. Keane snapped even as he glared Edwin into silence.

With betrayal stinging her, she gathered the remnants of her dignity about her. “Thank you, but I am not yet so . . . so desperate as to require your services.”

She turned to leave, but Mr. Keane caught her by the arm. When she scowled at him, he released her . . . only to offer her his hand. “May I have this dance, Lady Yvette?”

That took her by surprise. Only then did she notice the strains of a waltz being struck. She had half a mind to stalk off in a huff, but that would be childish.

Besides, other people had begun to notice their exchange, and she could
not
endure the idea of people gossiping about her making a scene at the wedding breakfast of her friend . . . who happened to have jilted her brother.

“Lady Yvette?” Mr. Keane prompted in a steely voice.

She cast him the coolest smile she could muster. “Yes, of course, Mr. Keane. I would be delighted.”

Then she took his hand and let him sweep her into a waltz.

As soon as they were moving, he said, “You have every right to be angry with your brother.”

“My feelings toward my brother are none of your concern.”

“I was telling the truth about wanting to paint you.”

She snorted. “I don't know how much money—”

“But not for a portrait.” He bent close enough to whisper in her ear, “Though he doesn't know that.”

That caught her so off guard that when Mr. Keane pulled back to fix her with a serious gaze, she couldn't at first summon a single answer.

“I see I finally have your attention,” he said.

“Oh, you always had my attention,” she said testily. “Just not the sort of fawning attention you probably prefer.”

A faint smile crossed his lips. “Tell me, Lady Yvette, do you have something against artists in general? Or is it just I who rub you the wrong way?”

“I don't trust charming rogues, sir. I've encountered enough of your kind to know all your tricks.”

He arched one eyebrow. “I seriously doubt that.”

When he then twirled her in a turn, she realized with a start that they'd been waltzing effortlessly all this time. That almost never happened with her. Few men knew how to deal with an ungainly Amazon like her on the dance floor.

That softened her toward him a little. A very little. “So what exactly
do
you want to paint me for, anyway?”

“An entirely different work. And agreeing to your brother's request seemed the only way to get close enough to you to arrange that.”

She eyed him skeptically.

“Ask Blakeborough if you don't believe me. Before I knew who he was, who
you
were, I wanted you to sit for me. I decided it the moment I saw you enter the room. I asked your brother who you were; he asked why I wanted to know, and I told him.”

His gaze locked with hers, as sincere a one as she'd ever seen. But then, Lieutenant Ruston had seemed sincere at first, too. “Why on earth would you want to paint
me
?”

“No clue. I never know why particular models intrigue me; just that they do. And I always follow my instincts.”

Yvette blinked. He
could
have claimed it had something to do with her looks. The fact that he hadn't lent more credence to his assertion. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.” And rather flattering.

“It
is
ridiculous, isn't it? But true, I swear.”

“So what exactly are the terms of your ‘transaction' with my brother?”

He flinched. “Your brother is an ass.”

“Not really. Just rather oblivious to other people's feelings sometimes.” She cast him a hard stare. “Answer the question.”

With a long-suffering sigh, he tightened his grip on her hand. “I am to paint your portrait. In exchange, he is to drum up some gentlemen who might be interested in courting my sister.”

She gaped at him. “What a pair of nodcocks you are! Has it occurred to either of you that your sisters are perfectly capable of finding husbands on their own if they so choose? That perhaps we— Wait a minute. I thought your sister lived in America.”

“She's on her way here. She means to drag me home to help her with the family mills.” He cracked a smile. “I mean to fob some other fellow off on her who can go in my stead.”

His look of boyish mischief seduced her. Until she
put herself in his sister's shoes. “First you abandon her to go flitting about Europe. And now that she has tired of waiting for your return, you think to get rid of her by marrying her off.” She shook her head. “Your poor sister.”

“Trust me, there is nothing ‘poor' about my sister. Amanda can take care of herself.” His smile smoldered. “As, it appears, can you. Which is probably what made me want you for my painting in the first place.”

She fought not to be intrigued. “What is this painting about, anyway?”

