An Invitation to Sin

by Suzanne Enoch

  The chaos resumed before he could begin chewing. “Lord Zachary, what is your horse’s name?”

  “Sagramore.”

  “Like the knight in the King Arthur legend?” another of them asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And your dog?”

  “Harold.”

  And the eldest sister still looked at him and still didn’t participate in the general roar of conversation.

  “Lord Zach—”

  “What are you staring at, then, Miss Witfeld?” he interrupted again. So he wasn’t working on being patient tonight; no one would tell Melbourne.

  “Your ears, my lord,” she returned promptly, her voice perfectly serious.

  “My—” He hadn’t expected that. “My ears?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Surreptitiously he angled his knife to take a look at them in the reflection. He hadn’t cut either of them off while shaving before dinner, at any rate. “What’s so interesting about my ears, if I might ask?”

  “The shape of them.”

  He thought her mouth twitched, but he couldn’t be certain. Now the rest of the Witfelds were staring at his ears, as well. Bloody wonderful. “Aren’t everyone’s ears nearly the same as mine?”

  This time he was certain he saw amusement touch her eyes, and the crinkles at their corners deepened once again. “Oh, no, my lord. Your ears are quite unique.”

  “That’s probably from having his oldest brother yank on them so frequently to get Zachary to behave,” Aunt Tremaine put in.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my ears,” he stated.

  “I think you have lovely ears,” the youngest Witfeld offered.

  “No, they’re handsome, not lovely,” another one argued.

  The next argument was over whether a man’s ears could be termed “pretty” or “lovely” or if more masculine compliments were appropriate. Zachary took the moment to lean across the corner of the table toward the oldest girl. “What’s wrong with my ears?” he murmured.

  Soft color touched her cheeks for the first time since their odd conversation had begun. “Nothing. You only asked me what I was looking at, and I answered. If I’ve been too direct, I apologize.”

  “Not necessary. Why my ears, though?”

  She lowered her lashes. “I’m studying them. I wish to draw you.”

  “Draw me,” he repeated in a low drawl. “Do you often tell men with whom you are barely acquainted that you wish to draw them?”

  Her color deepened, her eyes lifting to meet his again. “No, my lord. You are the first.”

  Well, it was certainly a unique approach to a flirtation. And exceptionally bold, considering the fact that her parents were seated just a few feet away. Hm. Whether she called it drawing or kissing, he had no objection to playing along. At least she didn’t babble like the rest of the brood. Technically they were family friends, but all that meant was that he couldn’t initiate anything scandalous. She, on the other hand…

  “Then draw me,” he said with a smile. “But you have to let me view the results.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Perhaps staying a few days at Witfeld Manor wouldn’t be as dull as he’d thought, then. “Where shall we meet for you to…draw me, then?” he went on, adopting her rather obvious innuendo.

  “How about in the conservatory tomorrow morning?” she suggested. “About eight? I don’t think the family will disturb us before nine o’clock.”

  “I’ll bring my ears,” he returned. And the rest of him.

  “Did you see her letter?” Mrs. Witfeld was tittering to his aunt as he straightened.

  “Yes, it was very promising.”

  “Monsieur Tannberg writes in a very gentlemanly manner, don’t you think?” the brood’s matron continued. “And he’s not even English.”

  Zachary drew his brows together. He’d missed something, obviously. “Who’s—”

  He didn’t get to finish the question, since abruptly the conversation turned to Beau Brummell and his gentlemanly manner. The man was a fop, but obviously the Witfeld girls didn’t want to hear that. Zachary therefore kept his opinion to himself and commented only on the handful of actual encounters he’d had with Brummell.

  His attention, though—wherever he happened to be directing his conversation—was on Caroline. Before he embarked on a flirtation, and whether he’d instigated it or not, he needed to get a few answers from Aunt Tremaine. Though she was their small brood’s closest living relation, she had what Melbourne considered an alarming tendency to plan and follow her own agenda.

