Sinful Deeds (Cynfell Brothers Book 2)

by Holt, Samantha

  “I haven’t exhibited any, but I hope to. Mr Allen says my work is highly fashionable and will sell easily.”

  “Mr Allen?” he spluttered. “Who is Mr Allen?”

  Her excited expression waned. “I have mentioned him, Dante. Several times. He works at the National Gallery.”

  He searched his memory and came up with some vague recollection. The truth was, whenever he spent time with Josephine he was too busy imagining stripping off her clothes to concentrate too hard on what she was saying.

  Or, of course, he was actually doing the stripping, in which case not a single word would have sunk in.

  “So you’re going to make your living as an artist?”

  That grin came back. He couldn’t help notice how radiant she seemed. When had he ever seen her smile like that? Josephine was certainly not a grim creature or else they would never have got along so well, but the way her eyes glowed and her smile seemed to stretch farther than he’d ever seen. It was like viewing a new woman.

  And one he wanted very, very much.

  “I hope so.”

  “I see.”

  He didn’t really. How would she support herself by merely painting? He hated to shatter that smile but if she thought she could survive long as an artist, she’d be sorely disappointed. She should remember that he knew how much she cost to look after. His Josephine was not a demanding woman but nor was she cheap.

  “Perhaps...perhaps when my paintings are displayed, you shall come and view them?”

  Donning a quick smile, he nodded. “I shall indeed.”

  “I’d like us to remain friends, Dante. You mean so much to me, and you helped me at a time when I had no one else to turn to.”

  What she meant was he saved her from destitution when her husband died. Apparently, he was no longer good enough for that. No, painting would keep her now. He snorted inwardly. He would not damage her dream, however. She would discover the real world soon enough. As rich and as well-liked as he might be, he’d seen more of the world than she had. It might have been a long time ago, when he was but a boy, but he had seen enough of it to understand how it treated the poor.

  And when she discovered it, she would come running back to him. He suppressed a smile. “If you need anything, please do not hesitate to come to me.”

  She nodded. “Of course. I am sorry, I really didn’t wish...” Her throat worked and a slight sheen came across her eyes.

  Damn her, why was she putting them through this?

  “Well...” He paused. There had to be some way to persuade her to give up this folly. He’d never been the best at talking but actions...actions he could do. So, what were his options? A gentlemanly kiss to the hand when she offered it? Maybe he should simply sweep her up in his arms and seduce her until she lost her mind with passion. It had been known to happen many a time with Josephine.

  She leaned in and went onto tiptoes to graze his cheek with her lips. He saw his opportunity and took it. He snatched her arms and pressed a fierce kiss to her mouth. She struggled at first—the briefest hint of surprise making her tug against his hold—but she softened rapidly, as he knew she would.

  A small sigh escaped her mouth, and he answered with a groan. It really had been too long since he’d tasted her. Dante pushed his fingers into her hair and began to unpick the pins while easing the pressure of his mouth upon hers so he could slip his tongue between her lips.

  Her own tongue met his greedily. She had missed him as much it seemed.

  Once he had her hair loose enough, he cupped the back of her head and tilted her just so. Her body met his perfectly, and he used his other hand to come down and grab a breast.

  She stiffened. Her mouth stopped moving beneath his. A sound most unexpected reached his ears.

  No.

  A muffled no. He released her and stared at her, his breaths raw and ragged.

  “No,” she said again, turning away from him.

  “Jo-Jo...” He reached for her, but she waved him away with a hand, leaving him staring at her shoulders as they rose and fell as heavily as his.

  “Go.”

  He didn’t understand. She had wanted him. She’d enjoyed that kiss. Why would she deny him? He truly was lost to the tempest.

  Turning away, he strode out of the room and retrieved his hat. He paused in the hallway and waited for her to dash after him, but she never came. He rammed his hat on and gave himself a reassuring grin in the hallway mirror. That had not gone as planned, that much was true, but she had wanted his kiss. She still felt the fire that danced between them, and she could not deny it forever.

  His smile wavered so he forced it. She would not. Dante would make sure of that.

  Chapter Four

  Hiding a yawn behind a fan, Josephine forced herself to listen to the man at the front of the assembly rooms. It wasn’t that the topic was boring—well not particularly—but he had the most awful droning voice. She suspected he could talk of something truly scandalous—like the sexual appetites of women—and still be dull.

  Of course, a man would never speak of such matters, but Josephine was all too aware of sexual desire and the effect it had upon a woman.

  It had been almost one week since she’d last seen Dante. Nearly two since he’d bedded her. Going from four years of constant company to nothing had left her tense and exhausted. She couldn’t sleep and struggled to find her appetite.

  But it wasn’t simply her lack of male company making her a little addled. It was the lack of Dante.

  Her heart throbbed whenever she said his name in her mind. Why could she not stop loving him? She drew in a breath and released it. She knew why. Because she was not that fickle and in spite of his flaws, she’d always loved him. Those flaws had not been a problem for a long time. For the most part, she managed to ignore them. However, when it had come to the point where his treatment of her affected her everyday life, even to the point of potentially ruining any chance of becoming known for her painting, she could not allow it to continue.

