The Art of Sinning (28 page)

The background still worked, with its columns and lush curtains, but he'd altered her clothing to make it a nightdress by adding lace around the edges and changing the top half. And he'd not only painted over the wound but had given her a lower neckline to show a generous portion of bosom.

Heavenly day.

And those weren't the only changes he'd made to her figure. He'd painted over the arm that shielded her features and had made her face more prominent. This time the woman
was
clearly her. She looked sensual and erotic. Where before she'd been gazing up at her attacker in fear, now she looked up at him adoringly.

Like a woman in love. With a man who also looked to be in love.

She checked the impulse to leap into his arms with all the joy filling her heart. She had to be sure first. “What does it mean?”

“It means I love you. I probably have for some time. But I was so busy trying not to love you that I couldn't hear the cry of my heart. Because although you were mostly right about
Art Sacrificed to Commerce
, you were wrong about one thing.”

His intent gaze speared her. “Perhaps it did start out as a work about my past, about my guilt over
Hannah's final hours. Father's death had dragged me back into my anger, and that anger needed an outlet. So I felt compelled to paint this. Or rather, this as it was.”

He stared down at it. “After I met you, however, things began to change. No matter how I tried, I could never get your face right. I worked on it and worked on it, and somehow it came out wrong every time.”

Her blood chilled. “Because you were trying to paint Hannah.”

“No.” He smiled. “I considered that, but no. It was always you I wished to paint. But I was trying to fit you into an old paradigm where you didn't belong. And the more I tried to make you fit, to turn you into the victim necessary for my lofty image of what the work was to be, the less it worked.”

He caught her hands in his. “Because you, my Juno, have never been a victim. You've always chosen your own path, even when Ruston threatened blackmail. Hannah let my father and me push her into what we wanted; you would never do that. Hell, you wouldn't even let me marry you after I ruined you.”

As her heart began to soar, his voice thickened with emotion. “That's why I couldn't get your face right. Because somewhere in the depths of my artist's soul, I realized that you would never fit. That if I ever got your face right, the rest of it wouldn't fit. Nothing would fit anymore. And I wasn't ready to face that—ready to have a new purpose.”

He drew her into his arms. “But I'm ready now. Ready to look forward and not back. With a new wife. With my only love. So, are you ready, too?”

If nothing else had convinced her, the heartbreaking sincerity in his face would have done so.

“I've been ready for a very long time,” she whispered.

Relief flooded his features. Then he was kissing her with the sweetness of a lover newly born, a man who had finally found his purpose. Found his Juno.

After he'd lightened her heart and curled her toes and done any number of things to the rest of her parts, she pulled back to cast the painting a regretful look. “You can never exhibit it, you know. Edwin would shoot you.”

He flashed her one of those smoldering looks she adored. “I don't intend to exhibit it. It's mine. And yours. Our private painting, if you will, depicting our passion. And our love.”

“I like the sound of that. Though it definitely needs a new title. The old one won't suit.”

“It certainly won't.”

She viewed it carefully, enraptured by it. Lord only knew where they would hang it. Perhaps in their bedchamber?

Then inspiration struck. “I know what the title should be.”

“Oh?”

She grinned at him. “
Lessons in the Art of Sinning.
”

He burst into laughter. “Sounds perfect.” He slid his arm about her waist to draw her close. “Because I intend for us to have a great many of those.”

Epilogue

Hertfordshire, England

December 1829

Jeremy headed for the drawing room of the brand-new home he'd purchased in Hertfordshire with the proceeds from selling his share of the mills. Walton Hall was located close enough to Stoke Towers that Yvette could visit regularly, but far enough to give them their privacy. It also put them a bit nearer London, a distinct advantage given his growing status as a prominent artist.

How strange that only a few months ago the idea of owning a sprawling estate would have sent him fleeing. Now, he took pride in it. Because of her. She'd utterly changed his life. By lancing the wound in his soul, she'd settled the restlessness that had made him blow with the wind.

Every day with her was an adventure. Every night with her was an erotic exploration. He liked adventures. He enjoyed erotic explorations. And he
loved
her. What more could a man ask for?

He quickened his stride, eager to catch her alone. Though this was the first day of their holiday house
party, the other gentlemen were out shooting and the other ladies in town shopping. He'd been trying to get a bit of painting done when a footman told him that his wife had returned without the others and wanted a private moment with him in the drawing room.

He sincerely hoped she had something wicked in mind.

But the minute he entered, thunderous applause put paid to that hope—not to mention startling him out of his wits. “What the—”

He choked off the word
hell.
His mother and sister were both here, along with the rest of their houseguests.

