The Art of Sinning (9 page)

He bent his head closer. “Your heart beats for something more than the insipid porridge that society feeds a lady of rank. You need fire and life and the thrill of the night. You want to get inside things and learn them, to feel everything and avoid nothing.”

Her eyes suddenly shone luminous in the rich light of dawn. At last she seemed to understand what he'd been trying to say, albeit stupidly at first.

“The reason I know this,” he went on, “is I have such needs, too. It's why I left home, why I won't go back. I want more. In that, we are very much alike.”

They stood so close that he could smell her sweet scent, probably some ladylike decoction of hothouse flowers that he would despise on any other woman. Yet when she wore it, his every sense was aroused.

As if she knew what he was feeling, her translucent skin pinkened, and her expressive mouth parted slightly, a mere breath away.

His blood thundered in his ears. It would be so easy to close the distance and seal her lips with his. Or dip his mouth down to caress that spot on her throat where her pulse beat ever more quickly. Or even use his teeth to tug free the fichu that coyly hid the tops of her plump breasts—

“Good morning,” said a steely voice from the doorway. “Am I interrupting something?”

Jeremy fought the urge to jerk back and give away what he'd been contemplating doing. Damn, damn, damn. Blakeborough had the most infernal timing.

It was probably just as well. Jeremy didn't need to be putting his lips and mouth and teeth anywhere near Yvette. He should be squelching this attraction between them, not encouraging it.

Straightening leisurely, he kept his gaze on her but infused his tone with boredom. “Your sister and I are merely having a dispute about her choice of attire.”

With a quick, enigmatic glance at Jeremy, she pivoted to face her brother. “What do you think, Edwin?” She swept her hands down along her skirts. “Is this suitable for the portrait?”

Blakeborough still seemed suspicious as he looked
from Jeremy to her. “I'm surprised you're even awake. You don't usually venture from your room before noon.”

She planted her hands on her hips, making Jeremy itch to start sketching her. “I was too excited about the portrait to sleep. So, what is your opinion? How do I look in this?”

The earl's suspicion faded as he scanned her attire. “You look exactly the way a debutante should—pretty and demure. A well-bred example of respectable womanhood. You're every decent gentleman's dream for his wife-to-be.”

She blinked. Then she grumbled something that sounded like “Lord have mercy,” before stalking off toward the door.

“Where are you going?” her brother asked.

“To change my clothes!” she called back as she disappeared into the hall.

As Jeremy struggled not to show his triumph, the earl shot him a confused look. “Am I missing something?”

So, so much.
He forced a shrug. “You know women. They can be contrary.”

“Yvette more than anyone.” Blakeborough frowned. “I'm forever stepping awry with her.”

“It's the same between me and my sister, trust me.” Jeremy turned for the windows, still fighting to put out the fire Yvette had roused in his blood. “Perhaps it's the same between all brothers and sisters.”

The earl took a seat on a nearby settee. “I don't know. She and Samuel got along quite well until Mother died. And then everything fell apart.”

“Oh?” Jeremy pulled the curtains more fully open. “Your sister told me a bit about your mother's death. But she didn't say much about your brother, other than that he was a scoundrel.”

“He didn't become one until after Mother died. That's when he began sliding further and further into degradation, until there was no going back. It was as if he blamed Mother for dying, and then took it out on every woman he met.”

“Meanwhile, Yvette blames your father for not being at your mother's side.”

A muscle worked in the earl's jaw. “Yes. And probably she blames me, too, for not making him stay.”

“I don't think so. She's certainly said nothing of the kind to me.”

Blakeborough's gaze narrowed on him. “I don't know when she would have. It's not as if the two of you have spent more than twenty minutes alone together all told, is it?”

“True,” he said lightly. “Now, what do you think of having Yvette stand by the . . .”

Jeremy launched into a discussion of settings that he hoped would distract the earl from his suspicions.

