The Art of Sinning (16 page)

“Warren!” she protested.

“You would see her publicly ruined, is that it?” Jeremy said icily.

“No, not publicly. But I think he should know—”

“If you tell him,” Jeremy said, “he will either challenge me to some idiotic duel—which I won't fight—and word of the challenge will get around and she'll be ruined. Or he'll demand that I marry her—which I'll agree to do—and then her
life
will be ruined on account of being forced to marry me. Which do you want? Neither sounds like a particularly good choice to me.”

Yvette gaped at him. He would
marry
her? To protect her reputation? Or just to pacify Edwin?

“Damn it,” Warren said. “When you put it that way . . .”

“My plan is better,” Jeremy said.

“God rot it.” Warren rubbed his chin. “Very well. But what if someone sees us enter the garden and
recognizes her? Or if Edwin is outside, checking every equipage? Or if anything else goes wrong? What then?”

“If the choice is taken from us, I'll offer marriage right then and there. I won't have her life destroyed.” Jeremy's gaze met hers, veiled and enigmatic. “I never intended that.”

Though his manner was cold, the words were so sweet, she wanted to cherish them. Except they were drowned out by
Neither sounds like a particularly good choice to me
.

Why was Jeremy so hell-bent on avoiding marriage? If he really wasn't a rogue, then there was no need for him to remain a bachelor.

Curse Warren for showing up and interrupting what Jeremy had been about to tell her. She was almost sure he would have explained his reluctance to marry. Tomorrow night, when they were alone in the schoolroom, she would demand an answer.

“Is all of that acceptable to you, my lady?” Jeremy asked.

Her throat tightened to see him pulling away from her, returning to his earlier formality. Didn't he see that she couldn't do it after sharing such intimacies?

“That's fine,” she said wearily.

But none of it was fine. She was rapidly coming to care for him, and like every man she'd known—with the possible exception of Edwin—when things got too difficult, he ran.

At least he'd offered to marry her if she were ruined. But she could never let him go through with it—because the last thing she wanted was a husband
who'd married her out of duty, who'd abandoned his family for Lord knew what reasons, and who kept his cards always close to his chest.

So she'd better pray they were not caught. Because she also refused to end up a social outcast.

Jeremy was in a panic the entire way back to his cousin's town house, though he didn't dare show it in front of that ass Knightford, who would blast his way through any chink in Jeremy's armor.

But looking at Yvette, so still and pensive across from him, made Jeremy want to pummel something. She deserved better. And he'd nearly ruined her entirely in Mrs. Beard's office, all because he'd wanted to pleasure her, to see her reach her ecstasy at his hands. If Knightford hadn't shown up when he had, God only knew how far Jeremy might have gone.

What a selfish devil he was. Which was precisely why he shouldn't marry her. He couldn't give her what she needed.

But he
could
protect her from disaster. Since Yvette clearly mustn't keep running off to brothels with him in search of her nephew—they'd be lucky if they got her through tonight unscathed—he'd have to help her another way.

That meant involving Bonnaud and the Duke's Men. Though she'd begged him not to, there was something she didn't know. Bonnaud and Zoe owed him quite a bit. Last year Bonnaud had uncovered the fact that Zoe wasn't the legitimate heir
and countess in her own right that the world had assumed. Which meant that Jeremy
was
the legitimate heir to his cousin, the Earl of Olivier. He'd agreed to keep their secret because he had no desire to be an English lord.

That hadn't changed, but his relations were aware that they were indebted to him for their entire future. Bonnaud would be utterly discreet, would even be willing to investigate on behalf of the son of his brother's enemy, Samuel, if Jeremy asked it.

So he would ask it. It was the least he could do for Yvette. It was vastly superior to her risking her reputation searching the city for her nephew. And it was better than his marrying her.

He glanced out the window. Was it? She'd make a wonderful wife. He could easily imagine her in his bed, easily imagine her joining him on every adventure.

The image of her gawking at that bare-assed fellow in the brothel leapt into his mind, and he bit back a smile. Oh yes, his curious and clever lady might be eager for any exploit. And once they headed into the logical next adventure—having children—she'd make a wonderful mother.

His smile faltered. If she survived childbirth. If she even survived
marriage
to the reckless and wild Mr. Jeremy Keane, whose very presence in her life would provoke more scandal.