  This scheme, though, might even be Melbourne-sanctioned. Sebastian had only suggested he get a dog, however, and Zachary didn’t think he’d meant even that seriously. As soon as dinner ended he made his way around the table to his aunt. “Allow me to help you to the drawing room,” he said, offering his arm.

  “Oh, we can manage that,” Mrs. Witfeld countered before his aunt could respond. “You’ll be wanting to smoke a cigar and have a glass of port with Mr. Witfeld. I know how you refined gentlemen like your port.”

  Zachary glanced up at the family patriarch, the only other family member besides Caroline who’d barely spoken a word at dinner. “I don’t wish to disturb Mr. Witfeld’s routine,” he said, reluctantly relinquishing Aunt Tremaine’s arm.

  “With seven daughters I don’t actually have a routine to be disturbed,” Witfeld said unexpectedly, rising and gesturing for Zachary to follow him.

  The two of them made their way to the hall and past the kitchen to a small corner room on the bottom floor. As Mr. Witfeld lit the two lamps inside, Zachary stopped. Wooden spheres, planks with wheels attached to the top and the bottom, clay pots with dried hay stalks sticking out the bottom, miniature Greek columns made of what looked like papier-mâché: Odd objects filled the room practically to the rafters.

  “Have a seat, my lord,” Mr. Witfeld said, clearing a chair by setting a large circular mesh of wood onto the floor.

  “Thank you,” Zachary returned, gingerly making his way through the clutter. The sheer magnitude of…things amazed him. “Might I ask you a question?”

  “I have no control over the girls, if you’re asking for an explanation. I wanted two children. My wife decided they must be boys, and she wasn’t going to stop having them until she succeeded in that.”

  Zachary cleared his throat. “So you’re still…”

  “Good God, no. A man can only suffer so much in the world without resorting to suicide. One more infant of either sex, and I’d put a pistol to my skull.”

  “I have two brothers and a sister, myself,” Zachary commented. “At times I wish there were more of us.” Though lately the idea of being an only child also had its appeal.

  “More siblings? You are either mad, or very lucky.”

  “A little of both, I think.”

  “Ha, ha. Well said, my lord. Port or brandy?”

  “Brandy, if you please.”

  Mr. Witfeld poured two snifters of brandy. “I do prefer this to port.”

  With a smile Zachary took one of the snifters. “As do I.”

  The Witfeld patriarch took a long swallow of the amber liquid. “I hope Caro didn’t offend you with her ear comments. She can be rather…direct. Gets that from me, I suppose.”

  Zachary blinked. Apparently she had either used the sketching ruse before, or she had a known ear fetish. With what he’d seen of this family, he didn’t care to lay odds over which it might be. “I wasn’t offended at all,” he returned belatedly.

  “Thank you for that. She’s one of only two girls in the house who have any sense. The other ones are so silly I’m not certain what to make of them.”

  “If I might ask, why are none of them married?”

  Witfeld laughed. “Didn’t you notice how they practically tore you to shreds when they caught sight of you? Imagine being a fellow coming to court one of them. All bachelors run for the hills in under a minute.”

  He could understan
d that. If not for Aunt Tremaine, he would have invented an excuse to be out of the house by sunrise tomorrow. And he wouldn’t have looked back. “They were friendly,” he said, remembering that he was a Griffin and that Griffins were unfailingly polite. “After the artifice of London, it’s actually rather refreshing.”

  “If you say so.” Witfeld took another drink. “For me, I’m glad to have this tiny sanctuary.”

  Taking what was probably the best opening he was likely to get, Zachary leaned over to touch the sphere that had occupied his chair. “Speaking of your sanctuary, you have a very…eclectic collection. What’s this?”

  “It’s not a collection. They’re my inventions.” Mr. Witfeld gave the room a fond glance.

  “Your inventions.”

  “Yes, indeed. That one, for example, is an egg transporter.”

  Zachary looked at it dubiously. “I see.”