“It's allegorical, about the sacrifice of Art to Commerce.”

That took her by surprise. “Something like Dela­croix's paintings?”

“You're familiar with Delacroix?”

His voice held such astonishment that it scraped her nerves. “I do read books, you know. And attend exhibits and operas with my brother when I can drag him to town.”

“Operas, eh? Better you than me. I can't imagine anything more tedious than an evening of screeching.”

“My point is that I'm not some ninnyhammer society chit who only keeps abreast of fashions.”

“I didn't think you were.” He bent close enough to say in a husky tone, “Unlike your brother, I am fully aware of your attractions.”

The words melted over her skin like butter. And when he then tugged her slightly closer in the turn, she let him.

Not because of his devastating attractiveness, no.
Or his deft ability to dance. Or the glint of awareness in his startling blue eyes. None of that had any effect on her. Certainly not.

Fighting to keep her mind off the breathlessness that suddenly assailed her, she said, “So, which character would I play in this allegorical painting of yours?”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Does that mean you agree to sit for it?”

“Perhaps. It depends on your answers to certain questions.”

The music was ending. Oh, dear, and just when the conversation was getting interesting. Unfortunately, it would be highly improper of him to ask her for another.

But apparently he'd thought of that, for he waltzed her toward a pair of doors that opened to reveal steps descending into the sunlit garden. And as the music ended, he offered her his arm.

Curiosity prompted her to take it and she let him lead her outside, relieved to see that they weren't the only people strolling about. At least she needn't worry about rousing further gossip.

Besides, she was ready to be out of the stuffy ballroom. Here she could breathe at last.

“Now, then, madam,” he said. “Ask me whatever you wish.”

“Who am I to play in your painting? What am I to wear? Will sitting for your picture ruin me for life? Is that why Edwin would only agree to a respectable portrait?”

“That's quite a lot of questions,” he said dryly. “Let's start with the last. Your brother and I didn't
get as far as my describing the concept of my work. The minute I said I wished for you to model for me, he flat-out refused to let you be part of any painting that wasn't dull as dirt, even though I told him you wouldn't be recognized.”

“Won't I?” She felt a stab of disappointment at the thought that he didn't really want to paint
her
as she was. And why did she care, anyway? “So I'm to be wearing a mask or a cloak or something?”

“No, indeed. But you will be in a Greek costume quite different from your normal attire. I can even change your hair color if you wish. And you'll only be in profile, anyway. I doubt anyone will realize it is you.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “Right. Because no one will notice that the woman in your painting happens to have my ungainly proportions.”

“Ungainly!” He shook his head. “More like queenly. Majestic.”

The compliment came so unexpectedly that it startled her. She was used to being teased for her height, not praised. She had to turn her head so he wouldn't see how very much the words pleased her.

She'd swear that he meant every word. Then again, she'd also believed Lieutenant Ruston's compliments, though they'd been far less original and far more dubious. At least Mr. Keane wasn't calling her “a great beauty” and “a delicate flower.” She couldn't believe she'd fallen for that last one. She'd never been delicate a day in her life.

“But your proportions are unlikely to signify, anyway,” he went on. “You'll be lying down.”

That arrested her. How had she forgotten he was a rogue? “Why would I be lying down?”

He gazed at her as if she were witless. “Art sacrificed to Commerce? Were you even listening? Damn, woman, I can hardly show a sacrifice without laying you across an altar.”

Stunned by his matter-of-fact tone, as if it were perfectly obvious to anyone with sense, she mumbled, “Oh, right, of course. I don't know what I was thinking.”

Actually, she did know. She thought him quite mad. When he spoke of his art, there was no trace of the rakehell in him. Was it by design? Was he
trying
to rattle her?

Because he was certainly succeeding.

“Will you do it?” he asked. “Assuming we can manage it?”

“Managing it isn't a problem,” she said, thinking aloud. “Artists doing portraits generally reside with the family during the process. So if you come to our estate for the portrait, we can arrange some way to meet for the painting you wish to do for yourself.” She slanted a glance at him. “If you're willing to leave London for a bit, that is.”