Yet, God help him, he was tempted to risk it. How dangerous was that?

“We're here,” she said in her low, melodic voice, tightening something deep in his chest.

Not his heart. He had no heart. He couldn't risk
having one, because hearts always ended up broken. And he'd spent too long protecting his to offer it to her just because he wanted to bed her.

The three of them got out, slipped through the garden gate unseen, and put their plan into action with surprisingly little trouble.

Until they reached the doors into the house and Blakeborough walked through them. “Where the devil have you been?” he barked, directing the question to Yvette.

“In the garden,” she said without missing a beat. “Why? Were you looking for me?”

“You haven't been in the garden
all
this time. I went over the entirety of it a while ago.” Blakeborough fixed his gaze on Knightford. “Tell me the truth, Warren. Where has she been?”

Jeremy held his breath.

Then Knightford smiled. “With me and Keane, of course. They encountered me while I was fetching Clarissa her cloak. We stood a while talking. Then Keane wanted to get some air, so we moved outside.”

“I went past the coatroom as well,” Blakeborough said tersely.

“Oh, that must have been when we went to get refreshments,” Yvette said shakily.

Jeremy could tell that Blakeborough had noted her nervousness, so it was best to distract him. “Knightford and I were discussing our club,” he said boldly.

Knightford blinked. “Er . . . yes. Your club.”

Blakeborough's whole manner softened. “Not just my club and Keane's, old chap. We want you to join, too.”

“I told him,” Jeremy cut in. “I made it clear that we couldn't do it without him. But he's still hesitant.”

“I'm surprised,” Blakeborough told Knightford. “Given all your trouble with Clarissa and her antics, I'd think you would make good use of a club where men compared notes concerning suitors for their womenfolk.”

A stranger's voice sounded from beyond Blakeborough. “Is there such a club?” asked a fellow Jeremy didn't recognize, accompanied by another gentleman Jeremy didn't know.

“Not yet,” Blakeborough said. “But we mean to start one, Mr. Keane and I. And Knightford, if he agrees.”

“The idea is growing on me,” Knightford assured him. “Keane has only given me the sketchiest of details, however. Perhaps we should have a drink and discuss it.”

“Can I join you?” said the other fellow, and his friend echoed the request.

Blakeborough frowned. “Actually, gentlemen, I was looking for my sister so we could return home. But I'll call on both of you when next I'm in town, and we can discuss how to go about forming such a club.” He nodded to Knightford. “I'll call on you tomorrow. We can talk about it more then, if that's all right.”

“I look forward to it,” Knightford said. “Actually, I believe Clarissa is ready to leave, too. That's why I was fetching her cloak.”

Jeremy had no doubt that Clarissa would support her guardian's story, since she'd obviously been allowed into Yvette's confidence to some extent.

“Well, then,” Blakeborough said, any suspicions he'd had about what Yvette had been up to seemingly having vanished. “Are you ready to leave, Yvette?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Quite ready.”

Taking her arm to head into the ballroom, Blakeborough asked, “Are you coming, too, Keane?”

“Actually, no.”

Yvette tensed, and Blakeborough stared at him questioningly. “No?”

“Not tonight.” He couldn't spend another evening with her alone and control himself. He needed time to think, to figure out how to go on. His work was becoming entangled with her, with his feelings for her. He had to sort things out.

“I need some additional pigment for the portrait,” he went on. “I also want to take care of a few business matters, and to find out if there's been any word about my mother's ship. I'll return to Stoke Towers in a day or two.” He met Yvette's gaze. “You're not rid of me yet.”

Her face fell, and the sight of it cut him to the bone. But it was for the best. Even if it hurt her temporarily, they needed to cool their friendship. Then maybe when he saw her again, they could keep a more professional distance. A safer distance.

It took everything in his power to walk into the ballroom away from her, knowing that her feelings were probably wounded. And that such wounds would harden into anger by the time he saw her again. Or, worse yet, indifference.

But at least he hadn't compromised her.

“Hold up, Keane!” called a voice behind him.

Knightford, damn him.

Jeremy faced the ass. “What?”

The marquess grabbed him by the arm and steered him back out into the garden. Blakeborough and Yvette had already disappeared, probably headed for the entrance to call for their carriage, so it was just the two of them in the corner as Knightford released his arm with a little shove.

