He was tall, too. Heavenly day. A decided improvement over the gentlemen Edwin usually foisted on her.
“May I introduce my new friend, Mr. Jeremy Keane?” Edwin said.
The man bowed. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Yvette.”
His deep voice resonated through her like a piece of particularly delicious music. Even his accent was compelling. American perhaps? Oh, she did like Americans. They were so refreshingly forthright. And they used such interesting slang, too. Perhaps she could expand her collection of street cant to include American terms.
She dipped her head. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Keane.” But even as she said it, she put together the accent and the name. Oh dear, he was that Mr. Keane.
As if to confirm her realization, the man raked her in a blatantly admiring glance. A rogue’s glance.
She groaned. Not again. Could she never meet a gentleman who was not a scoundrel?
Edwin went on. “Keane is an artist from—”
“I know all about Mr. Keane.” When Edwin scowled, she caught herself. “From the exhibit of his works, of course.”
Mr. Keane’s warm gaze poured over her like honey. “I don’t recall ever seeing you at my exhibit. And trust me, I would have remembered.”
A shiver danced down her spine before she could steel herself against reacting. Very nicely done. She’d have to be on her toes with this one. “We attended it in the morning. I daresay you were still lying foxed in some gaming hell or nunnery.”
“Good God, here we go,” Edwin muttered under his breath, recognizing the cant for brothel.
“I am rarely foxed and never in a nunnery,” Mr. Keane retorted, “for fear it might tempt the ‘nuns’ to bite me.”
“I should love to know what you consider ‘rarely,’ ” Yvette said. “That you even know that ‘bite’ means ‘cheat’ in street cant shows how you must spend your days.”
“And how you must spend yours,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “After all, you know the cant, too.”
She stifled a laugh. Mustn’t encourage the fellow. Still, she was impressed. Rogues always fancied themselves wits but seldom did she meet one who really was.
“Mr. Keane has kindly agreed to paint your portrait, Yvette,” Edwin cut in. “Assuming that your tart words haven’t changed his mind.”
The scoundrel had the audacity to wink at her. “Actually, I like a little tart with my sweet.”
“More than a little, I would say, having seen your paintings,” she shot back.
Suddenly he was all seriousness. “And what did you think?”
The question caught her off guard. “Are you fishing for compliments, sir?”
“No. Just truthful opinions.”
“That’s what everyone always says, though they never mean it.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Lady Yvette?” he said in that deadly tone men use when their honor is questioned.
“Of course not,” she said hastily. A man’s honor was nothing to be trifled with. “I was just speaking generally.” When he continued to look at her expectantly, she struggled to put her uncertain feelings about his work into words. “As for your work, I would say that your idea of ‘tart’ borders on the ‘acidic.’ ”
“It does indeed,” he drawled. “I prefer to call it ‘real life.’ ”
“Then it’s no surprise you’ve taken up with Edwin. He considers real life to be acidic, too.”
“Oh, no, don’t drag me into this,” Edwin put in.
Mr. Keane’s gaze searched her face. “And you, Lady Yvette? Do you consider real life acidic?”
My, my. Quite the persistent fellow, wasn’t he? “It can be, I suppose. If one wants to dwell on that part. I’d rather dwell on the happier aspects.”
A sudden disappointment swept his handsome features. “So you would prefer a painting of bucolic cows in a field.”
“I suppose. Or market scenes. Or children.”
The mention of children sparked something bleak in the depths of his eyes. “Art should challenge the viewers, not soothe them.”
“I’ll try to remember that when confronted at my breakfast table by a picture of vultures devouring a dead deer. That is one of yours, isn’t it?”
Mr. Keane blinked, then burst into laughter. “Blakeborough, you forgot to tell me that your sister is a wit.”
“Trust me,” Edwin said wearily, “if I’d thought it would get you to agree to our transaction sooner, I would have mentioned it.”
“Transaction?” She stared at her brother. “What transaction?”
Edwin turned wary. “I told you. Mr. Keane is going to paint your portrait. I thought that a well-done piece of art showing what a lovely woman you are . . . might . . . well . . .”
“Oh, Lord.” So that was his reasoning. A pox on Edwin. And a pox on Mr. Keane, too, for agreeing to her brother’s idiocy. Clearly, the artist had been coerced into doing so. Mr. Keane was well-known for not doing formal portraits. Ever.
She fought to maintain her composure, to act nonchalant, though inside she was bleeding. Did Edwin really think her so unsightly that she needed a famous artist to make her look appealing?
“Forgive my brother, sir,” she told Mr. Keane with a bland smile. “He’s set on gaining me a husband, no matter what the cost. But I happen to have read the interview where you said you’d rather cut off your hands than paint another portrait, and I’d hate to be the cause of such a loss to the world.”
Mr. Keane gazed steadily at her. “I sometimes exaggerate when speaking with the press, madam. But this particular portrait is one I am more than willing to paint, I assure you.”
“Eager for the challenge, are you?” Tears clogged her throat that she swallowed ruthlessly. “Eager to try your hand at painting me attractive enough to convince some hapless fellow in search of a wife to ignore the evidence of his eyes?”