“Surprise!” Yvette gestured to the wall with a bright smile. “The shopping jaunt was a ruse to pick this up in town. We had it put up while you were in your studio.”

He turned to see the portrait of her in all its glory, hung in the beautiful frame he'd picked out himself. “That is the most excellent portrait I've ever seen,” he said. “By a very talented artist, too.”

When everyone burst into laughter, Yvette ap­­proached to kiss him on the cheek. “No one will ever accuse you of being modest about your abilities, darling.”

That got another laugh. He laid his hand on the small of her back. “Ah, but it isn't my abilities that make the portrait excellent, my love. It's you. You're amazing.”

“You flatterer, you,” Yvette said with a teasing smile. “Do go on.”

“Here, here!” Blakeborough raised his glass of champagne. “To my amazing sister.”

She blew her brother a kiss as everyone joined him in the toast. Then their guests began to chatter among themselves, some of them heading over to examine the portrait more closely.

Jeremy slipped his arm more firmly about her waist. “You do like it, don't you?”

“I like everything you paint.”

“No, you don't. I seem to recall a rather insulting comment about looking at dead deer at the breakfast table.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about that. But I do like
most
things you paint.” She lowered her voice. “Especially the picture on our bedchamber wall that scandalizes the servants.”

He chuckled. “At least you're not naked in it. I still have to paint that one.”

She eyed him askance. “That will have to wait until after our trip to America with your mother and sister. Can you imagine Amanda bursting in on us to tell us about some new piece of mill equipment and finding me nude?”

“I daresay she wouldn't even blink. My mother, on the other hand—”

“Good Lord, don't even think it!” She glanced over to where his mother was regaling a gentleman with the tale of her arrival in England. “I'm looking forward to our trip. To seeing where you grew up.” She slanted a wary look at him. “Do you mind?”

“Why would I mind? I'm the one who invited you.”

“I know, but . . . it's been years, and—”

“I don't mind, and I know what you mean. But I'm fine, really.” He squeezed her waist. “Besides, I can't wait to see what you make of our quaint American customs.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Probably the same thing you and your sister make of our quaint English customs. Especially the Christmas ones. Like Stir-up Sunday, which you mocked exceedingly because we English have a whole day to celebrate ‘mixing up a dessert,' as you call it.”

“That one is odd, but I do like others of your Christmas customs. I'm already rather fond of the mistletoe kissing idea.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Last night, when you asked me to explain what was hanging in the hall, I had no idea that this morning I'd find mistletoe in every available room in the house, you wicked rogue, you.”

“Is my brother being wicked again?” Amanda asked as she approached them. “Haven't you cured him of that yet?”

“Certainly not.” Yvette grinned. “Why would I?”

“Well, he's not the only wicked man around here,” Amanda grumbled. “Some stranger just came up to me in the hall and kissed me right on the lips.”

When Jeremy laughed, Yvette said, “Oh, dear, I probably should have explained mistletoe to your sister, too.”

“How did you respond?” Jeremy asked Amanda.

“I kissed him back, of course. It's not every day a handsome gentleman kisses me.”

“That's because it's not every day that you dress
so well.” When his wife elbowed him, Jeremy said, “What? It's true. Amanda looks unusually well-attired tonight.”

Yvette had been advising his sister on her clothing choices. Sometimes his sister even listened.

“Be that as it may,” Amanda said, “after I found out who he was, I wished I'd slapped him for his impertinence.”

“Why? Who is he?” Jeremy asked. “Point him out and I'll go defend your honor.” Then he ruined that statement by laughing.

“You're such a child.” Amanda pointed to a man engaged in a heated conversation with Knightford. “That's him. I don't even know his name.”

“Uh-oh,” Yvette said. “That's Lord Stephen.”

“Knightford's youngest brother?” Jeremy said incredulously. “Is he one of our guests?”

“He is now. Clarissa spotted him in the village today and asked me if she could invite him. I was happy to do so. Edwin and I know him well.”

“Yes, but Knightford doesn't seem pleased about it. The reason I haven't met the man is the marquess wouldn't even let him join St. George's,” Jeremy said.

“Probably because he'd bore all of you with his heated opinions. I would brain him in under a minute, myself.” Amanda scrutinized the man with a more than cursory interest and colored oddly before snapping her gaze back to them. “Well, I think I'll go look at the portrait. People have been crowding around it so much I haven't yet had the chance.” And off she went.

For the next few moments, as Yvette's attention
was commanded by another guest, Jeremy watched Amanda and Lord Stephen. When his sister wasn't sneaking looks at Lord Stephen, the man was staring brazenly at her.

