An Invitation to Sin

by Suzanne Enoch

One thing had swiftly become clear; Aunt Tremaine was genuinely fond of the Witfeld family. Good. She could report his success to Melbourne. “No worries. But you know how I enjoy a challenge.”

  “Oh, dear,” she muttered.

  Now that he had the beginnings of a plan, he wanted to get started with it. Dividing and conquering made the most sense—if he could manage to hold off the other half dozen or so long enough to accomplish anything with each of them individually.

  “Zachary.”

  He started as the cane met his ankle. “What, damn it all?”

  “Are you going to pose for Caroline’s portrait?”

  “I said I would,” he returned, surreptitiously bending to rub his ankle. “She’s already sketching my ears and my hands. She can’t do my legs now, though, because you’ve broken them.”

  “Then pay attention when I’m talking to you, you silly boy.”

  “I can’t if you kill me, you mad old woman.” He kissed her on the cheek, then stood. Caroline had been correct about the benefits of at least pretending to drink a large amount of liquid. “Excuse me for a moment, ladies,” he said to no one in particular, trying not to limp as he made his way to the door.

  He’d barely exited into the hallway when a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him sideways.

  Startled, he pulled free. “Caro—” he began, then snapped his mouth closed when he realized it wasn’t her.

  “Shh, lad,” Mr. Witfeld whispered. “This way.”

  “But I—”

  The family’s patriarch gestured him toward the front door. “Come quickly, or they’ll hunt you down.”

  Although he was fairly certain Mr. Witfeld was joking, Zachary couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder as, with a slight grin, Barling the butler opened the door for them and they fled the house. Zachary had felt rather like a fox to the hounds since he’d arrived, after all.

  “Thank you for the rescue.”

  “My pleasure. I promised you a tour of my inventions, anyway.”

  Ah, so this wasn’t a rescue as much as it was a redirection. At least it was a little quieter, and it gave him time to begin thinking of a plan to help the Witfeld sisters. They crossed the front drive, and he looked up at the row of conservatory windows. Caroline wouldn’t be gazing out at him, though; all of her attention would be on her sketch pad, on the flat, mono-colored pencil marks she’d spent the afternoon working on. Yes, she definitely needed his intervention, his mouth on hers and his hard cock inside her. Jesus. He shivered. Concentrate, Zach. You’re with the girl’s damned father. And she has to ask.

  After an hour of viewing original Edmund Witfeld inventions, Zachary felt ready for someone to intervene on his behalf.

  “It’s a cow,” Zachary stated, looking across the field.

  “Yes, it is.” Witfeld crossed his hands over the pommel of his saddle, pride in the straight line of his shoulders.

  “Why are we looking at it?” Zachary asked.

  “I bred her. She’s half Guernsey and half South Devon, with some odd ancestry thrown in on her dam’s side. She’s my third try. I kept getting bulls. Excellent beef there, anyway.” Edmund looked at the cow fondly for a moment, then visibly shook himself. “It’s the milk. She gives twice as much as either of her parent breeds.”

  Thank God. Zachary had begun to think Edmund Witfeld was insane, and that they were going to spend the scant remaining daylight admiring a cow for no good reason. She did have nice tits, he supposed, but he preferred two rather than four, and that they not be covered with white fur or be hanging down into the grass.

  He realized Witfeld was looking at him, and that he was supposed to say something admiring about the damned cow. “She looks very healthy,” he ventured.

  From the farmer’s grin and nod, he’d said the right thing. “Yes, she is. I bred her with one of the half-and-half bulls. She gave me a heifer, thank Christ—ha, listen to me, hoping for more females—but it’ll be more than a year before I can breed the offspring.”

  As they watched, a calf trotted out of the grass and began suckling. “Does your cow have a name?” Zachary queried, mostly because he thought the man would be disappointed if he didn’t show some interest.

  “Dimidius. It’s Latin for ‘half.’”

  “Was that your eldest daughter’s suggestion, by any chance?”

  Witfeld chuckled. “Yes, it was, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

  “Just a lucky guess.”