Belatedly, her brother seemed to realize how she’d taken his words. “Yvette, that’s not what I was saying.”
She ignored him. “Or perhaps it’s the money that entices you. How much did my brother offer in order to gain your compliance in such an onerous task? It must have been a great deal.”
“I didn’t offer him money, Yvette,” Edwin protested. “You misunderstand what I—”
“I want to paint you,” Mr. Keane snapped even as he glared Edwin into silence.
With betrayal stinging her, she gathered the remnants of her dignity about her. “Thank you, but I am not yet so . . . so desperate as to require your services.”
She turned to leave, but Mr. Keane caught her by the arm. When she scowled at him, he released her . . . only to offer her his hand. “May I have this dance, Lady Yvette?”
That took her by surprise. Only then did she notice the strains of a waltz being struck. She had half a mind to stalk off in a huff. But that would be childish.
Besides, other people had begun to notice their exchange, and she could not endure the idea of people gossiping about her making a scene at the wedding breakfast of her friend . . . who happened to have jilted her brother.
“Lady Yvette?” Mr. Keane prompted in a steely voice.
She cast him the coolest smile she could muster. “Yes, of course, Mr. Keane. I would be delighted.”
Then she took his hand and let him sweep her into a waltz.
As soon as they were moving, he said, “You have every right to be angry with your brother.”
“My feelings toward my brother right now are none of your concern.”
“I was telling the truth about wanting to paint you.”
She snorted. “I don’t know how much money Edwin promised—”
“But not for a portrait.” He bent close enough to whisper in her ear, “Though he doesn’t know that.”
That caught her so off guard that when Mr. Keane pulled back to fix
her with a serious gaze, she couldn’t at first summon a single answer.
“I see I finally have your attention,” he said.
“Oh, you always had my attention,” she said testily. “Just not the sort of fawning attention you probably prefer.”
A faint smile crossed his lips. “Tell me, Lady Yvette, do you have something against artists in general? Or is it just I who rub you the wrong way?”
“I don’t trust charming rogues, sir. My other elder brother was one of your kind, so I know all your tricks.”
He arched one eyebrow. “I seriously doubt that.”
When he then twirled her in a turn, she realized with a start that they’d been waltzing effortlessly all this time. That almost never happened with her. Few men knew how to deal with an ungainly Amazon like her on the dance floor. But clearly he was one of them.
That softened her toward him a little. A very little. “So what exactly do you want to paint me for, anyway?”
“An entirely different work,” he said. “And agreeing to your brother’s request seemed the only way to get close enough to you so I could arrange that.”
She eyed him skeptically.
“Ask Blakeborough if you don’t believe me. Before I knew who he was, who you were, I wanted you to sit for me. I decided it the moment I saw you enter the room. I asked your brother who you were, he asked why I wanted to know, and I told him.”
His gaze locked with hers, as sincere a one as she’d ever seen. But then, Samuel had always looked very sincere, too, when he spun some tale. “Why on earth would you want to paint me?”
“No clue. I never know why particular models intrigue me; just that they do. And I always follow my instincts.”
Yvette blinked. He could have claimed it had something to do with her looks. The fact that he hadn’t lent more credence to his assertion. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Yet a tiny part of her found it enormously flattering.
“It is ridiculous, isn’t it? But true, I swear. No matter what gossip you’ve heard about me, I’m always honest, no matter the cost.”
“Fine. Then tell me this: Exactly what are the terms of your ‘transaction’ with my brother?”
He flinched. “Your brother is an ass.”
“Not really. Just rather oblivious to other people’s feelings sometimes.” She cast him a hard stare. “Answer the question.”
With a long-suffering sigh, he tightened his grip on her hand. “I am to paint your portrait. In exchange, he is to drum up some gentlemen who might be interested in courting my sister.”
She gaped at him. “What a pair of nodcocks you are! Has it occurred to either of you that your sisters are perfectly capable of finding husbands on their own if they so choose? That perhaps we— Wait a minute, I thought your sister lived in America.”
“She’s on her way here. She means to drag me home to help her with the family mills.” He cracked a smile. “I mean to fob some other fellow off on her who can go in my stead.”
His look of boyish mischief seduced her. Briefly. Until she put herself in his sister’s shoes. “First you abandon her to go flitting about Europe. And now that she has tired of waiting for your return, you think to get rid of her by marrying her off.” She shook her head. “Your poor sister.”
“Trust me, there is nothing ‘poor’ about my sister. Amanda can take care of herself.” His smile smoldered. “As, it appears, can you. Which is probably what made me want you for my painting in the first place.”
She fought not to be intrigued. “What is this painting about, anyway?”
“It’s allegorical, about the sacrifice of Art to Commerce.”
That took her by surprise. “Something like Delacroix’s paintings?”
“You’re familiar with Delacroix?”
His voice held such astonishment that it scraped her nerves. “I do read books, you know. And attend exhibits and operas with my brother . . . when I can drag him to town.”
“Operas, eh? Better you than me,” he teased. “I can’t imagine anything more tedious than an evening of such screeching.”