“Oh, I don't know.” He stopped beside a marble fountain to smile teasingly at her. “It would take me away from all those gaming hells and nunneries. However will I survive?”

“I'm sure you can find a sympathetic tavern maid or two nearby to tide you over.”

“So, no nunneries in your neck of the woods?”

“Believe me, if there had been, my other brother would have found them ages ago.”

When he looked at her oddly, a blush rose in her cheeks. She didn't know why she'd mentioned Samuel's proclivities. She couldn't seem to put his request out of her mind.

“I'll be fine, I promise,” he said silkily. “Though you still haven't given me your permission to paint you. For
either
work.”

And suddenly it hit her—the solution to her problem with Samuel. She hadn't sent the sealed letter, fearful that no one would call for it at the Covent Garden post office as promised, but perhaps she could still right Samuel's wrong.

“I haven't, have I?” She stared him down. “Tell me something, Mr. Keane. Are you as willing to make a bargain with me for your painting as you were to make a bargain with Edwin for my portrait?”

His gaze turned wary. “It depends. What sort of bargain do you mean?”

Avoiding his gaze, she stirred the water in the fountain with one finger. “I will sit for you—clothed, of course. You may draw as many pictures of me as you please.”

“And in exchange?” he prodded.

“You will find some way to get me inside a Covent Garden nunnery.”

Three

Jeremy was shocked. Then intrigued. Then disturbed by the notion of Lady Yvette going anywhere near a den of iniquity.

Not that he would let her see it. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. “You don't need my help for that. Covent Garden is known for its enthusiastic acquisition of . . . er . . . nuns. Just walk in, and I'm sure they'll welcome you with open arms.”

Her outraged gaze shot to him. “I'm not aiming to be a Covent Garden nun, you devil!”

He'd figured that, of course. He'd just wanted to spark that intoxicating fire in her eyes again. “Then why go in a nunnery?”

“I'm looking for a . . . a person.”

“Ah,” he said, as if he understood. Which he certainly did not. “A friend of yours?”

“Something like that.” Her rosy cheeks showed she wasn't nearly as nonchalant about this as she let on.

“You have a friend in a whorehouse,” he said bluntly.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It doesn't matter why I want to go into one, just that I do. And since you enter them all the time, I figure you're the perfect person to sneak me in.”

“I do have a bit of experience in that regard.” Not as much as everyone assumed, but enough to know his way around. “Indeed, it would probably be safer for your reputation if I entered alone. If you'd just give me the name of the person—”

“I can't. I don't know for certain that my . . . er . . . friend is even there. This must be handled very discreetly. And it's essential that I go with you. I can't explain why.”

This got more curious by the moment. “I assume that asking your brother to help you is out of the question?”

She paled. “He cannot know I'm doing this. He mustn't know.”

“So if he finds out, he'll throttle me.”

“Don't tell me you're afraid of my brother.”

He bit back a smile. Her taunts were so transparent. “What can I say? I'm an artist, not a fighter. I've no great desire to have my nose bashed in.”

“That would only happen if Edwin learned of it. Which he's not going to.” She glanced away. “Our visits must be conducted in utter secrecy.”

“You expect a notorious scoundrel like me to bring you into a brothel without having anyone remark upon it?”

“I can wear a disguise.” She eyed him from beneath sooty lashes that made something tighten in his chest. And lower. “Or pretend to be your par
amour, joining you for . . . whatever a paramour would do in a place like that.”

Oh, he could think of several interesting things he could do with Lady Yvette in a whorehouse, none of them acceptable to a lady of her upbringing. Best to shove those ideas right out of his mind. “So how are we to visit a brothel when we're to be closeted out at your country estate for the next few weeks while I paint your portrait?”

She shrugged. “Preston isn't that far from London. We come into town often enough. All you and I need do is attend some other social affair, find a way to keep Edwin busy, and then dart off for a bit to make our Covent Garden visit.”

“Really? That's ‘all you and I need do,' is it?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she tapped her chin with her finger. “We should go to the theater. It's already situated in Covent Garden. Of course we'd have to find a way to occupy Edwin . . .”

“A minor consideration,” he said tersely.