  They sat on horseback for another few minutes gazing at Dimidius and the rest of the herd. Zachary did his best to feign interest in the red-and-white beast, but in truth he would rather have been sitting through one of Melbourne’s dissertations on life and Society.

  So far this afternoon he’d viewed a horse-drawn field seeder, a goat-powered winnower, the old failed egg ramps and the framework for the new ones, and a cow with excess milk and apparently good beef. He was an expert at pretending interest, but after sitting through the Witfeld-Gorman chit barrage and now this, he was hard-pressed not to yawn.

  “We appreciate your helping Caroline,” Witfeld said into the silence. “It’s a lucky chance, you being here now.”

  “You can thank my aunt for my presence,” Zachary returned. “But surely there are other volunteers or possible recruits for Miss Witfeld’s work. She seems quite talented.”

  “Oh, aye, but that studio requires an aristocrat’s portrait. And this part of Wiltshire suffers from an extreme drought of aristocracy, especially during the Season.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t have her going into Bath, where the nobles there don’t know her from Adam. And I know what they’d say, a young unmarried female soliciting a subject for a portrait.”

  Zachary cleared his throat. He’d made the same assumption himself. “But—”

  “If it weren’t for you, she’d be sketching Eades,” her father continued, “and he favors dressing up as King Arthur.”

  “Fortunately I prefer to emulate the Egyptian gods,” Zachary drawled.

  Witfeld eyed him. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “Good God, yes.”

  “Thank goodness.” The patriarch laughed.

  “If I might ask, though, if an aristocrat is so integral, why not send her to Bath despite the snobbery, or to London, where they might be more open to sitting for a female artist? A sister could accompany her and lend some propriety.”

  Edmund’s jaw twitched. “I wanted to, but the agreement between Mrs. Witfeld and myself was that unless we could send all of the girls to London for their Season and all that silliness, we couldn’t send any of them. And whatever I might privately think, I don’t want a half dozen girls at my throat.”

  Apparently a gentleman farmer, even a viscount’s grandson like Witfeld, couldn’t afford to give each of seven daughters her own debut in Society. Afraid that he’d offended Witfeld, Zachary prepared an apology for his thickheaded question. His host, though, was already beginning an explanation of the benefits of water over wind power in grinding grain.

  When his own sister, Eleanor, had turned eighteen, her debut had rivaled that of royalty. The Griffins were royalty, as far as Society was concerned. Since he knew quite well that none of the Witfeld girls had ever been to London, Zachary had simply concluded that their odd parents had kept them away on purpose. Money and the lack thereof had never entered his mind. No wonder all of his siblings railed at him so often for being an idiot.

  Of all the sisters, though, he would have tried to send Caroline. She so obviously wanted to be elsewhere, and so clearly craved a more metropolitan existence than the one available to her in Trowbridge. It rather forcefully made Zachary consider the difference between them, since over the course of his life he’d never been denied anything—except for a purpose. She had her purpose, and he seemed to be the only route for her to achieve it.

  “We should probably be heading back to the house,” Witfeld noted. “If I deny the girls a chance to charm you again over dinner, I’ll never hear the en
d of it.”

  They rounded a wooded hill, coming out onto an open glade crossed by a picturesque creek. Squarely in the center of the meadow, a tumble of old broken marble arches and pillars, and a half-decayed wall of stone and granite and twisted ivy, caught the last of the sunlight. For an unsettled moment Zachary thought he’d somehow been whisked back to Greece in front of the Parthenon. “What—”

  “Oh, those are my ruins,” Witfeld said, pride edging his voice again. “What do you think? They’re still a work in progress, of course.”

  “They’re…ancient-looking,” Zachary offered, blinking. Now that he looked more closely, he could make out the artful arrangement of the broken structure, the carefully placed vines and clusters of ferns. Apparently Witfeld had succumbed to the current fad of creating antiquity.

  “Thank you. Would you call them Roman, or Greek?”

  Zachary mentally flipped a coin. “Greek,” he decided.

  “Excellent. You have a good eye, my lord.”

  “Zachary, please.” After all, he’d been contemplating seducing the man’s eldest daughter—or rather, convincing her to ask him to seduce her.

  “Edmund, then.”

