The Art of Sinning (8 page)

He wasn't the only one frustrated. Experiencing such passion and being told that one was good only for
that
was mortifying. Especially since, in spite of everything, a part of her
still
wished he had done more. Gone further. Taught her . . .

Heavenly day.

“Perhaps we should stop for tonight,” Jeremy clipped out. “We can pick up again tomorrow night.”

“An excellent idea.” She snatched up her clothes and headed for the door.

As she reached it, he called out, “Yvette?”

She halted. “Yes?”

“I promise not to overstep my bounds again. You needn't worry about that.”

All she could manage was a nod before she fled. Because the truth was, she would much rather he overstep his bounds and sweep her back into his arms than play the gentleman.

And that was the cruelest turn of all.

Eight

Morning had barely dawned and Jeremy was already busy setting up for the formal portrait in the music room. He wished he could have risen later. But last night, even after “boxing the Jesuit,” as Damber so crudely called self-pleasure, he'd been restless and aroused and incapable of doing more than sleeping in fits and starts.

He kept seeing Yvette in that chiton that left so little to the imagination. Kept hearing her ragged breaths, tasting her hot mouth, feeling her softness against his groin as he pressed into her.

Damn it to perdition!

How was it that none of his other models through the years, even the naked ones, had made him feel such intense need? Some had stirred his lust, but it had never lasted beyond a quick tumble if they were so inclined. Once they turned coy and flattering, they destroyed any lingering fantasy that painting them had aroused.

Not so with Yvette. She parried his barbs with a
clever wit that made him want to tease her more. Yet she could also be as sweet as forbidden candy.

Maybe that was why she tempted him. She was forbidden. That was all. It wasn't her soft smile. Or her kindness to Damber. Or the vulnerability beneath her prickly exterior that made him want—

Thunderation!

Work. He must work. That was preferable to driving himself insane.

“Not that color,” he snapped as Damber stirred the paint in one of many clay pots set out on a tarpaulin they'd laid on the carpet. “I told you burnt umber, not burnt . . . whatever that is.”

“Toast, mayhap. The kind I didn't get to eat.” Scowling, Damber closed up the pot. Then, with a heedlessness that bordered on dangerous, he tossed it back into the box of paints. “I'd be happy with even burnt toast, but oh no, that ain't acceptable. Not when a certain gentry cove has taken the bloody notion in his head to rise before sunup and force me right to work.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Yes, you suffer so. Last night you probably dined like a king and slept on the softest bed you've ever—”

“Didn't matter, seeing as how you made me leave it so bloody early.” Damber rooted around in the box for the burnt umber pigment. “And the gentry mort—” He caught himself. “The
lady
ain't even up yet!”

Thank God. Jeremy had to get his wits about him before she arrived. Last night he'd insulted her in every way possible—first by not kissing her, and then by kissing her too erotically. The way a man kisses a whore.

Or a lover.

No, never that. She couldn't be that to him, no matter how much she tempted him. And, God, but she tempted him. He itched to kiss her again, to run his hands up her thighs and touch what he'd stopped himself from touching last night. He ached to do
more
than touch.

How he would make it through the next several nights without trying to bed her was beyond him. But he must. Last night's activities couldn't be repeated.

“She'll be here soon enough,” Jeremy told Damber, ignoring the leap in his pulse at the thought. “Then you can have all the breakfast you please down in the servant's quarters.”

Damber shot him a sly look. “You want to be alone with her, is that it? Got the urge to give her a bit of the old rammer—”

“Don't talk about the lady like that, or I swear I'll turn you off.”

Since Jeremy threatened that at least once a week, Damber didn't much react to that. Instead, he narrowed his gaze on his master. “You like her.”

“Of course I like her. I wouldn't have taken a commission to paint her portrait if I hadn't thought I could endure her presence.”

“I mean you
fancy
her.”

Like a desert fancies rain.
“Don't be a sapskull.” Jeremy set up his easel with quick efficiency. “She's English, an aristocrat, stiff-rumped, as you put it. What would I do with her sort?” When Damber opened his mouth, Jeremy said, “Don't answer that. You know that's not what I meant.”