Jeremy recognized that look. It was how he'd stared at Yvette the first night they'd met.

And given what Knightford had said about his bro­ther, it worried him. Lord Stephen had no money, he'd burned every bridge to every connection, and he had no useful profession other than causing trouble. He'd probably kissed Amanda be­­cause he'd heard she was an heiress.

Thunderation.

The guest Yvette was speaking to walked off, and she caught the direction of Jeremy's gaze. “What do you think?” Yvette whispered. “Aren't they perfect for each other?”

“No. He's probably hunting a fortune.”

“Oh, I doubt that. And even if he were, she would see right through it.”

He frowned. “I'm not so sure. My sister isn't good with managing men the way you are, sweetheart.”

She burst into laughter.

“What?”

Tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, she leaned up to kiss his cheek. “You are absolutely the only person who sees me that way. And I love you for it.”

When she then cast him a sparkling smile, he forgot all about his sister. He forgot all about the guests and the portrait and the fact that it had been accepted for exhibit at the Royal Academy.

All he could see was his wife. Yvette had been so
frantic with making sure their new house was ready for guests, and then settling them in yesterday, that it had been three long nights since he'd made love to her.

“Tell me, sweetheart, as my guide to all things English: just how improper is it for a hostess to leave her guests and disappear for, say, an hour or two before dinner?”

“Very improper.” Her gaze turned sultry. “Why? What did you have in mind?”

“I thought we might take a walk in our new gardens. Find a wooded area. Or maybe even an ornamental bridge.”

“It's rather cold outside,” she pointed out.

“Ah, right.” He bent to whisper, “Then I suppose we'll have to settle for our own bed.”

And as she laughed, he drew her from the room. There were definitely some compensations to being a man who no longer blew with the wind.

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

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One

London, England

April 1830

“Clearly, you have lost your bloody mind.”

When every member present in the reading room of St. George's Club turned to look at Edwin Barlow, Earl of Blakeborough, he realized how loudly he'd spoken.

With a quelling glance that sent them scrambling to mind their own business, Edwin returned his attention to Warren Corry, the Marquess of Knightford. “This plan of yours can't possibly work.”

Warren was Edwin's closest friend. Really, his only friend, aside from his sister's new husband, Jeremy Keane. Edwin didn't make friends easily, probably because he didn't suffer fools easily. And society was full of fools.

That was precisely why Edwin, Jeremy, and Warren had started this club—so they could separate the fools from the fine men. So they could protect the women in their lives from fortune hunters, gamblers, rakehells, and every other variety of scoundrel in London.

Warren was clearly taking that mission very seriously. Perhaps too seriously.

“Clarissa will never agree,” Edwin said.

“She has no choice.”

Edwin narrowed his gaze on Warren. “You actually believe you can convince your sharp-tongued ward to let me squire her about town during the season.”

“Only until I return. And why not?” Warren said, though he took a long swig of brandy as if to fortify himself for the fight. “It isn't as if she hates you.”

“No, indeed,” Edwin said sarcastically. “She only challenges my every remark, ignores any advice I offer, and tweaks my nose incessantly. The last time I saw her, she called me the Blakeborough Bear and said I belonged in the Tower of London menagerie, where ordinary people could be spared my growls. ”

Warren burst into laughter. When Edwin lifted an eyebrow at him, Warren's laugh petered out into a cough. “Er, sorry, old boy. But you have to admit that's amusing.”

“Not nearly as amusing as it will be to watch you try to talk her into this,” Edwin drawled as he settled back in his chair. “She's not going to agree.”

“Don't be too sure. You mustn't take her pokes at you as anything more than her usual mischief-making. You let her exaggerations get under your skin, which only tempts her to tease you more. You should just ignore her when she starts plaguing you.”

Ignore Clarissa? Impossible. He'd spent half his life trying unsuccessfully to unwrap the mystery that was Lady Clarissa Lindsey. Her barbed wit fired his temper, her provocative smile inflamed him, and her shadowed eyes haunted his sleep. He could no
more ignore her than he could ignore a rainbowed ­sunset . . . or a savage storm.

For three months now, she'd been isolated at Warren's estate, Hatton Hall, and Edwin had felt every second of her absence. That was why the very notion of spending time with her sent his blood pumping.

Not with anticipation. Certainly not. Couldn't be.

“What do you say, old boy?” Warren held Edwin's gaze. “I need you.
She
needs you.”