  “So, Edmund, do you think Mrs. Gorman and Miss Mary will be staying on for dinner?”

  “Good Lord, I hope not,” the Witfeld patriarch said vehemently.

  During the course of this odd afternoon, one thing had become obvious. Edmund Witfeld had elevated the chore of avoiding his hen-filled household to an eccentric, all-consuming art. Zachary sent him a sideways glance as they returned to the manor house. Of all the members of the Witfeld family, Edmund might very well prove to be the most grateful for his little plan to teach the Witfeld sisters the art of being marriageable.

  Chapter 7

  Caroline softened the line of Lord Zachary’s jaw with the tip of one finger. She’d begun today’s session with more practice drawings of his hands, but she knew how to draw fingers and thumbs; other than length and breadth, they didn’t vary much between one subject and the next. Faces, though, and eyes, especially—those were unique. And uniquely…interesting where her latest subject was concerned.

  She feathered in a line of hair obscuring one half-drawn eye. Immediately the drawing became more like Zachary. “There you are,” she murmured.

  It was him, but at the same time it wasn’t. She had the shape of his face, a vague placement of his mouth and nose and eyes, but as she gazed at the flat paper she realized that at the same time the drawing was nothing like him. There was a…a light missing, not just in his eyes, but in the whole expression of his face. Hm. She’d never felt that before; when she’d drawn a good likeness, she’d captured the person. This was different. It felt different, even in the light, lifting sensation that came over her when she drew. This time, as always, it was anticipation to see what would appear, but she also felt a large measure of excitement. Arousal. Something—

  The conservatory door burst open. Caroline nearly jumped out of her skin as her mother hurried inside. “Mama! What’s wrong?”

  “He’s not in here,” Sally Witfeld announced, then vanished again, banging the door closed behind her.

  For a moment Caroline stared at the door. “What…” Scowling, she set her sketch pad aside and stood. “What’s going on?” she called, pulling open the door again and stepping into the hallway.

  Anne hurried past her. “Mama thinks someone’s kidnaped Lord Zachary.”

  “Kidnaped?” Caroline repeated, her heart stopping for a panicked second. Who would she paint? How would she find the elusive bit of him that she needed to make the portrait work? Then logic flooded back in, along with the realization that she was perhaps being a bit self-centered. “Why in the world would Mama think that?”

  “He vanished out of the drawing room three hours ago, and no one’s seen him since.”

  “He better not have returned to London,” Caroline said grimly. If that were the case, she would wish him kidnaped. “Is his horse still here?”

  Anne’s lips twitched. “Oh, dear. You don’t think they kidnaped poor Sagramore, too, do you?”

  Caroline eyed her, immediately suspicious. “You know something. What is it, darling?”

  “Well, since Papa’s vanished as well, I think the two of them are out in a field somewhere, looking at cows. Or a cow, rather.”

  “Did you tell Mama your theory?” Caroline asked, falling into step beside her younger sister.

  “Mama doesn’t want to hear my opinion. She wants to panic and let everyone know that she’ll simply die if something’s happened to Lord Zachary. Lady Gladys is doing embroidery.”

  Ah. “Well, panicking isn’t very helpful, but it is one of Mama’s favorite things to do.” Sally Witfeld had seven unmarried daughters; she not only thrived on chaos, but she also tended to encourage it. “Shall we go out to the stable and see whether Papa’s horse has been kidnaped, as well? Surely Nelson wouldn’t go without a fight.”

  “And there is of course Harold, who is apparently in the garden eating Mama’s geraniums.”

  “Hm. Perhaps we should save the duke’s brother first, and then send him to rescue the flowers.”

  “A splendid idea.” Anne grinned outright. “You realize we might become heroines for locating the lost prince.”

  With a snort Caroline gestured her down the stairs. “I’ll risk being worshiped, if it means we can avoid having to carry Mama upstairs to her bed.”

  While the rest of their siblings and half the household staff ran about like headless chickens, she and Anne slipped out the front door and ran, laughing, for the stables. Caroline reached the wide double doors first and looked back to announce her victory in the race—then slammed straight into a broad, hard chest.