“Wasn't it?” Heedless of the foul look Jeremy flashed him, Damber said, “You got up at dawn, which ain't like you, and you're trying to rid yourself of me so you can be alone with her. Seems pretty clear.”

“Even if I wanted to be alone with her ladyship, her brother is coming in to chaperone, so it's impossible.” Until tonight. When he would have her all to himself, displayed provocatively atop his makeshift altar. God help him. “Now stop flapping your jaws and do your job. Sharpen some pencils.”

“Already sharpened them.”

“You've restretched the canvases?”

“Aye.” Damber crossed his arms over his chest. “Did them all last night. And what are you wanting with so many of them, anyway?”

Despite what Jeremy had said to Yvette, it wouldn't be that easy to keep their nighttime trysts secret from Damber. “I told you.” Jeremy strode across the room to examine the mantelpiece so he could decide if he wanted it in the image. “I have some other works going.”

“That keep you up into the wee hours of the morn?” When Jeremy shot him a surprised glance, Damber added, “Aye, I noticed. Came up to make sure you were done with me for the night, and you weren't in the room.”

Jeremy fought to appear nonchalant. “You know perfectly well that when I can't sleep, I paint.”

“Aye. But I usually see the results next morn.” Damber glanced around. “So where is it? I don't see anything.”

“Where it is doesn't concern you,” Jeremy said
sternly. “What
does
concern you is this portrait. And since I may actually get to the painting of it this afternoon, you'd best have my materials ready. Have you set out my palette knife?”

“Done.”

“And my brushes?”

“Done, done, done. Everything's done!”

Jeremy frowned at him. “So you've mixed all the colors I asked for—the Paris green, the bone black, the Naples yellow—”

Damber's face fell. “You said naught about mixing up Naples yellow.”

“Yes, I did, last night. You were too busy flirting with the chambermaid to give me your full attention.”

Damber thrust out his chest. “Well, you can't expect me to remember—”

“I can and I do.” Jeremy quelled the impudent scapegrace with a look, then examined the canvas to be sure Damber had got it tight. “It's part of your position, lad. Best get used to it.”

His shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir.” As the boy turned for the paint pots, he mumbled, “S'pose I won't be getting breakfast until noon.”

A light and lilting voice came from the doorway. “Why isn't Mr. Damber getting breakfast?”

Jeremy stiffened. It was her. “Because he hasn't finished his preparations. When he does, he can eat.” He looked up from what he was doing, and her attire gave him pause.

Today she wore a day dress of moiré with a wide pelerine collar and slimmer sleeves than were currently fashionable. The fabric swished about her, and
the touches of lace were interesting visually. But he didn't like the overall effect.

Was it the ivory hue, the color of unabashed innocence?

No. She'd worn white while he sketched her in the schoolroom, yet she still had looked as erotic as any soiled dove.

Was it the style?

He didn't think so. Though the neckline was slightly higher and the hem slightly lower than yesterday's gown, it was no less respectable.

So it must be the combination of the color and the staid cut and the lace. Taken altogether, they turned her into the personification of decency, a vestal virgin.

No doubt she was trying to remind him—and maybe even herself—that despite her curiosity about physical passion, she was still an upright female and not some round-heeled slattern. The problem was, her demure choice simply didn't work for the portrait. Now how in thunder was he to tell her that without insulting her?

“You're up early,” he grumbled. “I thought you said you preferred to lie abed late most mornings.”

Avoiding his gaze, she glided into the room. “I . . . um . . . couldn't sleep.”

“Neither could the master,” Damber said from where he stood stirring paint. “You're a daft pair, you are.”

Ignoring Damber, she eyed Jeremy from beneath her lovely dark lashes. “I hope you found your bed comfortable enough.”

“Perfectly so.”

Except for its being too empty.

God, he needed to get hold of himself. “But I never sleep well in a new place.”

Her pretty features froze. “Then you must get very little rest, given how often you sleep in new places in London.”

The thinly veiled reference to his brothel visits gave him pause. Apparently he wasn't the only one regretting last night's intimacies. But she probably regretted them for vastly different reasons.

“Oh,” Damber put in, “but the master ain't sleeping when he's out and about in town. He's too busy—”

“I'm sure Lady Yvette can guess what I'm up to, Damber, thank you,” Jeremy said sharply.

