An Invitation to Sin

by Suzanne Enoch

  At the moment, though, he didn’t seem to be feeling any of the same yearning she did. Rather, he stood talking with Anne and George Bennett. From their expressions, she couldn’t tell which gentleman found her sister more charming. She knew quite well which man Anne favored.

  “I’m going for a breath of air,” she said abruptly, tugging on her mother’s sleeve.

  “Don’t be long, dear,” Sally said absently, barely pausing in her chat with Mrs. Williams and Harriet Caldwell.

  Although guests wandered about everywhere, the hallway and music room were at least a little cooler than the ballroom. Caroline paced to the library and back. She was not jealous of Anne. It was only that Zachary seemed to be making a genuine effort to change his life, and it wasn’t fair for Anne to even contemplate ruining that for him. Of course Anne probably wasn’t thinking about Zachary or his future as much as she was planning her own.

  “I have no idea,” she heard a female voice say from around the corner in front of her. “Perhaps it was a family pet.”

  A nasal male chuckle followed. “Or perhaps they wanted to honor the creature before making him into a rooster stew.”

  “Look over here,” a third voice drawled, “she’s painted the family dog.”

  Caroline froze. She recognized two of the voices—Lord and Lady Eades. The third voice sounded like Vincent Powell, another of the local gentry.

  “Are those her sisters? They look like six daughters of King Lear.”

  They’d asked her to make them look Shakespearean. Letting them dress up in their great-grandmother’s old clothes had been the only way she’d been able to convince them to pose together for her.

  “Did you hear that she’s applied to a portrait studio?”

  More laughter. “Hopefully they’ll have dogs and roosters as clients.”

  Oh, that wasn’t fair. She sketched and painted everything that she could. It was her father who’d decided to hang some of her work in the hallway.

  “Poor girl. She’s not a great talent, though she does try hard. We offered her a position teaching Theodore and our other children, but she seems to think she’ll actually be going to Vienna.”

  “Pardon me,” another low voice came, and Caroline’s breath caught. Zachary.

  “My lord. We were just admiring some of Miss Witfeld’s artwork. Very quaint, don’t you think?”

  “Not so much quaint,” he returned without pause, “as showing incredible talent.” She heard him step forward. “Do you realize she painted that rooster when she was fourteen?”

  “But it’s a rooster.”

  “Charles Collins once painted a lobster, and John Wootton frequently painted dogs. And not nearly as well as Miss Witfeld does.”

  “You’re an expert in art, then?”

  “I spent six months in Paris, studying under a master. I don’t have the natural talent, though, that Miss Witfeld obviously does.”

  “She painted a portrait of my wife and me as Egyptian pharaohs,” Lord Eades said begrudgingly in his nasal voice.

  “She did a portrait of me with my prize bull,” Mr. Powell seconded in a more courteous tone of his own.

  “I’d keep them safe,” Zachary said coolly. “They may be worth a small fortune some day. But speaking of prize bulls, Mr. Powell, what do you know about Edmund Witfeld’s cattle breeding program?”

  She could feel the hesitation in the air. They wanted to make fun of her father but didn’t dare do so in Zachary’s presence. Good.

  “Ah, not a great deal. He has a cow he’s always bragging about.”

  “A cow that could be the beginning of something very large. Would you and Lord Eades care to meet with us tomorrow morning? If money’s to be made, I would prefer that Wiltshire benefit from it before I go farther afield.”

  She listened while they practically fell over one another to agree to the meeting. Then, realizing they might round the corner at any moment, she abruptly turned around and hurried back down the hall. So that was what the local gentry thought of her—she was as eccentric as her father, someone to be humored to her face and ridiculed when her back was turned.

  A hand touched her shoulder. “Caroline.”

  Flinching, she nearly ran into the wall. “Oh, Zachary. I was just taking a breath of—”

  Zachary put a hand over her mouth. “You heard those idiots, didn’t you?” he whispered.