  “I know it doesn’t look like much, but with some tinkering it could be very useful.” Witfeld stood and picked it up, lifting a small hatch in the mesh wood top. “You see, there’s a second, suspended sphere in the middle. A bit of a gyroscope, I suppose. The idea is to place the sphere beneath a chicken’s nest, which has a hole in the bottom. When an egg is laid it drops inside, and then the weight causes the sphere to roll down a ramp to a basket below.”

  “I see,” Zachary repeated, not certain whether to be amused, impressed, or worried. “Does it work?”

  “Actually, yes. The problem is that unless you only have one chicken or unless they all lay their eggs in the correct order, the first-filled sphere knocks all the other waiting ones down the ramp, which is then peppered with broken eggs.” Sighing, Witfeld set the sphere down again and nudged it with the toe of his Wellington boot.

  “One egg a day wouldn’t be very profitable,” Zachary ventured.

  “Exactly. Ah, well. I’m still working on a solution.”

  “Are all of these works in progress?”

  “Some of them are prototypes. A few of the actual pieces are in use about the estate. I’ll take you on a tour tomorrow, if you’d like.”

  Well, that would be different, at any rate. “Certainly.” Zachary looked down at the egg-catching sphere again. “Have you considered a line of short ramps all connecting to a main one? Then it wouldn’t matter which chicken produced an egg first.”

  Witfeld looked at him for a moment. Usually when one of Zachary’s brothers eyed him like that, it was followed by one of them calling him an idiot or a blockhead. He automatically braced his shoulders for the insult.

  “And the short ramps could be angled slightly to enable the spheres to make the turn onto the main ramp,” Witfeld said slowly, pulling a piece of paper out from a stack and beginning to scribble on it. “I’m a fool.”

  “Nonsense,” Zachary returned, beginning to warm to the discussion. “You’d still have a problem if two spheres collided and blocked the main ramp.”

  “That’s still less of a problem than I had a moment ago.”

  “So you think it might work?”

  “I think it might.” Witfeld stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pull out my blueprints.”

  Zachary rose as well. “Of course. I should see how my aunt is faring.”

  They shook hands. “Good night, my lord. And I’ve found it’s best to go along with the tidal wave of femininity, then escape as soon as their backs are turned.”

  With a chuckle Zachary nodded. “Thank you for the advice.”

  As he headed back toward the second floor and the drawing room, Zachary wasn’t all that certain the advice was necessary. Yes, there were seven daughters, but two of them weren’t yet of age, and God knew he’d had his share of females in pursuit. The only difference here was that all the chits were related.

  Outside the drawing room doorway, though, he stopped. It sounded like a henhouse in there, with all the female voices tittering and giggling. And he could swear that in the space of thirty seconds he heard his name mentioned at least nine times and by a half dozen different voices.

  Well, if there was one thing he’d learned, it was to admit when he was wrong. Five marriageable females plus two younger ones and their mother and his aunt—he’d never been that badly outnumbered before. And they expected him to walk straight into the spiders’ web.

  “Devil take that,” he muttered and turned on his heel, retreating to his bedchamber. He might not yet be an expert in army tactics, but he did know about strategic retreats and living to fight another day. He would deal with the assault after he got a good night’s sleep.

  Actually, the next assault came immediately. As he opened the bedchamber door, a thigh-high brown tangle of legs and ears leapt up to hit him in the chest. Reflexively he caught the beast in his arms. “Did you miss me, Harold?” he muttered, setting the dog down again.

  “Thank goodness you’ve come, my lord,” his valet yelped, dropping a frayed blanket to the floor.

  “What’s amiss, Reed?” Zachary closed the door behind him just before Harold could reach the opening.

  “That…that animal, my lord,” the valet sputtered. “I’ve been trying to fend him off, but he nearly ate me alive.” The servant stuck out one foot, showing off a shredded pants leg and stocking. The man’s shoe was nowhere to be seen.

  “He’s still a pup, Reed; we have to make allowances for high spirits.”

  “If you say so, my lord. Will there be anything else?”

