If the Viscount Falls (39 page)

A few hours later, Jane came out of her boudoir to find her husband in his dressing gown, stretched out across the bed reading the newspaper and idly petting
their spaniel Little Archer, a pup from Mrs. Patch's brood.

Seizing the moment, Little Archer leapt off the bed and into her dressing room, where he could chew up slippers to his heart's content. Dom, however, didn't even look up as she entered.

“They're calling this the most elegant coronation in history.” He snorted. “I noticed there's no mention of its being the most interminable.”

“Dom,” she purred as she closed the dog into the dressing room for the moment.

“All that pomp and circumstance is so tedious.” Still reading, he turned the page of the newspaper. “Ravens-wood told me that King William is determined to make sure that parliamentary reform is enacted.”

She walked languidly forward. “
Dom
.”

He snapped the paper to straighten it. “It's about bloody time. I should think—”

“Dom!” she practically shouted.

“Hmm?” He glanced up, then frowned. “Why are you wearing your coronation robe?”

“I was cold,” she said with a teasing smile. She let the robe fall open. “Since I have nothing on underneath.”

Dom stared, then gulped. Unsurprisingly, his staff jerked instantly to attention. “If you're trying to torture me,” he said hoarsely, “you're doing a good job of it.”

She sashayed toward the bed, letting the velvet and ermine robe swing about her. “No torture intended.” She put one knee on the bed. “Dr. Worth said I may resume relations with my husband whenever I am ready.”

He blinked, then rose to his knees and seized her about the waist. “May I assume that you're ready?” he rasped as he brushed a kiss to her cheek.

“You have no idea.” She met his mouth with hers.

They kissed a long moment, a hot, heavenly kiss that reminded her of how very talented her husband was at this aspect of marriage. She untied his dressing gown and shoved it off his shoulders. He had just finished tearing off his drawers when she shoved him down onto the bed.

His eyes lit up as she hovered over him. “Ah, so it's to be like that, is it, my wicked little seductress?”

“Oh, yes.” She grinned at him. “I do so enjoy having a viscount fall before me.”

She started to remove her robe, but he stayed her with his hand. “Don't.” He raked her with a heated glance. “Next session of parliament, I'll endure the boredom of the endless speeches by imagining you seducing me in all your pomp and circumstance.”

“My pomp is nothing to yours, my love,” she murmured as she caught his rampant flesh in her hand. “
Yours
is quite . . . er . . . pompous.”

“That's what happens if the viscount falls.” He thrust against her hand. “His pomp always rises.”

And as she laughed, they created a pomp and circumstance all their own.

Want even more sizzling romance from
New York Times
bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries?

Don't miss the first book in her sexy new Sinful Suitors series,

The Art of Sinning

Coming in Summer 2015 from Pocket Books!

L
ADY
Y
VETTE
B
ARLOW
stood at the edge of the duke's ballroom, watching the dance with a hollow ache of envy in her stomach. She loved to dance. And the chances of her being asked were slim to none. She towered over half the men in the ballroom. Not to mention that the whole world had recently learned of her brother Samuel's perfidy. Even her eldest brother, Edwin, the Earl of Blakeborough, couldn't avoid being tarred by that brush.

As if she'd conjured him up, Edwin's voice sounded behind her. “Yvette, there's someone I'd like you to meet.”

Good Lord. He'd been trying to cheer her up ever since they'd arrived, and he was very bad at it. Heaven only knew whom he thought might serve the purpose.

Pasting a smile to her lips, she faced him and his companion. Then her heart dropped into her stomach.

Standing beside Edwin was the most attractive man she'd ever seen—a golden-haired Adonis with eyes as deep a blue as the estate's prize delphiniums. Indeed, the man stared at her with an intensity that quite sucked the air from her lungs.

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.