  “Oh!” She would have fallen on her backside, but Lord Zachary grabbed her by the shoulders. “I’m so sorry!”

  She tried to ignore the way his palms brushed along her arms as he set her upright again. His interest in her was so…disconcerting; and it was something she couldn’t ignore, considering the close proximity in which her own request had put them. But his interest didn’t explain hers.

  “No worries,” he returned, his eyes dancing as though he knew precisely the effect he had on her. Of course he did, blast him.

  “We were looking for you, Lord Zachary,” Anne panted, giving Caroline the moment she needed to recover her composure and her balance.

  Their father emerged from the stable behind the duke’s brother. “Zachary asked to see some of my inventions.”

  More likely her father had suggested that they go on a tour, and their guest had exhibited more of his annoying tendency to be easygoing and had agreed. Wonderful. Now Caroline had all six of her sisters and her father vying for her portrait subject’s attention.

  Zachary’s expression didn’t even twitch at her father’s statement. “Edmund has done some remarkable work.”

  “Well, thank you, lad.”

  “Mama thought Lord Zachary had been kidnaped,” Anne put in, not trying to hide her amusement.

  “Bloody hell,” Edmund grumbled. “We’d best return you, then, or I’ll never hear the damned end of it.”

  No, he wouldn’t. And he’d probably actually done Lord Zachary a favor by aiding his escape from the Witfeld-Gorman assault. Caroline thought quickly. “Perhaps Lord Zachary could explain that his journey from London left him more fatigued than he realized, and he required a breath of fresh air.”

  Zachary eyed her. “‘Fatigued,’” he repeated dubiously.

  “Oh, yes, horribly so. And perhaps fighting an aching head that would have left him bedridden for weeks, completely unable to attend any social events.”

  His jaw twitched. “I was nearly dead, obviously.” Zachary drew a breath. “Thank goodness the Wiltshire air is so…”

  “Restoring,” Caroline suggested, grinning. Good. He understood how much more harmonious the evening would be if he took the blame for his absence.

  “As I knew it
would be,” Edmund added, sending both her and Zachary a grateful look.

  “You’re a genius,” Anne whispered, hugging Caroline around the shoulders as they returned to the house.

  “Just practical.” She sighed. “You’d best include Papa on your chart.”

  “Don’t worry, Caro. I’ll try to give you time in the mornings so you’ll have the light.”

  “Thank you.” She returned her attention to the man walking directly in front of her. “By the by, Lord Zachary, your dog is eating our garden.”

  “Is he? Damnation. I told Reed to keep an eye on him.”

  “Oh. I was under the impression that Harold was your dog.”

  He sent her a sharp look over his shoulder as she stifled an abrupt frown. She really needed to learn to quell her retorts before they reached her tongue.

  “He is my dog. I’ll train him away from flowers this afternoon.”

  “In one afternoon?” she returned, trying to sound curious and admiring rather than skeptical.

  “I’ve trained horses,” he said, sounding the slightest bit defensive. “A pup should be easier.”

  She had her doubts about that, but obviously she’d already said enough. After all, Zachary was doing both her and her father a favor. “Much easier, I’m certain,” she agreed, carefully keeping her expression innocent as he glanced at her again.

  “Precisely.”

  As Barling opened the front door to welcome them into the house, Sally Witfeld was descending the main staircase. Her shriek made Caroline wince; she could only imagine what Zachary must be thinking.

  “Lord Zachary! Thank the dear heavens! We all thought you must have been murdered!” With a gasp, Mrs. Witfeld sank onto the bottom step in a swoon.

  “Oh, good God. I’ll be in my office,” her husband muttered, grasping Caroline’s elbow, then releasing her again as he vanished.

  For a brief moment it looked as though Zachary meant to follow, but with a visible squaring of his shoulders he stepped forward and brushed the gathering sisters out of the way. “Ladies, allow me.”

  “But Lord Zach—”

  Amid the protests and statements of admiration he hauled Sally Witfeld into his arms and carried her up the stairs. As he reached the second floor, Caroline realized she was staring—staring at the muscles playing beneath his tight buckskin trousers, at the obvious strength in his broad shoulders.