Edwin ignored the leap in his pulse. Clarissa didn't need
anyone
, least of all him. Thanks to the fortune left to her by her late father, the Earl of Margrave, she didn't have to marry for love or anything else. She'd reportedly refused dozens of marriage proposals since her debut seven years ago.

But it wasn't her fortune that had men falling all over themselves trying to catch her eye. It was her quick wit. Her effervescent personality. Her astonishing beauty. She was the fair-haired, green-eyed, porcelain-skinned darling of society, and she almost certainly knew it.

Which was why he rather enjoyed the idea of watching Warren attempt to convince her that she should go about town with a gruff curmudgeon like himself. “Assuming that she
and I both agree to this insanity—how long would I have her on my hands?”

“It shouldn't be more than a few weeks,” Warren said. “However long it takes me to deal with her brother in Portugal. I can't leave Niall stranded on the Continent with all the unrest there right now.”

“I assume she knows that's the reason for your trip.”

“Actually, no. She doesn't yet even know about his letter, which was waiting for me when we arrived
from Shropshire for the season. I wanted to be sure you would agree to keep an eye on her before I told her. But once she learns that this involves Niall, she'll want me to go after him, and she'll realize I won't do that unless I'm sure she's safe.”

“Safe from this Durand fellow.” The reason for this charade Warren was proposing.

Warren's jaw hardened. “Count Geraud Durand, yes.”

Settling back into his chair, Edwin drummed his fingers on his thigh. “If I'm to do this, you'd better tell me everything you know about this Frenchman.”

“He's the French ambassador's first secretary. And because the ambassador had to return to France right after Christmas, Durand is now running the embassy as the
charge d'affaires.
The position gives him a great deal of power.”

“And what the devil does he want with Clarissa?”

“A wife. He asked her to marry him in Bath some months ago.”

That stunned Edwin. Men in the field of diplomacy generally preferred wives who were not inclined to speak their minds.

“She turned him down,” Warren went on. “That's why we had to return to London. Unfortunately, he followed us here. He seemed to have made it his mission to gain her no matter what. He was at every public event we attended after our return from Bath. Twice, he tried to accost her on the street.”

His lips thinned into a grim line. “The bastard frightened her enough that she started avoiding going out in public, and you know that's not like her. So after we spent Christmas at your brother-in-law's, I whisked her and her mother off to Shropshire
where I knew he dared not follow, since he had to serve as
charge d'affaires
here. I'd hoped our absence would give his ardor time to cool.”

“And has it?”

“I don't know. We've only just returned, so I've not had time to assess the situation. But I'm not taking any chances. She has to be protected while I'm trying to sort out her brother's situation. He can't continue abroad like this indefinitely. And I can't continue to manage my properties
and
his, even with Clarissa's help.”

Edwin snorted. “Clarissa helps?”

“There's more to her than you realize.”

Ah, but Edwin did realize it. Granted, he wouldn't have expected her to have any skill at estate management, but despite her outrageous manner, he sometimes glimpsed a seriousness in her that reminded him of his own.

Or perhaps she just had dyspepsia. Hard to know with Clarissa. She was entirely unpredictable. Which was why she always threw him out of sorts.

Warren waved over a servant and ordered another brandy. “Honestly, accompanying her won't be as trying as you think. Don't you need to go out into society this season anyway? Aren't you bent on marrying?”

“Yes.” Well, he was bent on siring an heir, anyway, which required wedding
someone
. Though God only knew who that might be.

“You see? It's perfect. You have to go on the marriage mart. Clarissa wants to enjoy the season, and I want her to find a husband. It's an ideal situation.”

“If you say so.” How he could successfully court anyone with Clarissa hanging about was anyone's guess, but he supposed it might improve his stern reputation if he had a beautiful woman on his arm at the usual balls. Assuming she would even agree to take his arm. That was by no means certain with Clarissa.

Warren eyed him closely. “You were still recovering from the loss of Jane last season, so this will be your first real attempt to secure a wife since Jane jilted you. Do you have any particular lady in mind?”

“No. I know what I want. But God only knows if I can find a
who
to go with it.”

“And what exactly are your requirements for a wife? Other than that she be of breeding age, I suppose.”

“I would prefer a woman who's responsible and uncomplicated. One who's quiet and sensible.”

“In other words, someone you can keep under your thumb. The way your father kept your mother under his thumb.”

A swell of painful memories made acid burn his throat. “Father didn't keep her under his thumb; he ignored her. I will never do that to my wife.”

“You will if she's as dull as what you describe.” Warren leaned back in his chair. “When I get around to choosing a wife, I want a lively wench who will keep me well entertained.” He winked. “If you know what I mean.”