  Dante was Dante, and he’d never change.

  She offered Diana a smile. Her friend seemed enraptured with the discussion on fashion and the demonstration of the new bustle that was sure to entirely change their lives. The only reason she had agreed to attend this talk was for some distraction. Unfortunately, Dante seemed to follow her everywhere.

  Sometimes when she heard a particularly low laugh, she’d spin, thinking it was him. Or if she walked past somewhere they used to frequent, she couldn’t seem to prevent herself from darting her gaze here and there in the hopes of spotting him.

  Gosh, even now...

  “Oh, look who is here.”

  Dante.

  If Diana had seen him, then perhaps she wasn’t mad after all.

  She flicked a glance to where he rested against a marbled pillar just behind the chairs upon which they were seated. Her heart thumped in her chest so loudly that she could swear she heard the blood rushing through her body.

  Why did he have to look so sinfully handsome?

  And so devastatingly lost?

  It was as if, perhaps, her leaving him might have really had an effect on the dashing and enigmatic Dante. His chestnut hair was mussed as though he had been pushing his hand through it, and she noticed his necktie was askew. His valet would have tied it perfectly so he must have been tugging at it.

  The rest of him was immaculate, from his polished shoes to his beautifully cut navy blue jacket. A strong pulse of longing thread through her. How she longed to press her hands under that jacket and feel the strong warmth of him.

  He glanced her way, and she snapped her head forward. Mr Thomas, the speaker, drew out a laced corset and demonstrated how a lady might wear it. She tried not to giggle. The absurdity of it all. Here she was, her entire body pounding with desire and unease, while this starchy old man was demonstrating corsetry. And all the while, her ex-lover was in the background, being his usual rakish self.

  “What do you suppose he is doing he
re?” Diana whispered.

  Josephine gave her friend a look. Diana was digging for more information and they both knew it. Josephine had been tight-lipped about the whole thing. Frankly, it was too painful to speak on. Besides when an arrangement ended, one did not go speaking of it to the whole world. If she wanted to retain her respectability as a widow, she had no choice but to pretend all was normal and that her heart was not splitting in two at the loss of her lover.

  “Perhaps he has an interest in the newest fashions from Paris.”

  “Or he has an interest in you. He hasn’t stopped looking your way.”

  She couldn’t help taking a peek and, sure enough, his gaze was firmly on her. Heat flowed into her face and she suspected, even from where he was, he would be able to see the likely crimson stains on her cheeks. Why did he have to be here? Why did he have to do this? Everyone would be watching them, waiting to see what would happen.

  Perhaps he was simply looking to buy some new clothes for his next mistress.

  Yes, that was probably it.

  She glanced at her gloved hands and worked on setting the tiny buttons perfectly straight. The very real pain threatening to engulf her would not abate at the simple task of straightening the seams of the gloves, however. It was foolish of her to believe he would not find another mistress. Dante was a healthy, virile man of eight and twenty. She certainly should not begrudge him the company, either. After all, she had been the one to end things.

  Mr Thomas announced that it was time to take a break for tea. The words only really registered when Diana stood and waited expectantly. Josephine hastened to her feet and followed her over to where they were serving the drinks. A tingle surged up and down her spine, and she was acutely aware of Dante pushing away from the marble pillar and stalking her like a beast on the hunt.

  “He’s coming this way,” Diana hissed as she clutched the delicate china cup.

  Josephine had to tighten her grip on the cup in her hand lest she spill it. She fought the need to run, to fling away the cup and escape. But pride would not let her. She lifted her chin and met Dante’s intense stare head on. He strode over with purpose while she fought to maintain her calm disposition. If nothing else, she would not have people saying they saw her panic and flee.

  Her friend, however, did not have the same concern apparently. After offering her an impish smile, she waved at no one in particular and began to move away.

  “Don’t you dare,” Josephine warned.

  “Oh look, it’s Lady Jessop. I shall be back in a jiffy.”

  In a flurry of pale pink muslin, her friend disappeared, leaving her alone to be hunted down. Blast Diana. No doubt her friend thought she might be doing her a favour. Goodness, who would willingly part with Lord Dante Cynfell after all?

  Posture stiff, she awaited his approach. Josephine resisted the urge to flick out her fan and waft it in an attempt to disperse the heat building inside of her. Instead, she clutched her purse and remained the refined, worldly Mrs Josephine Beaumont. That was what people expected of her, was it not? She had travelled to Europe, married young, witnessed the passing of her husband, and taken her place as a wealthy man’s mistress. No one would expect her to be flustered by the presence of Dante.

  “Josephine, you are looking well,” he murmured as though speaking the words to a lover.

  “My lord, as are you. Pray tell, what brings you to a talk on French fashions? I did not think you were even interested in fashion.”

  “You think me unrefined perhaps?” He had inched closer, swallowing up the scant space between them. “Do I not dress well enough to infer that I might be interested in fashion?”

  In spite of herself, she ran her gaze over him. Dante had always been well-dressed. He never particularly wore clothing that was the height of fashion but instead, affected the air of a country gent. It was what made Dante unique and oh so attractive to women. He wasn’t likely to fall foul of whatever fashion was en vogue. No, instead he wore whatever he wanted, bringing with it a flavour of casual indifference and rakish handsomeness.