But thunderation, these secret nights of theirs were already harder to hide than Jeremy had anticipated. He only hoped that he could get most of the work—for both paintings—done quickly. Because eventually Blakeborough was going to figure out that Jeremy and Yvette had another project on the side. And when he did, there would be hell to pay.

Which was why Jeremy had to put some distance
between him and Yvette, both physically and emotionally. If he wanted to get his masterpiece, he must be professional, even in their private evenings.

The earl mustn't ever guess that Jeremy had one iota of desire for his sister.

Nine

“Are we boring you, my lady?” a voice sounded from the nether reaches of Yvette's consciousness.

She jerked awake. Heavenly day. She couldn't believe she was standing with her hands on her hips in the middle of the music room and still managing to nod off. Someone should have warned her that modeling for an artist was tedious.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Keane.” She glanced at Edwin, who watched her with a hooded stare. “As my brother said this morning, I'm not used to rising so early.”

Jeremy, too, was watching her, but his gaze was clinical, removed. “It's all right. We've had a long day. The sun is setting and I'm losing the light anyway. Might as well stop for now.”

“But—”

“I can keep working on the background.” Jeremy smiled tightly. “Trust me, I have plenty to occupy me.” He glanced at the clock. “Why don't you and your brother go on to dinner? Don't mind me.”

She let her shoulders slump, and it felt so incred
ible, she wanted to do a little dance. Someone should also have warned her that modeling for an artist was extremely uncomfortable. Her spine felt as if someone had played piano on it for the past hour.

Then his words registered. She frowned. “You're not dining with us?”

He avoided her gaze. “No, I believe I'll keep working. But if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate having a tray sent in to me.”

“Of course.” She donned her role as mistress of the manor. “Perhaps we'll see you later this evening. In the drawing room.”

Jeremy cast her a meaningful glance. “Yes, later. Maybe.”

Her every sense went on high alert as she headed for the kitchen to order his tray. Somehow she'd managed to forget that they were to have a far more intimate sitting this evening.

You need fire and life and the thrill of the night.

What a devil. He thought he knew everything about her. And yes, he might be right about what she needed. But she wasn't willing to give up her future for it, or to watch as some scoundrel abandoned her for his mistress or other petty enjoyments. She needed a husband who wouldn't disappear at the first sign of trouble, and she was fairly certain Jeremy could never be that. Look at how he had run off to England to escape his family.

He claimed she was like him, but she wasn't. She would never shirk her responsibilities, just to have fire and life and the thrill of the night. She'd learned her lesson only too well with the lieutenant.

She had—truly she had. Even if Jeremy
was
the most fascinating man who'd ever kissed her.

Dinner proved an awkward affair. Edwin seemed even more melancholy than usual, especially with Jeremy not there. It didn't help that her thoughts were elsewhere, too. On what might transpire later. On whether Jeremy might attempt to kiss her again. On what she would do if he did.

“Take care, Yvette,” Edwin murmured.

She practically jumped in her chair. Good Lord, her brother had begun reading minds.

She feigned a smile. “About what?”

“About Keane. The air fairly crackles between you. I don't know what happened this morning before I came in, but I couldn't help noticing that when you returned from changing your clothes, you were wearing that red silk evening gown I hate. I would have preferred that you wore something for your portrait that was less—”

“Interesting?”

“Yes, if by ‘interesting,' you mean it shows too much of your . . . er . . . shoulders. That's the kind of ‘interesting' a man can't help but notice. Especially a man like Keane.”

“All he saw was that it was bright red and brought out the color of my hair.” Sadly, that had seemed to be true.

“That's not what it looked like to me. I realize you find him an intriguing man of the world—”

“You have no idea how I find him.” She was getting tired of men presuming to guess her thoughts. And then comment on them.

“I've seen the looks you give him,” Edwin persisted.

“What looks? The exasperated ones? The annoyed ones?”

“Yes. Those. You don't take other rogues seriously, either laughing or flirting or mocking them. But you're nervous and cautious around Mr. Keane. Which is how I can tell you like him.”