  She pulled his hand down. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “No, they didn’t know what they were talking about. I doubt any of them have ever been to a museum or gallery, much less studied art. Don’t let their ignorance upset you.”

  “I’m not upset,” she lied.

  He continued gazing at her, their hands still entwined.

  “It’s just that I know how they make fun of my father sometimes,” she blurted, not certain why she felt the need to confide in him, or the trust to do so. “It…hurt, a little, to realize that they say the same things about me.”

  “Hm. As far as I’m concerned, they can keep saying them, because you’ll be in Vienna laughing at their sorry little lives.”

  A smile touched Caroline’s mouth. “You’re nicer than I gave you credit for.”

  “Me?” Both eyebrows lifting, he put his free hand to his chest. “I’m a hardened rake or some such thing.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too. You aren’t a rake at all.”

  His brows lowered. “I’m not?”

  “No. I don’t think you set out to seduce women. I think you’re just so pleasant and charming and considerate that they all fall at your feet without your even realizing it.”

  He drew her a little closer. “Have you fallen at my feet, then, Caroline?”

  Oh, dear. “I was referring to my sisters.”

  “I thought so.” Zachary leaned down and kissed her, slow and soft and warm.

  For a moment she closed her eyes, drinking in the sensation. The orchestra began playing again, though, and reality and logic returned with a bump. “Stop that,” she hissed, shoving at his chest. “You wouldn’t want someone to catch us.”

  “Neither would you. Come dance with me.” He caught her hand again, this time placing it over his dark gray sleeve.

  “How did you come to be in the hallway, anyway?” she asked as they returned to the ballroom.

  “I was looking for you.”

  Accompanied by the same lifting sensation she felt when they kissed, Caroline was swept into the waltz. For a horrifying moment she wondered whether everyone could see in her expression how much she liked dancing with him, and whether they would realize that the waltz wasn’t the only thing she’d done in his arms. As she glanced about the room, though, it swiftly became clear that no one was even looking at her. No, all eyes—especially the female ones—were trained on her dance partner.

  “You never said you studied art for six months in Paris,” she ventured after a moment.

  “I didn’t study at all in Paris. Not formally. Lying about my background seemed the least combative way to make them see my point.”

  “Did you know I was listening?”

  “No.”

  His gaze held hers, warm and sincere. He’d become so much more than she’d realized; or rather, she’d discovered so much more about him than she had expected. “So you weren’t trying to gain my gratitude.”

  Zachary chuckled. “My love,” he whispered, tilting his forehead against hers as they danced, “I’ve already been inside you. I don’t need your gratitude.”

  She swallowed, her mouth dry.

  “What I want is your respect, Caroline. Because I have a great deal of respect for you.”

  Unexpectedly she had to stifle the sudden desire to kiss him again. She bit her lower lip, trying to shake herself out of that very troubling thought. “I do respect you,” she finally said.

  “Not if everything I do still surprises you.”

  Zachary Griffin was definitely more astute than she’d originally given him credit
for. Perhaps he was right; she did feel grateful, since after all she wouldn’t have a very good chance at a position in Vienna if not for him. But respect? A few days ago she’d told him he was a waste of air. If he’d wanted to punish her for that, though, there were myriad ways he could have done so before this moment.

  “It surprises me less and less,” she conceded.

  “That’s something, I suppose.” He didn’t sound offended—though he didn’t sound overjoyed, either.

  “Now that you’ve fulfilled your promise to me, I suppose you’ll be leaving for Bath,” she said, mostly to change the subject. The sooner he left, the better for her equilibrium. She’d wanted to be with him, but she certainly hadn’t expected to continue to desire him afterwards. It was a complication she didn’t need.

  “Actually, Aunt Tremaine and I are going to stay for another week or two,” he returned smoothly. She had a suspicion that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and that troubled her immensely.

  “You are? Why?”

  “Are you in a hurry to be rid of us?”