“You are not to go near her again, is that understood?”

With a nonchalance borne of the armor he'd developed through the years, Jeremy examined his fingernails. “It will be rather difficult for me to avoid her while painting her portrait.”

“You know precisely what I mean, you arse. I'd better not hear of any more private rendezvous in locked rooms.”

Jeremy cast him a bored look. “I'd better not hear of you speaking one word about them to anyone, her brother included.”

“Why? Because you care about what happens to her? I have trouble believing that.”

And Jeremy wasn't about to contradict it. Knightford mustn't suspect how deeply he
did
care, or the man would surely go to her brother. “Because Blakeborough has commissioned her portrait from me, and I mean the painting to be my ticket into the Royal Academy. You understand.”

Knightford cocked his head, as if uncertain whether to believe him. “I understand that you have a reputation.”

“A well-deserved one, I assure you. So if you think I would settle down with some English chit who probably dresses in the dark, you're mad.”

“But you'd seduce one, I daresay,” Knightford said grimly.

“And be caught in a parson's mousetrap? Not I. Besides, she put me in my place very effectively.”

Knightford relaxed his stance. “She does have a way of doing that.” His gaze turned speculative. “Tell me what she was looking for at the brothel.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She asked me not to. I may be a scoundrel, but I'm no tattletale.”

“But Edwin should know of it.”

“Then she'll tell him. In her own good time.”

Knightford scowled. “You're an arse, do you know that?”

“It's a popular opinion,” Jeremy said dryly. “I live down to it as often as possible.”

But he grew weary of playing that role. Once, it had suited him to assume the mantle of Byronic artist. It kept people from getting too close. Ever since he'd met Zoe and Bonnaud, however, he'd begun to see that family could be pleasant to have around sometimes. Lately he'd been less inclined to hold people at arm's length, which was probably why he'd foolishly allowed Yvette beneath his guard.

“Are we finished here?” he asked Knightford.

“For now. I may still call you out.”

“Go ahead. But you'll be proclaiming me a coward the next day. Because I will not fight you.”

Knightford's eyes narrowed. “That wouldn't help your aspirations to be part of the Royal Academy.”

“But it would keep my neck intact, wouldn't it?”

He headed away from Knightford, toward the ballroom. But it was only as he entered that he remembered something disturbing.

He still didn't know who Lieutenant Ruston had been to Yvette.

Sixteen

Three days after the ball, Yvette sat at a table in the drawing room at Stoke Towers, putting together kits of sewing materials for the women at her favorite charity and trying not to think of Jeremy. But when her distraction led her to drop yet another needle on the rug, she cursed under her breath.

“How many of those kits have you put together?” Edwin asked from his usual post, working on his account ledgers. “A hundred?”

“It seems like it, but it's only been fifty. I promised them seventy-five.”

“Then I suppose it's good that Keane hasn't been here. Though God only knows when he intends to finish that portrait I'm paying him for.”

Yes, God only knew, because Yvette certainly didn't. She hadn't heard anything from the dratted man. Not. One. Word. The portrait didn't worry her; it was the search for Samuel's son that concerned her. She needed Jeremy for that.

Though that was
all
she needed him for. She'd had
time to settle her emotions, to think through everything that had happened, and a marriage between them would never work. It simply wouldn't. He was too . . . too . . .

Oh, what a liar she was! She missed him.

She still wanted him. And if she couldn't have him as a husband, she might even settle for having him as a lover.

A blush heated her cheeks. Would she? She'd always sworn to steer clear of rogues, but he was no rogue. And he was the most exciting man she'd ever met. The most stimulating, and certainly the most intriguing. Why
not
share his bed? It wasn't as if she had any impending proposals on the horizon. And the idea of never having a chance to be with him intimately—

Drat him. Surely he had to come back sometime. He had his other painting to finish.

She would have broken his rule and peeked at it, but not trusting her
or
the servants, he'd hidden it somewhere. Or more likely had handed it to Damber for safekeeping. Since the servant had rushed to London as soon as his master wrote to summon him, she had no idea where the painting was. For all she knew, Damber might have dropped it into the pond.

“Lady Clarissa Lindsey!” announced a footman.

