The Art of Sinning

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Not a chance. The man has sworn off marriage, though I don’t know why.”

  “He’s an artist. And an American.” Clarissa stabbed a needle through a placard. “They’re mad, all of them. But handsome, I’ll grant you. You could have a flirtation with him. That would be such fun. As long as you’re careful, of course.”

  “You mean, the way you were in Bath?”

  Clarissa’s face darkened. “That was all Mama’s fault. She tried to turn it into something more despite my wishes.”

  That had been the real reason for Clarissa’s abrupt return home. Some fellow in Bath had fallen madly in love with her, and Clarissa had apparently not returned the feeling.

  “Anyway,” Clarissa went on, “according to Warren, you and Mr. Keane are already rather friendly.”

  Yvette’s heart dropped. “What did Warren tell you?”

  “It wasn’t what he told me, but what he asked me. He quizzed me about what you’d been up to lately, and how close you were to Mr. Keane, and whether I thought you could get into trouble with the man. He wouldn’t ask such things if he had no suspicions.” Clarissa cast her a knowing look. “He was very interested in your well-being.”

  Yvette recognized that look. “For the last time, I am never marrying Warren, even if he would have me, which he wouldn’t.”

  With a sigh, Clarissa poured more needles out of the bottle. “You can’t blame me for trying. My cousin desperately needs a wife, whether he acknowledges it or not, and if it were you, I’d have an ally whenever he becomes draconian in his restrictions.”

  “I do sympathize. I’d hoped for the same thing with Jane. But she ran off and married Lord Rathmoor instead.”

  “Silly woman. Edwin is miles more handsome than Lord Rathmoor.” When Yvette shot her a sharp glance, Clarissa added hastily, “Well, he is. But don’t tell him I said that. It will swell his head. And the last thing that man needs is more arrogance. Why, he couldn’t even lower himself to wear a costume at the ball!”

  “He never does. Not even a domino.” Yvette shoved a folded piece of linen into a canvas bag. “And speaking of dominos, Warren didn’t ask you about how I came to be wearing your cloak, did he?”

  “He did, but I told him what we agreed upon—that I had no idea. He assumes that you stole it for your own purposes.” She slanted a sly glance at Yvette. “Did you have your secret rendezvous with your secret friend whom you won’t tell me anything about?”

  “I did. But it proved pointless.”

  Clarissa turned serious. “Do take care, Yvette. For all my teasing about flirtations, this smacks of Lieutenant Ruston all over again.” Clarissa was the only person in the world, other than Samuel, who knew the details of that disaster.

  “It’s nothing like that, I assure you.” Yvette focused her attention on folding a yard of wool. “My secret meeting was perfectly respectable. Besides, I’m much older and wiser now. I would never fall for the likes of such a rogue again.”

  Clarissa looked skeptical. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” Time to get Clarissa off dangerous subjects. Setting down the wool, Yvette stood and held out her hand to her friend. “Now, how would you like to see my unfinished portrait?”

  It was after midnight when Jeremy carried a wooden box up the stairs and down the hall to his room at Stoke Towers, accompanied by the footman who was hauling his empty trunk up from storage. Jeremy had given the servant some story about why he’d come in the middle of the night to pack up his belongings, but it didn’t matter what the fellow thought. No footman would be fool enough to wake the family when they were all abed. So Jeremy ought to be safe until morning.

  He meant to have his trunk ready to be brought down for when the servants rose, and then be waiting for the earl in the breakfast room early. That way he could explain his hasty departure without having to see Yvette, since she would undoubtedly rise later.

  Coward.

  Yes, he was. But he couldn’t face her one more time alone. And if she learned he was back, she would do her utmost to see him privately before he could escape.

  The servant carried the trunk inside Jeremy’s bedchamber and accepted with a nod Jeremy’s overly generous vail. Once the footman left, Jeremy shut the door and set the wooden box down by the bed. He’d returned for two reasons—to retrieve his masterpiece, on the slim chance that he could complete it one day, and to tell the earl that he’d finished enough of Yvette’s portrait that he could put the final touches on it elsewhere.

  Because he had to leave Stoke Towers. He’d thought it over the entire time he’d been in the city—engaging the Duke’s Men in Yvette’s search, visiting the exhibit . . . trying not to think of the woman who’d seized his cursed imagination.

  The idea of being with her intimately consumed him. That little taste of her at the brothel hadn’t been nearly enough. He wanted to taste her again, to tease her and take her and school her in all the ways of pleasure he’d learned through the years. If he stayed here, he would almost certainly indulge those urges.

  He would almost certainly ruin her.

  Damn it, why had he no self-control around her? The last time he’d been unable to curb his prick, he’d been eighteen and in the throes of his first infatuation. Although, to be fair, as a young widow, Hannah had been as eager for their joining as he.

  Indeed, she’d blamed herself for their first swiving once it had forced him into an untenable position. It was true that their affair might have ended then, if not for her becoming pregnant . . .