This time his sarcasm registered, and he was rewarded with another lovely blush. “I'm sure we can manage it.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you want to paint me or not? Because the only way I'll agree to sitting for either painting is if you do this for me.”

If he had any sense, he would throw her bargain back in her face, and her brother's, too, for that matter. He didn't like being taken for a fool, especially by some secretive chit, no matter how clever and arresting.

But his mind was already leaping ahead to how
she would look robed in Roman white. Or maybe a knee-length Greek chiton. He already knew she'd have shapely calves to match the beautiful contours of her arms in those long, formfitting gloves she wore. And the image of her in something little better than a shift was rousing more than his artistic imagination.

He moved closer to the fountain, praying that the imposing marble bowl would hide his unwise attraction.

“Well?” she asked.

Her demanding tone wasn't helping his arousal any. He found imperious women intoxicating. They tended to be honest in bed. Nothing more erotic than a woman, even a saucy innocent, who asked for exactly what she wanted. Just the thought of this particular innocent asking for what she wanted, what she
needed,
had him hardening even more.

Damn her. He had no desire to wed anyone again, especially some earl's daughter harboring sordid secrets. And if he made advances toward her ladyship, that's exactly what would happen. He would find himself leg-shackled faster than his apprentice could mix paints.

So he was surprised to hear himself say, “All right. We'll visit the Covent Garden brothel as soon as I can figure out how to arrange it without ruining you.” Then he paused. “You do know there's more than one, don't you?”

Her eyes widened. “You're joking.”

“Not a bit. I believe there are at least three.”

She began to pace. “Drat him, all he said was it was in Covent Garden!”

“He who? Blakeborough?”

“B-Blakeborough?” she repeated, clearly startled.

“Not your brother, then.” A chill skated down his spine. Could it be her other brother, the criminal one? No, she would have involved Blakeborough if it were. Jeremy had enough experience with the English aristocracy to know that they closed ranks around their own. Or cut them off completely.

So this was clearly her own private affair. What had he gotten himself into?

She swallowed hard. “I was referring to my . . . er . . . source of information about the person I seek.”

“And who is this source?” He fixed her with a hard look. “A friend? A secret lover? Before I agree to this insanity, I want to know who else is involved.”

“You
already
agreed!”

“That was before I knew—”

Someone hailed them from the steps, and Jeremy looked up to find a scowling Blakeborough rapidly approaching.

“So this is where you two got off to,” the earl said.

Pasting a bored expression to his face, Jeremy said, “We came out here to get some air. It was stifling in the ballroom.”

Warily, the man glanced from Jeremy to his sister. But he must have seen nothing to give alarm, for his face cleared. “So? Did the two of you come to an agreement? Are you painting Yvette's portrait?”

Jeremy stared at Yvette, and the pleading look on her face punched him in the gut.

This was madness. She wanted him to help her with some secret scheme involving a brothel and
an unknown gentleman. He barely knew her, wasn't even sure he could trust her.

Worse yet, she tempted him more powerfully than any woman had in years. Acting on such an attraction invariably led to something deeper, which invariably led to pain and guilt and shattering loss. As long as he confined himself to easy flirtations, he didn't end up with shards of a life to put back together.

And what would he gain if he agreed to her bargain, anyway, other than the hellish task of painting an insipid portrait of his bewitching Juno?

You'll get to do the work you really want. You'll have a chance to be a serious artist, not just a wealthy mill
owner's son who succeeded at a few historical paintings. You'll get to show the world the potential in painting real life with its edges and heartbreak. What's a little trouble over some intrigue next to that?

He dragged in a deep breath. “Of course I'm painting it. As long as Lady Yvette agrees.”

“Oh yes,” she said quickly. “I can't wait to start.”

Neither could he. But he was a glutton for punishment whenever a fetching female was involved.

“Well, then, Keane,” Blakeborough began, “if you'd like to come round to our town house in Mayfair tomorrow—”

“Actually, Edwin,” Lady Yvette cut in with a veiled glance at Jeremy, “Mr. Keane and I have discussed it, and we feel it would be best to paint the portrait at Stoke Towers.”