  “No. Of course not. It’s just…why would you want to stay in Wiltshire if you’re not obligated to do so?”

  “Several reasons,” he said. “One of which is Dimidius.”

  “Yes, I heard you recruiting Lord Eades and Mr. Powell. You were serious, then?”

  “Extremely serious. And the more I read of your father’s notes about how he came to breed Dimidius, the more interested I am. I think that by luck he may have stumbled onto something that farmers and breeders have been attempting to do for decades.”

  “But he just bred a Guernsey cow with a South Devon bull.”

  “The cow wasn’t pure Guernsey. It’s more complicated than that. And so, unless you ask me to leave, I would like to stay and figure this out, and maybe begin an expanded breeding program to see if I can reproduce your father’s results.” Zachary gazed at her for a long moment. “Unless you ask me to leave,” he repeated.

  He was leaving it up to her. And with every ounce of her being she wanted to ask him to go away and allow her to simplify what was becoming a very complicated life. “If you’re serious about your interest in the cattle, then I think you should stay,” she heard herself say.

  “I’m serious about my interest,” he returned, that slow smile of his appearing again and making her heart flip-flop. “Very serious.”

  “Twice the milk, Witfeld? You can’t be serious.” Vincent Powell kicked the toe of his boot against the paddock fencing.

  “I measured the average amount of milk given by six of my milk cows against that of Dimidius. Twice is a solid figure.” The Witfeld patriarch spoke calmly enough, but after what Zachary had overheard last night he had a fairly good idea how the neighbors viewed Edmund’s inventions, and how aware Witfeld was of that fact. That made this morning’s conversation very interesting for more than one reason. “And it’s a rich quality, too. Ideal for butter and cream on the best tables in Bath and London.”

  “I hardly—”

  Zachary stepped forward. “I’ve seen his research,” he interrupted. “It looks valid. I’m willing to risk my pocketbook on it, in fact. I’m not asking you to do that. All I need is your cooperation and some of your time.”

  “For what, pray tell?” Lord Eades asked, reluctance written in the stiff line of his back and the arms folded across his chest.

  “I propose to supply you with animals, to be fed and bred as per my and Edmund’s instructions. Before I do so, I need your word that these animals won’t be sold to market, or slaughtered, or used for anything but the stated purpose of perfecting a new breed of dairy cows.”

  “And how long are we supposed to go along with this?”

  Zachary took a breath. He’d only had time for some very preliminary calculations and figures, but of course the local farmers expected him to have answers. If he didn’t, or if he said something blatantly wrong, the entire plan would fold before it ever began. “It can’t be a short-term program,” he said slowly, making every effort to demonstrate the famous Griffin confidence. “In order to maintain control over the progress of the breeding, I am willing to provide one hundred percent monetary support for the next five years. At that time we should have enough of a breeding population to assess whether it will be profitable to continue or not.”

  “Five years,” Powell repeated, glancing at Eades.

  “I mean to bring in at least four more local farmers to supplement the program and to prevent inbreeding,” Zachary continued. “But I spoke with Edmund, and he wanted your support first, because the community will follow as the two of you lead.” He had no idea if that was true or not, but it sounded good.

  “You’re talking about a great deal of money, my lord.”

  Zachary smiled. “I have a great deal of money.”

  Both men turned to view Dimidius again as she happily nuzzled into a large bucket of oats, her calf beside her. She was fairly attractive as cows went, large and healthy looking, a mottled white and red with a complacent temperament.

  “All right, Lord Zachary,” Eades said, offering his hand. “You have a deal. But we expect to reap a percentage of any profits that result from our participation.”

  Zachary shook it. “You will. I promise you that. And Zachary is fine.”

  He shook Powell’s hand, as well, and stepped back to encourage the two men to include Witfeld. Once everyone had agreed and shaken hands, Zachary pulled a bottle of whiskey and some glasses from inside a wagon bed where he’d hidden them. “To seal our partnership,” he said with a grin.