“My point is that I’m not some ninnyhammer society chit who only keeps abreast of fashions.”
“I didn’t think you were.” He bent close enough to say in a husky tone, “Unlike your brother, I am fully aware of your attractions.”
The words melted over her skin like butter. And when he then tugged her slightly closer in the turn, she let him.
Not because of his devastating attractiveness, no. Or his deft ability to dance. Or the glint of awareness in his startling blue eyes. None of that had any effect on her. Certainly not.
Fighting to keep her mind off the breathlessness that suddenly assailed her, she said, “So, which character would I play in this allegorical painting of yours?”
One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Does that mean you agree to sit for it?”
“Perhaps. It depends on your answers to certain questions.”
The music was ending. Oh dear, and just when the conversation was getting interesting. Unfortunately, it would be highly improper of him to ask her for another.
But apparently he’d thought of that, for he waltzed her toward a pair of doors that opened to reveal a set of steps descending into the sunlit garden. And almost as soon as the notes died, he offered her his arm.
Cursing the curiosity that prompted her to take it, she let him lead her outside, but she was relieved to see that they weren’t the only people strolling about. At least she needn’t worry about rousing further gossip.
Besides, she was ready to be out of the stuffy ballroom. Here in the chilly autumn air, she could breathe at last.
“Now, then, madam,” he said. “Ask me whatever you wish.”
“Who am I to play in your painting? What am I to wear? Will sitting for your picture ruin me for life? Is that why Edwin would only agree to a respectable portrait?”
“That’s quite a lot of questions,” he said dryly. “Let’s start with the last. Your brother and I didn’t get as far as my describing the concept of my work. The minute I said I wished for you to model for me, he flat out refused to let you be part of any painting that wasn’t dull as dirt, even though I told him you wouldn’t be recognized.”
“Won’t I?” She felt a stab of disappointment at the thought that he didn’t really want to paint her, as she was. And why did she care, anyway? “So I’m to be wearing a mask or a cloak or something?”
“No, indeed. But you will be in some kind of Greek costume quite different from your normal attire. I can even change your hair color if you wish. And you’ll only be in profile, anyway. I doubt anyone will realize it is you.”
She gave a harsh laugh. “Right. Because no one will notice that the woman in your painting happens to have my ungainly proportions.”
“Ungainly!” He shook his head. “More like queenly. Majestic, even.”
The compliment came so unexpectedly that it startled her. She was used to being teased for her height, not praised. She had to turn her head so he wouldn’t see how very much the words pleased her.
“But your proportions are unlikely to signify, anyway,” he went on. “You’ll be lying down.”
That arrested her. How had she managed to forget he was a rogue? “Why would I be lying down?”
He gazed at her as if she were witless. “ ‘Art’ sacrificed to ‘Commerce’? Were you even listening? Damn, woman, I can hardly depict a sacrifice without laying you across an altar.”
Stunned by his matter-of-fact tone, as if it were perfectly obvious to anyone with sense, she mumbled, “Oh, right, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Actually she did know. She thought him quite mad. When he spoke of his art, there was no trace of the rakehell in him. Was it by design? Was he trying to rattle her?
Because
he was certainly succeeding at that.
“Will you do it?” he asked. “Assuming we can find a way to manage it?”
“Managing it isn’t a problem,” she said, thinking aloud. “Artists doing portraits generally reside with the family during the process. So if you come to our estate for the portrait, we can arrange some way to meet for the painting you wish to do for yourself.” She slanted a glance at him. “If you’re willing to leave London for a bit, that is.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He stopped beside a marble fountain to smile teasingly at her. “It would take me away from all those gaming hells and nunneries. However will I survive?”
“I’m sure you can find a sympathetic tavern maid or two in nearby Cheshunt to tide you over,” she said dryly.
“So, no nunneries in your neck of the woods?”
“Trust me, if there had been, my other brother would have uncovered them long ago.”
When he looked at her oddly, a blush rose in her cheeks. She didn’t know why she’d said that. She couldn’t seem to forget the request Samuel had made of her just before he’d been sent off to serve his sentence of transportation.
“I’ll be fine, I promise,” he said silkily. “Though you still haven’t given me your permission to paint you. For either work.”
And suddenly it hit her—the solution to her problem with Samuel. “I haven’t, have I?” She stared him down. “Tell me something, Mr. Keane. Are you as willing to make a bargain with me for your painting as you were to make a bargain with Edwin for my portrait?”
His eyes turned wary. “It depends. What sort of bargain are we talking about?”
Avoiding his gaze, she twirled the water in the fountain with one finger. “I will sit for you—clothed, of course—as much as you like. You may draw as many pictures of me as you please.”
“And in exchange?” he prodded.
“You will find some way to get me inside a nunnery in Covent Garden.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© Jessi Blakely for Tamara Lackey Photography
SABRINA JEFFRIES is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Royal Brotherhood trilogy, and the novels in the series The School for Heiresses, The Hellions of Halstead Hall, and The Duke’s Men. Library Journal chose her holiday Regency ’Twas the Night After Christmas as one of the Best Romances of 2012. There are more than seven million copies of her books in print worldwide.
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