How startling that Edwin had surmised such a thing. He wasn't usually so astute about people's feelings. “That's preposterous.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I wouldn't be so foolish as to like his sort.”

His somber gaze saw right through her. “But you must admit that you—”

When he caught himself with a look of chagrin, she lifted one eyebrow. “That I what?”

“Nothing.” He smoothed his features. “I must have misread your feelings.”

“Yes, you must have.” She placed her napkin on the table and stood. “I'm going to bed. Rising at dawn is clearly not for me.”

He blinked. “What if Keane comes to the drawing room?”

“Then the two of you shall have a fine talk. You don't need me for that.”

She could feel him watching her as she left. Was she really that transparent around Jeremy? If even Edwin could sense the simmering attraction between them, then it was dangerously obvious.

Once in her room, she told her maid she was ready to retire, then suffered through the motions of that preparation. But after her maid left her, she realized it was still too early to meet Jeremy in the schoolroom. So she lay down on the bed, meaning only to rest a moment.

She awoke to the sun streaming through the curtains at dawn.

Oh, Lord! She'd slept through their assignation!

Muttering every cant term for “ninny” that she knew, she called for her maid and dressed hastily. She ignored the poor girl's protestations that something must be amiss for her ladyship to be retiring and rising so early. It wasn't like her ladyship at all.

No, it wasn't. But at least she'd finally had a good night's sleep. Perhaps that would help her to endure a day of posing in public, followed by a night of posing in private.

A shiver shook her. It was the posing in private that she'd dreamed about all night. The kissing in private. The touching—

Heavenly day. She had to stop thinking about that!

Hoping to get a moment alone with Jeremy to explain last night's absence, she hurried toward the breakfast room, but before she could reach it, an arm snaked out to pull her into an alcove.

It was him, wearing that stormy look that both alarmed and excited her. “We had a deal. You're not holding up your end of it.”

“I know, and I'm
so
sorry. I fell asleep. I'm not used to these hours.”

“Really?” A faint sneer twisted his lips. “So it had nothing to do with what happened our first night together, nothing to do with the words we exchanged yesterday morning before your brother interrupted us?”

“Certainly not!” She glanced furtively beyond him into the hall, but no one seemed to be nearby, thank
heaven. Still, just to be safe she lowered her voice. “I intended to show up last night. And I
promise
to show up tonight.”

His hand still gripped her arm, holding her so close she could smell coffee on his breath. “Do you swear it?”

“Yes. I'll swear it on the Bible if you require it.”

He searched her face, then released her with an oath. “That won't be necessary.”

“Good. Because you don't seem the sort to carry around a Bible.”

His lips twitched. “No.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I suppose it was foolish of me to think you could spend all day and night posing.”

“It was only my rising early yesterday that made it difficult, I assure you. But from now on—”

“From now on we should meet every other night, so you can get a good night's sleep in between.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Then your painting would take forever!” She thrust out her chin. “I can keep up these hours if you can.”

“I doubt that,” he said in a lazy drawl. “Such hours are normal for me.”

She winced. “Yes, I'm well aware of the dissolute life you lead.”

“That's not what I meant.” His gaze turned brittle. “And to quote your ladyship, just because you and I shared a few kisses doesn't mean that you know me. You have no idea what sort of life I lead.”

She was beginning to think that might be true. “Very well,” she said, assailed by an odd breathlessness, “why don't you explain it to me?”

That seemed to take him off guard. The seconds
stretched out as he stared at her, his eyes the vivid blue that had begun to haunt her dreams. His gaze drifted down to her lips and fixed there, making her heart flip over in her chest.

Then he jerked his gaze away. “No need. I won't be here long enough for that to become necessary.”

The cold statement sliced through her, and she fought to hide her hurt. “Suit yourself. But then don't blame me for not understanding you. I can hardly help it if you don't
want
to be understood.” Sliding away from him, she walked out of the alcove. “I'll see you in the music room after breakfast.”