  Thrusting the dark memory from his head, he strode over to the dressing table, dragged its stool to the large seventeenth-century oak bed, and climbed up to feel around atop the oak tester. His painting remained there, where he’d left it the night before they’d ridden off to the ball. He’d been storing it there every evening after he was done working.

  He let out a breath. No one had discovered it, thank God. He’d figured they wouldn’t; he couldn’t imagine the servants cleaning atop the tester every single day, but it never hurt to be sure.

  Dragging the canvas down, he propped it against the bed and examined it to assess his progress. He could make do with what he’d painted so far, since the Commerce figure was done, but if he left now, the Art figure would never be as good as he wanted.

  Yvette had an elusive air he still hadn’t managed to capture, a blend of naïveté and sensuality that was the very essence of allegorical Art at its best. His depiction of her face just wasn’t right. It wasn’t entirely . . . her. And he wanted it to be her. It had to be her, whether it was recognizable to anyone else or not.

  He slammed his fist against the bedpost. He didn’t want to leave his work undone. But neither did he want to leave her undone. And if he spent even one more night alone with her . . .

  No, he couldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t risk her. Which meant he must go.

  But not without his work. The difficult part would be getting it out before dawn, unnoticed. As long as he removed it before anyone saw it, they could never tie it to her. He’d painted her face in enough shadow that he was fairly certain she wouldn’t be recognized if he ever exhibited the work.

  That was what the deep wooden box, made to the proper dimensions, was for. Since the paint was still wet, he couldn’t wrap the canvas up, so he’d needed the box to transport it in. He and Damber would have to carry it out very carefully.

  Right now his apprentice was packing up the paints and other materials in the music room downstairs, which would take him a couple of hours. Then they’d figure out how to get the box outside without damaging the painting inside or being questioned about it. After all this, Jeremy wasn’t going to lose his masterpiece. One day he would finish it, damn it.

  A knock came at the door that led to the servants’ passages. It had to be Damber, who occasionally enjoyed using the servants’ door to take him by surprise. The stupid
boy thought that was a lark.

  The lad probably just had a question, but on the off chance that some other servant was in the passageway, Jeremy grabbed his painting and climbed up on the stool to stow it back in its hiding place.

  Then he returned the stool to the dressing table on his way to the door. “Damber, I told you—” he began as he swung it open.

  The sight of Yvette waiting nervously in the passageway made his heart falter. Damn it all to hell. The one woman he’d planned to avoid.

  Without waiting for an invitation, she slipped inside and shut the door, then had the good sense to latch it, since she wore her night rail and wrapper as she had during all their secret sessions.

  It had been one thing for her to dress that way upstairs, but if she was found in his bedchamber dressed like that . . .

  Oh, God. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” When she spotted his trunk, she paled. “Thank heaven I retire late and my bedchamber window overlooks the drive. Because if I hadn’t heard the carriage pull up, I wouldn’t have come. And you would have left without a farewell.”

  He forced himself to ignore her wounded tone. “I intended to speak to your brother in the morning before I headed off.”

  “But not to me.” When he glanced away, unsure how to answer that, she added, “That’s what I thought. As usual, you’re running away.”

  His gaze snapped back to hers. “I’m doing what’s best for us both. Surely you realize we’re playing with fire. The only way to stop it is to end our mad bargain.”

  She edged closer, and her bedclothes swished about her like the veil of a bride, meant to tantalize, to tempt . . . to torment. Unfortunately, now that he knew what lay beneath them, it did exactly that. His prick strained against his trousers, making him swear under his breath and pray the dim light would mask his arousal.

  “So you mean to abandon our bargain as well as abandoning us.” Her eyes accused him. “You mean to scurry off with your half-done paintings and leave me wondering about my nephew with no way to do anything about it.”

  “I’m already making discreet inquiries on your behalf. When and if I learn something about the boy, I will visit and give you my report. During the daytime. Well chaperoned.”

  That didn’t seem to satisfy her. Not that he’d thought it would. “And the paintings? What of those?”

  “I’ll make do with what I’ve done so far in the case of Art Sacrificed to Commerce. The portrait is far enough along that I can complete it elsewhere.”

  She clutched at the bedpost, as if to steady herself. “Am I that much of a trial to you that you can’t even bear to stay here long enough to finish them?”

  “Yes,” he said bluntly. “I can’t control myself around you. I am used to doing what I want, taking what I want. But if I take what I want from you, it will be the ruin of you. And me.”

  “Of you?” Her throat moved convulsively. “Why?”

  “Because if I take your innocence, I will marry you, and I’m not made for marriage, sweetheart.”

  She stepped closer. “Why?”

  Thunderation, this was precisely what he’d wanted to avoid. “It doesn’t matter why. Just trust me when I say what I am. And what I am not.”

  “How can I? You let me believe you a rogue because of some idea about what people would say concerning your art. You let me believe you didn’t care about me, when you did.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I think it’s time I stopped trusting the impression you give of yourself and start demanding that you tell me the truth. Since you’re breaking our agreement by running off in the dead of night, the least I deserve is an explanation about why you are so determined to avoid marriage.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Fine. The truth is, I would make any woman miserable.”

  “Why?”