  Hm. Whatever Miss Witfeld had in mind for the morning, he needed to be prepared for it. “Lay out my gray day jacket, if you please,” he said, patting his thigh to get Harold’s attention, “and be up here by seven o’clock. I have an early engagement.” That should do; elegant but conservative would seem to be a match for a country miss’s expectations.

  “Very good, my lord, except—”

  “Except what, Reed? Come here, Harold. Here.”

  “Except that your…Harold…ate your gray day jacket.”

  Zachary looked from the dog to the valet. “Beg pardon?”

  “Well, not the entire garment. The right sleeve, actually. I had taken it from the wardrobe to press it, my lord, and evidently he thought I was playing or—”

  “That’s fine,” Zachary interrupted, swallowing his annoyance. “The rust-colored one will suffice.”

  “Of course, my lord. And I’ll see that the other gets to a tailor. Perhaps it can be repaired.”

  Nodding, Zachary retrieved Shay’s poetry book and sank into the reading chair beneath the window. Once Reed had gone, he sent Harold a glare. “Stop eating my things,” he ordered.

  The dog wagged its tail at him. For the moment Zachary would take that as agreement.

  He was nodding off over the Byron poetry when someone scratched at his door. For a fleeting moment he hoped it might be Caroline, but she’d already set their rendezvous for early in the morning.

  “Come in,” he called, settling upright in his chair.

  Aunt Tremaine limped heavily into the room. “Coward,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You left more than half a dozen very disappointed young ladies waiting for you downstairs.”

  “I was tired,” he returned, snapping his book open again. “And I had to discipline Harold.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, taking in the dog snoring in the middle of the bed. “You’ve never disciplined anything in your life.” Moving closer to Zachary, she rapped the back of the book with the tip of her cane. “At least it gave me a chance to answer all their questions in depth.”

  He looked up again. “What questions?”

  His aunt smiled. “The questions about you. Your favorite food, favorite color, favorite flower, fav—”

  “I don’t have a favorite flower.”

  “You do now. White lilies.”

  “So I’m maudlin and sentimental.”

  “Apparently,” she returned, unfazed.

  “And what are you?” he asked, tugging at th
e end of the cane until she lowered it. He’d been thwacked across the ankle or knee with it enough to know how much it could sting. In fact he thought his aunt sometimes faked gout so she would have an excuse to carry the weapon.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Had you planned all along to make this detour?”

  “I knew Sally lived close along the road to Bath.”

  Zachary stood. “And you knew she had seven unmarried daughters.”

  “Yes.”

  “None of which was information you chose to share with me until we’d stopped on the front drive.”

  “Don’t accuse me of any matchmaking nonsense, young man,” she said as they headed back to the hallway. “Sebastian was the one who assigned you to be my escort. I could easily have traveled here or to Bath with Charlemagne or even Melbourne himself. I was under the impression that they were both occupied elsewhere.”

  And so was he supposed to be. “Mm hm.” Zachary continued to eye his wily aunt as he escorted her to her own bedchamber. “So you have no ulterior motives for anything.”

  “You’re entirely too suspicious. Now lend me your book so I’ll have something to read in bed.”

  “Fine.” He handed it over. “It’s Shay’s, so don’t be surprised by the notes in the margins. And Harold ate the cover.”

  Aunt Tremaine took his arm and pulled him down so she could kiss his cheek. “You’ll enjoy a few days here. It’s different than what you’re accustomed to. Just remember, my boy, Sally is a dear friend, and her daughters are terribly naive. You are not.”

  “Never fear, Aunt. I won’t lead any young things astray.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  After he returned to his own room, he undressed and shoved the snoring hound to one side of the bed. He wouldn’t lead anyone astray. If one of them wanted to lead him somewhere, though, that was a different matter entirely. And he had an appointment to be sketched—or whatever she chose to call it—in the morning. Yes, the damned trip to Bath was beginning to look up a little.

  Chapter 4

  Caroline set out four pencils with various thicknesses of lead. She didn’t want to look foolish and run out of drawing implements in front of Lord Zachary—not when impressing him with her professionalism and competence would be as important as her skill at painting him.