  “You are a good lad, Zachary,” Powell said, smiling. “When do we begin?”

  Now came the hard part. “I have a few area farms to visit, to check on their stock, so I would say the animals will begin arriving within the next fortnight, and quite possibly sooner.”

  “Excellent.”

  Witfeld poured a generous amount of whiskey into each glass, then raised his. “To Dimidius.”

  Zachary and his new partners lifted their glasses, as well. He, at least, felt like he needed a drink. “To Dimidius.”

  “All right, you may look now.”

  Zachary blinked, looking up from the legal manual he’d borrowed from Frank Anderton. After all, if he was going to go through all of this, he wanted some assurance that one of his farmer assistants couldn’t take a cow and sell all of their research without repercussion. “Beg pardon?”

  Joanna put down her paintbrush and smoothed at her blue sprig muslin gown. “I said I’ve finished, and you may look at the portrait.”

  With a quickly hidden grimace, he stood. He’d forgotten that he was being painted yet again. “By the way, I neglected to ask how your evening with Mr. Thomas went.”

  “Oh, very well.” She bounced on her toes. “He’s taking me on a picnic tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. Then why are you painting me?”

  “I’m not painting you. Not any longer.”

  Curious now, Zachary circled the makeshift easel to look at the painting. He blinked again, trying to clear his eyes. “That’s a toga, is it not?”

  “Yes. It began as you portraying the Greek god Apollo, but then when I drew John Thomas’s name out of the basket I thought I should make him the subject.”

  “Of course. Good thinking.” In truth, the head perched on the neckless toga-wearing figure with the horse-shaped legs could have been anyone from Prinny to the mad Emperor Nero, but from the size of the nose he was rather glad it wasn’t supposed to be him. “Has Mr. Thomas seen it yet?”

  “No. I thought I would present it to him at the picnic.”

  Wonderful. “I think he will be very pleasantly surprised,” Zachary said diplomatically. “I wager no one’s ever troubled to paint him before.”

  “That was my thinking.”

  From Joanna’s excited smile, he’d said the right thing. And at least she’d set her sights on someone aside from him.

  “Ah, there you are,” Caroline’s sweet
voice came, and his heart thudded.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Witfeld,” he said, facing the doorway.

  “Good afternoon. I was just in Trowbridge, and ran into Mr. Anderton. He sent this along.” She hefted a large, leather-bound legal volume. “He said it has more to do with racing carriages, but you might find some of it useful.”

  “In case we accidently breed racing cows?” he suggested, taking the book from her.

  She snorted, covering her face with one hand. God, he adored when she did that.

  “I think it had more to do with proprietary research and development. Would you like me to take a look?”

  “Are you volunteering to assist me?” he asked, his fingers itching to brush a straying auburn hair from her face, to touch her soft skin.

  “I have nearly a fortnight before I can expect to hear from Vienna,” she returned. “I may as well attempt to repay you for your help by offering mine.”

  “I accept.”

  “If you two are finished trying to polite one another to death,” Joanna said sarcastically, “come and look at my painting, Caro. It’s John Thomas.”

  Caroline complied, the expression on her face absolutely still. “My goodness,” she said after a moment, her voice, a little ragged at the edges, the only indication that Joanna’s artwork amused her. “You’ve made a wonderful use of color. And your brush strokes are so delicate.”

  Joanna puffed up like a songbird. “You see? I could have been an artist too, if I’d chosen to do so.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I’m going to go show Julia. She’ll be terribly jealous, because she spilled punch on her gentleman, and I don’t think he likes her.”

  Zachary watched Joanna and her painting out the door, then turned to Caroline. Mindful of the maid darning socks in the corner, Zachary surreptitiously reached over to run his finger across the back of Caroline’s hand. “Thank you again for volunteering.”

  “I need to do something to keep from going mad while I wait to hear from Vienna.”

  He grinned. “Glad to be of service.”

  “Speaking of service,” she returned, “how many more portraits are you posing for?”