Edwin rolled his eyes. “Remind me again why we asked you to join St. George's? You're as bad as the men we're guarding our women against.”

“Ah, but I don't prey on innocents. Any woman who lands in my bed jumped there of her own accord. And I dare say that's true of any number of fellows here.”

It probably was. Even Edwin had taken a mistress in his twenties when his loneliness had grown too acute to endure. That hadn't, however, been a very satisfying experience. Knowing that a woman was with you only for your rank and money was somehow more lonely than not having a woman with you at all.

Although with his sister Yvette now married and out of the house, he'd started to feel the disadvantages of a solitary way of life. So once more he'd be looking for a wife, always a singularly awkward experience.

Especially since he didn't know how to please a woman. Or even how to talk civilly to one. He couldn't spin a clever yarn, or hide an opinion beneath a facile compliment. Sadly, most women seemed to prefer facile compliments to blunt truths. Hence, his difficulty finding a suitable wife. “When will you broach this with Clarissa?”

He looked at his pocket watch. “At dinner, in about half an hour. I was hoping you'd come.”

“
Now?
”

“Why not? Might as well get it over with, eh? And I
am
leaving for Portugal in the morning.”

Devil take it. Edwin would have liked more time to prepare.
He was not the spontaneous sort. “Planning to have us join forces against her, are you?”

“That wasn't my intention initially, no.” Warren gulped some brandy. “When we left Hatton Hall for London, I'd hoped that by now Yvette and Jeremy would have returned from America. And you know that Yvette can talk Clarissa into just about anything.”

Edwin smiled. His sister could talk
anyone
into just about anything, even him.

“But I gather they're still abroad,” Warren continued.

“It may be a few more weeks before they return. Sorry.”

“Well, it can't be helped. At least my aunt will be there to help persuade her.”

Edwin suppressed a snort. Lady Margrave, Cla­rissa's mother, was a flighty female who rarely offered sound advice, so Clarissa rarely heeded her. He doubted that this time would be any different.

Warren rose. “I'm truly sorry that I have to run off. So, are you coming or not?” The casual words were belied by his tight expression.

They both knew that Edwin hadn't yet agreed to the plan. And why not? Because the thought of spending weeks in Clarissa's company put him on edge as nothing else could.

But it didn't matter. Warren was his friend, and wouldn't hesitate to help if the shoe was on the other foot. So neither would Edwin.

He stood. “I'm coming.”

*   *   *

Clarissa's mother turned to her in a panic. “I cannot believe your cousin did this! Warren knows better than to invite a man for dinner with no warning. What was he thinking?”

Clarissa raised an eyebrow at her mother's reflection in the bedchamber's looking glass. “He was thinking that it's just Edwin, whom we've known for ages. And who comes regularly to dine.”

“I don't know if pigeon pie is quite suitable for guests,” Mama said as if Clarissa hadn't spoken. “Oh, and Madeira! Edwin loves his Madeira, you know, and we are fresh out!”

“Mama—”

“And the pickled onions were too sour the last time we ate them. I was hoping to use them up tonight, but if Edwin is coming—”

“Mama, calm down! It's not as if we're expecting the Tsar of Russia, you know.” She smiled into the mirror. “Although Edwin
would
make a fine tsar. All he'd have to do is be his usual autocratic and dictatorial self.”

Thankfully that observation broke her mother out of her fretting. “And he would look quite the part, too, wouldn't he? All that dark hair and that chiseled jaw.”

And broad shoulders and regal bearing and slate-gray eyes as coldly beautiful as a Russian night spangled with stars.

Clarissa scowled at herself. She must be addled to be thinking of Edwin like that. Though he
was
sinfully handsome. In a sort of standoffish way.

“Why, I can almost imagine him in an ermine cape and one of those tall, furry hats,” Mama said.

Clarissa laughed. “Edwin would only wear such a pretentious thing to a coronation, and then only because he had to.”

His manner of dress was always correct, but terribly sober.

Unlike hers. She examined her gown in the mirror and smiled. Edwin would probably look sternly upon the confection of lace and lavender bows. But she would never change her gown for
him.
Let him give her one of his ruthlessly critical glances; she would not be cowed by them.

Indeed, it was merely force of habit that had her pinching her cheeks until they glowed nicely pink. It was not because she wanted to look pretty for Edwin. No, indeed.

“You know, my girl,” Mama said, “if you were a bit nicer to that man, you could probably have him wrapped about your finger in a matter of weeks.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Edwin is far too inflexible to be wrapped about anything. More's the pity.” Cla­rissa would dearly love to see the woman who could manage
that
.