The Art of Sinning (2 page)

“Forgive my candor, sir, but I've seen your paintings. There's no way in hell I'd let you paint my sister as one of your hopeless lunatics or seedy whores or whatever else you're thinking to make her.”

Damn. Admittedly, his work had turned rather bleak of late, but only because he'd come to prefer depicting the raw drama of the real world rather than prettified history or wealthy ladies and gentlemen in fine attire.

And his latest painting would not only be dark but violent. Not that he meant to tell the earl that. “I can always disguise her features, change her hair color—”

“That won't work. In case you haven't noticed, Yvette is rather distinctive in appearance.”

Yvette. Even her name was exotic, which made him want her even more. For the painting. That's all. “Exactly. She's arresting, and that makes for a good image.”

“Yes, but to change her enough for her identity to be kept secret, you'd have to turn her into another woman entirely. So you might as well go
choose
another woman.”

“I don't want another woman. I want her
.
”

Blakeborough drank some brandy. “Well, you can't have her. Between her argumentative nature and her ‘arresting' looks, she's had enough trouble finding suitors as it is. You paint her in one of your provocative scenes, and she'll die a spinster for certain.”

Incredulous, Jeremy stared through the window at her. “A spinster! Are all the men in England mad?”

“Yes.” Blakeborough sighed. “Not to mention wary of the scandals that dog our family wherever we go.”

Suddenly Jeremy remembered the other bit of gossip he'd heard. Blakeborough's brother had been convicted of kidnapping the bride's cousin. That must be quite a tale. He'd have to get the earl to tell him sometime.
After
he arranged to have the impressive Yvette model for his latest work.

The first ones he'd exhibited in London—depictions of a lunatic asylum, a butcher shop, a carriage accident, and other “genre paintings,” as some called
them—had received mixed reviews. Some critics had lauded his new direction. Others had complained that he no longer created the grand historical paintings for which he'd become known.

But his new work, an allegory, would give to everyday struggles the same weight as great events in history or mythology. It would be his masterpiece. With any luck, it would gain him a place in London's Royal Academy of Arts.

With any luck, it would also launch him as an artist of equal caliber to Géricault or Delacroix, not just one more painter of the same old historical scenes. But for that, he needed a woman with a striking appearance to play the primary role. A woman like Blakeborough's sister.

“As it happens, I'm quite a popular fellow in society right now,” Jeremy said. Even if not lauded by his peers to the extent he wanted. “So a fine painting of your sister by me might increase
her
popularity, too.”

The earl pondered that a moment, then narrowed his gray gaze on Jeremy. “That's an excellent notion.”

“You see? I wouldn't robe her in anything outrageous—”

“No, not that. What I mean is, you could paint her portrait, a formal one that shows off her attractions. That would surely help her in society.”

Jeremy cursed under his breath. “I don't do portraits.”

“Why the devil not?”

“Because the sitters always want false representations. They think they should be depicted as more beautiful or clever or rich than they are. And since
I refuse to cater to such hypocrisy, they're never happy with the results.”

Blakeborough looked him over as if assessing his worth. “What if I paid you handsomely for the painting?”

“Fortunately, I don't need the money.”

The earl snorted, clearly unfamiliar with
that
sentiment, especially coming from a lowly American artist. “Well, that's the only way I'll allow it. It's a portrait or nothing, sir.”

Stubborn ass. “I will not paint a formal portrait of Yvette—”

“
Lady
Yvette,” Blakeborough corrected him.

“And even if I did, I would paint her as she is. I would never agree to a portrait that ‘shows off her attractions,' whatever that means. Might as well ask me to dress her up like a whore to entice customers.”

“If that would work, I might consider it,” the earl grumbled. When Jeremy lifted an eyebrow, he added, “I'm joking. Mostly.”

“Why is it so all-fired important that she marry?”

Blakeborough stared into the ballroom at his sister. “I want her to be happy. And the longer she lives alone with me, the more likely that she will be dragged down by my cynical temperament.”

“Ah. Now that, I understand.” He wanted Amanda to be happy, too. He just didn't want to sacrifice his own happiness for it.

“You said you have a sister as well?” the earl asked.

“Yes. And if you think it's hard to get
your
sister married off, you should try it with mine.”

“Unattractive, is she?”

“No, her looks aren't the problem. Amanda runs four textile mills in America as competently as any man, which doesn't exactly endear her to the male populace.”

“Yes, but does she have a tart tongue like
my
sister?”

Jeremy snorted. “Despite being a little slip of a thing, she cows fellows twice her size.”

“But surely she can't be as suspicious of men as Yvette.”

“Only of every chap she meets. And though Amanda is quite pretty, she has a horrible sense of fashion. At least
your
sister knows how to dress well.”

“When she chooses. You should see her wearing her most ragged gown and her permanently ink-stained gloves, poring over dog-eared manuscripts with a pencil behind one ear. Half the time, that damned pencil looses her hair from its pins to fall down about her shoulders.”

Jeremy would love to see Lady Yvette with her hair down. Not that he'd mention that to her brother. “That can't compare to Amanda at the mills. She wears
trousers
beneath her skirts. Says they're necessary to her modesty when she has to climb the ladders.”