Before Yvette could do more than blink, Clarissa breezed into the drawing room and threw herself onto a chair next to Yvette with wild abandon. The woman did everything with wild abandon—rode, sang, told outrageous stories that got people laughing. Despite her blond, green-eyed china-doll exterior, she was a hellcat in skirts, which was precisely why Yvette liked her.

And if sometimes a haunted look crossed her face, well, that was Clarissa, too. Yvette only wished she knew what caused it.

“Good afternoon, Clarissa,” Edwin said without looking up from his account books. His shoulders had gone rigid the moment she entered the room. They generally did. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

“I'm not visiting
you
,” Clarissa said blithely. “I'm visiting Yvette.”

Edwin lifted his head, then his eyebrow. “I don't see the distinction. The house belongs to me.”

Clarissa flashed him an arch smile. “That's like saying that the palace belongs to the king, so no one can visit the princesses without visiting him, too.”

His gaze sharpened, and he lounged back against his chair. “Are you comparing me to the king?”

“Only if you're bloated and red-faced and an aging debauchee. Which you clearly are not.”

“Goodness, no,” Yvette cut in, before Edwin could chide her friend for her rash words about His Majesty. “Edwin is the opposite of all those things.”

“Indeed. It's his particular charm.” Clarissa turned to Yvette. “But I'm not here to talk about your brother.”

“Then I hope you're here to help me put together sewing kits for the poor ladies at the charity.” Yvette pointed to a jar of needles. “Those have to be stuck through placards that we place in the kits.”

“Oh, very well.” Clarissa went to work on the needles. “And while I help you, you can tell me all about that artist fellow who's doing your portrait. When you visited us the other day, you neglected to mention that he is so very good-looking.”

With a snort, Edwin returned to perusing his account books. But Yvette now noticed him rubbing the back of his neck. He did that when he was agitated. No doubt he was still worried about Yvette's association with Jeremy.

As Yvette opened canvas bags, she weighed her words. “I suppose
some
would find Mr. Keane attractive. Assuming that one liked that sort of thing.”

“Oh, come now, he was handsome as sin in that costume, admit it.”

Yes, if Sin had an angel's golden locks and glorious blue eyes. Jeremy certainly made Yvette feel like sinning. Recklessly. Thoroughly.

Often.

“It's only because he has that American way of seeming carefree and wild. That can sometimes be appealing.”

“Sometimes!” Clarissa snorted. “I doubt he's anything less than gorgeous at any time. I can only imagine how divine he must look in dinner attire.”

Divine, indeed. Yvette hoped she got to see him in it again. Or out of it. The sight of Jeremy in shirtsleeves had quite heated her blood. Just imagine if he were wearing nothing but—

“Don't be vulgar,” Edwin said through clenched teeth.

Yvette nearly jumped before she realized her brother was speaking to Clarissa.

Her friend tipped up her chin. “Pray tell me, why is it vulgar for a woman to admire a man's looks? Men admire women's looks all the time.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot,” he said. “You aspire to be a man these days, complete with trousers and waistcoat.”

“Don't tell me you're angry that I didn't consult you about my costume at the ball,” Clarissa said, an odd gleam in her eyes. “Really, Edwin, I didn't know it mattered so much to you.”

Edwin scowled. “Don't be ridiculous. I don't give a farthing what costume you wear. You can dress yourself as a Turk, for all I care.”

“I'd much prefer to be the Turk's harem slave,” Clarissa said sweetly. “Only think how much fun that costume would be. All those flowing, nearly transparent fabrics and flimsy pantaloons. I could wear some kohl around my eyes and show my belly, and practically ensure that I'm asked to stand up for every set.”

A curious flush rose over Edwin's face. He stood abruptly, gathered up his account ledgers, and headed for the door. “Forgive me, ladies, I have work to do. You'll enjoy your chatter more without me here anyway.”

As he walked out, Clarissa cast him a speculative look and said softly, “I sincerely doubt that.”

When he was gone, Yvette turned to her friend. “Why do you persist in taunting him so?”

A strange expression crossed Clarissa's face before she shrugged. “It's good for him. He's too sure of his opinions and his place and his rules. Someone has to shake him up, and you don't do it nearly as much as you should.” She leaned over. “Now, enough about your rigid brother. Tell me more about your Mr. Keane.”

“He's hardly
my
Mr. Keane. He's been in London ever since the ball.”

“He's probably working up the courage to offer for you.”

“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.