  “Damn it, stop asking that!”

  A steely glint appeared in her lovely eyes. “Why?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered.

  “I’m not leaving until I get answers,” she said stoutly, and to his horror, she sat down on his bed. “I’m not going to let you run away from here, as you’ve run away from your family and your responsibilities. I want to know why, if you find me attractive and you enjoy my company, you are so afraid to—”

  “I refuse to be the ruin of another wife, damn you!”

  As shock lit her face, he cursed his quick tongue.

  But it was out now, and he couldn’t take it back.

  “That is why.”

  Seventeen

  For several moments, Yvette could only gape at Jeremy. Then she wrapped her arms over her stomach in a futile attempt to stop its roiling. “You’re . . . you’re married?”

  “Not anymore.” Raking one hand through his already disheveled hair, he dropped onto the stool near the dressing table. “But I was, years ago.”

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He’d had a wife. A wife! Heavenly day, she’d never guessed. He hadn’t even hinted at it! “Why have none of your friends and relations mentioned it? Lady Zoe or Jane or—”

  “They don’t know about it. The marriage was so brief—only six months’ duration—that my parents never even told distant relations like the Keanes in England. And I prefer not to speak of it.”

  “Clearly,” she muttered.

  That gained her a dark look. “It was long ago, in a time far removed from my present life. I married at the age of eighteen, and she was dead by the time I reached nineteen.”

  Dead. Not divorced or missing.

  Yvette was glad of that, then chided herself for being glad. “What happened to your poor wife that she passed away so young?”

  The pain that slashed over his face tugged at her heart. “She died in childbirth. Along with my son.”

  She sucked in a ragged breath. No wonder he painted melancholy subjects and looked bleakly upon domestic life. How could he not, after experiencing such a tragedy so young? To lose his wife and son after a marriage of only six months—

  Oh, dear. Wanting to clarify his meaning, she fumbled for how to ask. “I suppose difficulties are to be expected in childbirth when a babe is born so early.”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Don’t be coy, Yvette. The child was born after the requisite number of months. I’m sure you can guess why.” Glancing away to stare grimly into the fire, he added, “Although his death did make it easier for my parents to claim that a too-early birth was what caused the tragedy.”

  A veil passed over his face. “God forbid that the Keanes of Montague have a grandson rumored to have been sired on the wrong side of the blanket. That wouldn’t do. Especially when no one but their black sheep of a son approved of the mother.”

  So that was why he’d been so quick to assume that Yvette had borne an illegitimate child. He’d had to face that possibility with another woman.

  An intense curiosity welled up in her—to know about his wife, about his family, about all the things he’d refused to discuss in the past. But she must tread carefully to avoid spooking him. This was a weighty secret indeed, one he’d apparently kept quiet for some years.

  She began with what she considered an innocuous question. “How did you and your wife meet?”

  His stiff stance made her wonder if he would unbend to reveal even that much. Then, with a shuddering breath, he locked his gaze with hers. “You want to know it all, I suppose.”

  “If you’ll tell me.” She let her compassion show in her face. “I promise not to judge.”

  A bitter laugh escaped him. “You mean, you won’t judge me as unfairly as I judged you that night at the brothel.”

  “I don’t blame you for leaping to conclusions. You were unaware of the facts. Once you heard them, you understood my reasons quite well.” She tipped up her chin. “I should hope I’m just as capable of
being open-minded.”

  “Touché.” He bent forward to prop his elbows on his knees and gaze once more into the fire. “Very well, what was it you asked?”

  “How you met your wife.”

  “Ah, yes.” He threaded his fingers together be­­tween his knees. “We met because of our mutual interest in art. I’d sketched and painted for years, mostly just to amuse myself and my family, but the closer I got to eighteen and my departure for college, the more I wanted to make art my profession. Hoping to convince my father to let me study painting, I sought a teacher in our nearby town who could help me improve enough to show Father that I had real talent.”

  A faint smile crossed his lips. “That’s how I stumbled across the Widow Miller, who was only twenty-two. Her late husband had been an engraver and she had some talent herself, but because he’d left her virtually penniless, she’d been forced to take on students in order to support herself.”

  “And support her children?”

  Again, pain twisted his features. “No. They’d had none.”

  After that sent him into a long silence, she prompted him to go on. “So you became her pupil.”

  He roused, as if from a dream. “I paid for the tutoring myself out of my generous monthly allowance. While my parents assumed I was drinking in taverns like most men my age, I was actually having secret lessons with Mrs. Miller.”

  “My, my, you certainly are good at secret meetings with ladies.”

  “I am that,” he drawled. “Though it probably didn’t hurt that she had her own cottage. It made it easy to spend enough time with her to really learn something.”

  A lump stuck in her throat. “And for you to fall in love with her.”

  He shot her a sharp look. “More like lust. It’s not the same. Or so I’m told, although romantic love isn’t a feeling I’ve ever experienced myself.”

  Well. Nothing like being blatantly warned that he didn’t love her. That perhaps he couldn’t love her.

  Not that it mattered. She didn’t love him, either.