He didn't even try to stop her as she hurried off. And that annoyed her, though not nearly as much as his statement that he wouldn't be around long. She shouldn't expect anything more of him. Samuel had never stuck around with any of his mistresses. The lieutenant hadn't even stuck around after he'd kissed her.

Of course, that was because Samuel had nipped the scoundrel's plans in the bud—but still, men had a tendency to run off when things didn't go their way. Or after they got what they wanted from a woman.

But Jeremy
hadn't
gotten what he wanted. He hadn't bedded her. He'd barely even kissed her. Though perhaps seduction wasn't what he'd wanted at all.

An exasperated breath escaped her. She didn't really know
what
he wanted, other than to paint some odd work about Commerce and Art and seething emotions she didn't really understand. And to lecture her on who he thought she was.

Presumptuous fellow. She
knew
who she was. She just didn't know who
he
was. Not really.

Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps if she could find out more about him she could better understand his situation. Why he'd left America. What he was running away from. Why he was so angry about his family trying to drag him back to his home.

Fortunately, at breakfast Edwin gave her the perfect opening for her questions as he thumbed through the mail. “Strange. I've received something from Lady Zoe.”

“Mr. Keane's cousin?” She glanced at Jeremy. “Perhaps it's word of his family's arrival.”

“Good God, I hope not,” Jeremy muttered, and poured himself some coffee.

“Why?” she asked. “Surely your sister isn't such a dragon as all that. Or is it your mother who alarms you? She must be awful if you ran off to England to escape her.”

His gaze narrowed on her. “She's not awful, and I'm not escaping anything. I'm merely attempting to broaden my knowledge of art, to view masterpieces I would never have the chance to see in America.”

“So why do you care if your family comes to visit you? It's not as if they can force you to go back with them.”

“Actually,” Edwin interrupted, “the missive isn't about Keane's family. It's an invitation to a masquerade ball a week from Friday.”

“Oh. How very . . . intriguing.” She'd forgotten all about Jeremy's plan.

Jeremy glanced at Edwin. “Ah, yes, before I left
town, Lady Zoe mentioned that she was throwing one and wanted to invite the two of you. She asked if I thought it would be awkward for you to be around your former fiancée's relations. I told her that if you found it so, you would just refuse to attend.”

When Edwin stiffened, Yvette bit back a smile. The best way to make sure her brother did as one wished was to challenge him not to. It got his back up. Edwin could be very proud sometimes.

“So what do you think?” she prodded her brother. “Shall we go? It sounds like fun.”

“I see no reason to avoid it,” Edwin said blandly.

She couldn't resist teasing him. “Really? I thought you hated masquerade balls.”

“I'm not nearly the dullard you take me for. I know how to enjoy myself.”

“But not by wearing a costume. Not by dancing with—”

“If you're trying to talk me out of attending, you're doing a good job of it,” Edwin said.

Uh-oh. “Sorry. That was not my intention; I'd genuinely like to go. So you must take me.”

He sighed. “I suppose I must.”

She slanted a glance at Jeremy. “How else am I to find out from Lady Zoe everything I can about Mr. Keane and his frightening relations?”

The artist's face closed up. “There's nothing to find out, I assure you. Or at any rate, nothing terribly interesting.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Anyway,” Edwin interrupted, “if we're all going, Yvette, I shall send an acceptance. I can do it while you're posing for Keane. I'll play secretary, and you
can dictate my response.” A sudden gleam in his eye put her on guard. “Perhaps it'll keep you from falling asleep. I don't know how you managed that while you were standing up. You'd think that your militant stance alone would have kept you on your feet.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I defy anyone not to get bored while maintaining a fixed position for hours.” She dipped her toast in her runny egg. “And I stayed awake much longer than I would have if I'd sat in a chair. Aren't you glad now that I chose my ‘fishwife's pose'?”

“I'm not glad about anything,” Edwin grumbled. “I begin to regret that I ever suggested this portrait.”

She laughed outright. “Why? Because I've turned it to my advantage?”

He flashed her a rueful smile. “Because if you keep falling asleep, Keane will be camped here until doomsday trying to finish it.”