  He saved her from answering by leaning in. “I did not think you particularly interested in the French fashions either. With the exception of some of their exquisite nightrails, of course.”

  The heat inside her nearly burned her cheeks. He was referring, of course, to the many lacy concoctions he had purchased for her. He always enjoyed seeing her in something transparent and sensual. And she had enjoyed the freedom such garments had brought. No longer confined by corsets—or even society—in Dante’s bed, she could be the artistic free-spirit she felt she truly was.

  “Dante,” she hissed.

  “Of course, I always preferred the more refined style of our British ladies. Makes you wonder what might be beneath the stiff collars and heavy skirts.” Amusement glinted in his olive eyes.

  Josephine feared she might combust from embarrassment. It seemed as though everyone was watching them. No doubt, many of them knew they were no longer lovers. No one spoke of it outright—it was simply not the done thing—but they would speak of it behind her back.

  “If all you intended by coming here was to humiliate me—” she gave him a stern look “—then consider me humiliated.”

  One dark eyebrow rose as he took her elbow to guide her out of the room. Not wanting to cause a fuss, she let him lead her into a vestibule. Behind the relative protection of some ferns, they paused in front of one of the many oil paintings. Here only passers-by gathered as they entered the hall, none of whom had been attending the talk. None of whom had seen the way Dante had stalked over to her with great purpose. Even fewer of them knew either Dante or herself.

  “I had little intention of humiliating you, Josephine,” he said softly while they stared up at the painting of a riverside scene.

  She kept her gaze on the form of a woman dipping her toes in the water. The slightest hint of an ankle showed as she lifted her skirts and touched her foot to the river, and the artist had captured the essence of freedom in her expression. At present, she envied that woman. She felt so very imprisoned.

  Schooling herself, she offered him a smile. “I know.”

  Of course, he didn’t. Dante never meant anything he did wrong. He never intended to make her wait all night for him, wondering if he had fallen down drunk somewhere or been attacked and robbed. He certainly never meant to make her feel anything less than cherished, she knew that much. But somehow he always did. What had started out as an exciting, wonderful relationship had grown into something tiring and dispiriting. She could tolerate all his flaws if he could only offer her what she needed.

  But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Dante was too set against marriage and everything that entailed. He never understood that with marriage came a closeness one could never achieve with a simple tryst. She had witnessed as much with her parents and even with her first husband. They had not been a love match, for certain, but they had worked together to create something worthwhile.

  They kept their attention on the painting for some time. Aware of his arm a scant inch away, she fought not to sway into him. Her mind might not want him anymore, but her body had not received that message it seemed. It was as though every fibre of her being reached out for him. While they had many problems, passion and desire had never been among them.

  He glanced her way, and she saw the look out of the corner of her eyes. He knew as much too. By letting herself be affected by him, she had given herself away. Josephine had revealed her weakness.

  Dante leaned closer so that his breath brushed the curl by her ear. She tensed so as not to shudder. “I miss you, Jo-Jo.”

  She closed her eyes to the joyful faces in front of her. I miss you, her heart said. I miss you more than you can know. But she had to stay strong. She was on the verge of achieving something for herself. Something she simply couldn’t achieve as a mere mistress. Josephine hungered for recognition as something more than a mistress—as a person in her own right.

  “I know you mi
ss me too.”

  “Stop,” she begged.

  But he didn’t. He reached over and looped his little finger around hers, hooking it so that he held her by the one mere digit. With the protection of the ferns and her skirts, no one would notice. Not that such a movement could even be considered that scandalous. But it still sent sparks of sensation up and down her arm. How was it that even after four years and everything they had done together, her body reacted so?

  He used the hold on her finger to close the small gap between them and he leaned in while pointing at the painting, as though showing her something. “Jo-Jo,” he whispered in her ear. “I need you, sweets.”

  A shiver skimmed down her side as his breath and words washed over her. Her body pulsed in response. She needed him. She always had, from the first moment she’d met him. But desire wasn’t the problem.

  Well, perhaps it was now.

  She shook her head, more to herself than anything. She needed to centre herself right now. It wouldn’t do to go falling back into Dante’s arms again. It had taken two weeks of heartbreak to feel even slightly normal on her own. If she cracked, she would only be hurting herself.

  “Come here.”

  Taking her hand, he led her off once more, slipping into a dark room at the end of the vestibule—one that was usually used by the musicians during balls and suchlike. The curtains were drawn and sheets were poured over the table and chairs. A few ribbons of light slipped in between the drapes, catching on the gilded frames, making them sparkle and shine like precious jewellery.

  She should have risked embarrassment and dragged herself away from him, though perhaps this was better. Now she could tell him in no uncertain terms that he was to leave her be without fear of people watching.

  He tried to draw her close, but she pressed her palms to his chest. Dante’s arms remained around her but he wouldn’t force her, she knew that much. Dante Cynfell had likely never had to force a woman into his arms—and certainly not her. She’d always been more than willing.