Part of him burned to tell her the truth. That he generally spent his nights in the stews, painting. That he was more likely to sketch a whore than screw her.

But revealing that particular secret would be unwise. If the world knew that his models were primarily prostitutes, people would read meaning into that. Or be blinded to what he was trying to say because they were focusing on the outrage of his using a whore to model a respectable shopkeeper.

Besides, having Yvette think him a rank rogue might encourage her to keep her distance. Now that he'd assuaged her fears about her attractiveness, she had no reason to entice him. Just as he had no reason to tempt her.

And maybe if he said it a few hundred times, he would finally get it through his thick head. The one above
and
the one below. Both of which were painfully aware of her as she approached.

Then he noticed the white rose in her hand. “I hope you don't intend to hold that for the portrait,” he said sourly.

She tipped up her chin. “And what if I do?”

“Don't mind the master, my lady,” Damber cut in. “He's been grumpy ever since he put me to work without my breakfast.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Jeremy growled. “Go eat! I'm tired of hearing about it.”

“You see?” Damber said. “Grumpy as a shabbaroon.”

A lively smile brightened Yvette's face. “
Shabbaroon
? I don't know that one.”

Neither did Jeremy. He suspected he was better off not knowing.

Apparently she felt differently. Hurrying to a nearby writing desk, she took out some paper and exchanged her rose for a quill, which she dipped into an inkpot. “What does it mean?”

Jeremy scowled. “It means an apprentice who's a pain in the damned—” He caught himself when her quizzical gaze swung his way.

Her hand remained poised over the paper. “Is that really what it means?”

With a snort, Damber came to her side. “Of course not. I told you, he's a bear this morn.” He gestured to the paper. “A
shabbaroon
is a mean sort of fellow. You know, ‘mean' in both clothes and manners. Like
shabby
. Only grouchier.”

“How colorful!” She jotted it down. “
Shabbaroon
. I'll have to use that one.”

“Wonderful.” Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest. “Any more ‘colorful' terms you wish to add to
her ladyship's dictionary, Damber? Or are we actually going to start a portrait today?”

Yvette laughed, the tinkling sound tightening Jeremy's muscles in all the wrong places. “He
is
a shabbaroon this morning, Mr. Damber. You'd best flee to have your breakfast while you can.”

Warily, Damber glanced at Jeremy.

“Damn it, I already said you could go. I'll send for you if I have need of you.”

But as soon as Jeremy sent the lad off, he regretted it. It left him alone with Yvette. Which was probably why, when she picked up the rose again, he snapped, “No.”

“What?”

“You're not posing with that flower.” He gestured to her ensemble. “And your clothes are wrong, too.” So much for telling her without insulting her.

With a look of cold contempt, she drew herself up. “You said I could wear what I liked.”

“I assumed you would choose something that suited you. Like what you wore yesterday afternoon. Or at dinner. Or even last week at the ball. Not something so . . . so . . .”

“Elegant? Refined?”

“Innocent.” The minute the words left his mouth, he cursed his idiot tongue.

Shock tightened her features. Then she stepped close enough to hiss, “I
am
an innocent, curse you.”

“That's not what I—”

“Just because you and I shared a few kisses last night doesn't mean that I'm a . . . a wanton. And it certainly doesn't mean that you know me.”

The reference to their kisses made every muscle in
his body bunch up. “I have eyes and ears, don't I? You may be chaste, but you're no innocent.” When her gaze sparked fires, he added hastily, “I mean that as a compliment. Innocents are boring. The debutantes who do exactly as their mamas tell them are so bland as to make me retch.
You
are not bland.
You
are not boring. And you certainly don't make me retch.”

“No, I just make you run in terror.”

That startled him. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” A shuttered look crossed her face. “So, what brought you to these conclusions about my character? The fact that I chose to wear white today?”

“Hardly. I assessed your character long before that. An innocent doesn't collect street cant. An innocent doesn't trade nights as an artist's model for the chance of searching a brothel to find God knows whom.”

Mention of her secret plans seemed to take her aback. A blush stained her cheeks, and her throat worked convulsively.