The earl's gaze narrowed on her. “Why?”

“With Mr. Keane's reputation as a rogue, it wouldn't do to have people see him come and go
regularly from our town house. It would almost certainly start tongues wagging. You don't want that, do you?”

“I suppose not,” her brother muttered.

“Besides, you hate being in town when Parliament isn't in session. I could barely get you to stay tonight.”

“That's true, but—”

“And we do have that charitable event in Preston for the boys' school you support—I can't sit in London being painted while the plans for that languish. Though if you want to put the portrait off for a few weeks, that could work. Of course, I don't know how long Mr. Keane intends to be in town . . .”

Jeremy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Blakeborough seemed entirely unaware that he was being managed.

The earl glanced at Jeremy. “You agreed to this? Aren't you expecting your family to arrive soon?”

“My cousin wasn't sure exactly when. It could be weeks. And Zoe will send word the moment they do. Your sister tells me you don't live far from town. Is that correct?”

Blakeborough nodded. He surveyed the two of them as if trying to work out what plot might be afoot. But Jeremy had always been expert at hiding his feelings, and Lady Yvette seemed expert at hiding them from her brother, at least.

At last the earl sighed. “Oh, very well, Yvette, if you prefer it.” He turned to Jeremy. “Do you play chess? Or any sort of cards?”

“Occasionally. Though I'm not particularly good at either.”

“Even better,” Blakeborough said with a rare smile.

Jeremy wondered if the earl possessed many friends. He didn't seem to. It was another thing they had in common.

“Well, then,” Lady Yvette said, “we're agreed. Since I assume you're staying with your cousin, Mr. Keane, we'll fetch you in the morning before we leave for Stoke Towers.”

Although he found her high-handedness amusing, even seductive, she was sometimes a bit presumptuous even for him. “I'm afraid that's too soon. I can start sketching right away, but the canvases must sit in your home for at least a week to acclimate to the temperature and humidity. So there's little point in my joining you before that's done.”

“Canvases?” Blakeborough echoed suspiciously. “More than one?”

“Quite a few, actually, in case the work goes awry and I have to begin again. Or I change my mind about my approach, or I decide—”

“We understand,” Lady Yvette said with a furtive look at her brother.

“So if you don't mind fetching my canvases in the morning,” Jeremy went on, “I'll come out myself early next week.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, then, tell me the day you mean to arrive, and I'll send the carriage for you.”

“I prefer to use my own equipage, so I may come and go as I please.” He added, with a bit of sarcasm, “If that's acceptable.”

She colored deeply. “Of course, but I assumed, that is—”

“That I would be happy to dance to your tune.”

“Certainly not. I just thought perhaps you didn't have an equipage.”

Right. He was no fool—she'd begun to consider him easy to manage, too. Well, she was in for a surprise. No one managed him—not his mother, not his sister, and definitely not some lofty lady of the realm.

“Actually, my lady,” he said silkily, “I own a curricle for my use while I'm in England. Give me the direction to your estate, and I'll present myself at whatever time you see fit next Monday.”

“I have a meeting that morning, but I'll be home around two,” Blakeborough interrupted, sparing a sympathetic glance for his sister. “So any time after that will be fine.”

“One more thing.” Jeremy fixed his gaze on Lady Yvette. “I'll need to bring my apprentice. His aid will ensure I finish the portrait more quickly.”

“Very well,” she said. “Will he be staying with you? Or shall I find a room for him elsewhere?”

“He'll be comfortable enough in your servants' quarters, if you can accommodate him.” He took another chance to provoke her. “
I'll
be fine in your servants' quarters if that's what your ladyship prefers.”

“I'd prefer that you not be ridiculous,” she muttered, eliciting a choked laugh from her brother.

Jeremy bowed. “I shall do my best to oblige your ladyship.”

Apparently she caught that he was mocking her, for she cast him a hard look. He grinned. All right, this might be unwise for many reasons, not least of which was that he must spend part of his time on a formal portrait. But it had its advantages, as well.

He would definitely enjoy sparring with the prickly Lady Yvette.