“Climbs ladders, does she?” Blakeborough chuckled. “She and Yvette will get along famously. A pity that I need a wife willing to live in England. I'd marry her myself.” He paused. “Does your sister even
want
to marry?”

“Who knows? Though I suspect she'd like to have children.”

Or maybe not, given the tragic deaths of Hannah
and baby Theodore. That had made quite an impression on Amanda in her youth.

Shoving that painful memory to the back of his mind, he took a puff on his cigar. “But whether Amanda wants a husband or not, I'm selfish enough to want her to have one. Then she might stop plaguing me to return home and help her run the confounded mills. She could get her spouse to help her instead.”

Blakeborough laughed. “You should coax her to come here to gain a husband. I can think of any number of younger sons with fine educations, good characters, and sterling connections who have no chance of making something of themselves while their families limit them to the few opportunities that are open to respectable gentlemen in the clergy, law, or the military. They would welcome the chance to start anew somewhere abroad.”

Jeremy gaped at him. “What a brilliant idea! She's actually on her way here and should arrive within the month with my mother in tow. If you'd be willing to introduce her to decent gentlemen who might not mind moving to the countryside of Pennsylvania—”

“I'd be perfectly willing . . . as long as
you
are willing to paint my sister's portrait.” The earl cast him a calculating stare. “What do you say? Is that a trade you would consider?”

Hmm. Much as he hated doing portraits, he hated even more the idea of arguing with Amanda continually about his refusal to return home. Maybe if he could gain her a husband, he'd finally get some peace.

He glanced back into the ballroom. And who was to say that in the course of meeting his obligation, he couldn't also convince Lady Yvette to model for the other work that had seized his imagination so thoroughly? He had a knack for charming women. Especially ones he wanted to paint.

“All right.” He thrust out his hand. “It's a trade.”

Blakeborough brightened as he shook it vigorously. “You won't regret it, I swear. We'll get our sisters married off yet.”

And Jeremy would get his masterpiece at last.

Two

Lady Yvette Barlow had just left the retiring room, headed for the ballroom, when she practically knocked over the bride.

“Yvette!” Jane cried. “You came!”

“Of course I came.” Yvette kissed her friend on the cheek. “I wouldn't have missed it for the world. I'm so very happy for you.” She meant that most sincerely.

Her friend's pleasure shifted to embarrassment. “I know you were probably disappointed that I broke with Edwin.”

“I confess I would have enjoyed having you for a sister-in-law. But
I
would never marry a bullheaded curmudgeon like my eldest brother, so I could hardly expect you to.” She took Jane's hands in hers. “Besides, I wanted you to marry whomever made you happy, and clearly Lord Rathmoor does.”

A blush stained Jane's cheeks. “It's true. I daresay you got an awful impression of him when we were younger, but—”

“That's all past. He seems quite nice now.” Yvette forced a smile. “He said such sweet things in his toast to you that it made me positively green with envy.” She meant
that
, too.

As if Jane realized just how deep Yvette's envy ran, she patted her hand. “Your time will come soon, my dear. There's plenty of fish in the sea.”

“But I don't particularly like fish,” Yvette said lightly. “Perhaps that's my problem.”

Jane chuckled. “Your problem is your refusal to take men seriously. Even when men do want to marry you, you laugh them out of countenance.”

“There are men interested in marrying me?” She surveyed the ballroom beyond Jane. “Do point them out. I haven't met these mythical creatures.”

“Yvette—”

“I'm joking,” Yvette said with a faint smile. “Though it does seem as if the vast majority of eligible gentlemen are only interested in my fortune. And the rest are simply too short for my liking.”

“You see?” Jane shook her head. “You won't be serious about it.”

“Oh, I'm quite serious about the height issue. You've never had to dance with anyone shorter than you. It's disconcerting to have a man staring into your bosom for an entire dance.”

“Any fellow who does that is no gentleman, and you wouldn't want him anyway.”

“Then that eliminates a great many chaps.” Yvette sobered. “You have no idea how rare true gentlemen are. Most men can't even be trusted to do what they promise. Just look at my father. And Samuel.”

Not to mention Samuel's friend from the navy,
Lieutenant Ruston—though Jane knew nothing of Yvette's history with that blackguard.

Suddenly Yvette noticed Jane's face clouding over, and she groaned. “I'm so sorry. I forgot entirely about how Samuel wronged you.”

“It's fine.”

“It's
not
fine,” Yvette protested. “My brother be­­haved abominably toward you and poor Nancy. You must have been terrified the whole time he had your cousin in his clutches. How awful for you!”

“I just kept clinging to the hope that he would refrain from harming a woman he'd known since childhood. That he would come to his senses.” Jane gave a wry smile. “And when that didn't work, I shot him in the leg.”

“He's lucky you didn't shoot him elsewhere.” Yvette shook her head. “You do realize that the rest of the family washed their hands of him long ago, right?”

“Even you?” Jane asked softly.

Yvette sighed. “I keep trying. Even with his sentence of transportation, I find myself remembering—” She broke off with a pained smile. “It doesn't matter. He's headed to New South Wales now. We won't see him for quite some time, if ever.”

Thank the good Lord. After what her brother had dropped in her lap the last time she'd seen him, she could have throttled him.
Just post the letter for me, and don't ask any questions, all right?

Didn't the fool know her at all? Of
course
she'd demanded answers. And of
course
the little he'd said had merely alarmed her and incited her to make things right.

Unfortunately, she couldn't do that without help. And who would aid her in cleaning up another of Samuel's messes? Certainly no one here, given what he'd done to Lord Rathmoor's family. Even her eldest brother had refused, skeptical of whether they could even believe Samuel's claims.

Of course, Edwin didn't know what Samuel had done to protect her in her youth. He didn't know about the kernel of good that lay deep, albeit very deep, inside their brother.

“Don't let Samuel's fecklessness keep you from finding a gentleman of your own,” Jane cautioned. “Not all men are like him and your father. Edwin is perfectly trustworthy. There must be more of his ilk around.”

“Ah, but therein lies my problem. Trustworthy gentlemen frown on my lively speech and manners, and wish I weren't quite so tall. It's only the rogues who like me, precisely because I laugh at them and make them feel free to flirt shamelessly. They must sense the enjoyment I take in sparring with them.” And the foolish attraction she sometimes felt for them.

When Jane's eyes narrowed, Yvette softened her arch tone. “It's a conundrum, to be sure.”

“Gentlemen come in more than two flavors, Yvette. Some trustworthy gentlemen actually do flirt. Some are tall. And some even have a sense of humor and enjoy lively speech, Edwin notwithstanding.”

“I have yet to meet one. But I'm willing to keep looking, if only to prove you wrong.”

Jane uttered an exasperated laugh. “Don't you
want
to marry?”

“Not badly enough to settle for any dull gentleman willing to ask me.”

Oh, how she hoped to avoid that trap. Perhaps after the scandal about Samuel's perfidy died down, things would be better. At twenty-four, she wasn't getting any younger. Still, she refused to simper and hold her tongue to gain a husband. She was liable to burst into laughter if she even attempted it.

But Jane, who'd always been the perfect lady, wouldn't understand that.

Yvette forced a shrug. “Besides, I've got a lovely fortune of my own and plenty to keep me busy. Why would I want a man underfoot?”

“Because life is more than charity work and dabbling in dictionaries.”

“Dabbling!” she said. “I'm not dabbling. Aside from attempting to add to Francis Grose's deplorably out-of-date slang lexicon, I'm also compiling a list of new boxing words for Pierce Egan. He's expanding his
Boxiana,
and I've already found several terms for him.” Something occurred to her. “I don't suppose your new husband would spend some time with me, adding to my store of general street cant.”

“Today?” Jane said incredulously.

“Not at your wedding, silly. But soon. I'm sure he could give me dozens of new words.”

“Hundreds, more like, though I doubt he knows any boxing slang specifically.” Jane smiled. “I'll ask him. But it will be some time before we return from our honeymoon.”

Their hostess, the duchess, appeared at Jane's side. “You must come, Jane. We need you and Dom to lead the first dance.”

“I'll be there straightaway,” Jane said. “First I simply
have
to go to the retiring room.”

“Of course,” the duchess said. “I'll tell the musicians to wait a few more minutes.”

As Jane hurried off, Yvette's spirits drooped. Jane was one of the last of her friends to marry. And though Yvette truly
was
happy for her and understood perfectly why Jane had jilted Edwin, she'd been looking forward to having a female friend in the household.

Now it was just her and Edwin again. And sometimes the thought of knocking about Stoke Towers with her gloomy eldest brother until they both died was more than she could bear.

As if her frustration had somehow conjured him up, Edwin spoke from 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.

Forcing a smile to her lips, she faced him and his companion—and 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. The man stared at her with an intensity that quite sucked the air from her lungs.

Heavenly day. He was tall, too, and dressed on the daring end of fashionable—in a brown tailcoat, a waistcoat of black cut velvet, and tattersall trousers, topped off with a bloodred pongee cravat. Interesting. And 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 delicious music. Even his accent was compelling. American, perhaps? Oh, she did like Americans. They were so refreshingly forthright. And used such fascinating slang, too.

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 had to be
that
Mr. Keane.

As if to confirm her realization, the man raked her in a blatantly admiring glance. A
rogue's
glance.

Not again. Why must she always attract scoundrels? And be attracted to them in turn? Hadn't she learned her lesson with Lieutenant Ruston?

Apparently not, for Mr. Keane's glance was warming her most scandalously. Curse him.

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. 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 vulgar slang for bawdy house.

“I am rarely foxed and never in a nunnery,” Mr. Keane retorted, “for fear that 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 terms, 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. “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 happier aspects.”

A sudden disappointment swept his handsome features. “So you prefer paintings 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 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.”

“If I'd thought it would get you to agree to our transaction sooner,” Edwin said wearily, “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 figured 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. Mr. Keane was well-known for
not
doing formal portraits. Ever.

She fought 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've 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.”