Page 11 of The Art of Sinning
“Now, then, madam,” he said. “Ask me whatever you wish.”
“Who am I to play in your painting? What am I to wear? Will sitting for your picture ruin me for life? Is that why Edwin would only agree to a respectable portrait?”
“That’s quite a lot of questions,” he said dryly. “Let’s start with the last. Your brother and I didn’t get as far as my describing the concept of my work. The minute I said I wished for you to model for me, he flat-out refused to let you be part of any painting that wasn’t dull as dirt, even though I told him you wouldn’t be recognized.”
“Won’t I?” She felt a stab of disappointment at the thought that he didn’t really want to paintheras she was. And why did she care, anyway? “So I’m to be wearing a mask or a cloak or something?”
“No, indeed. But you will be in a Greek costume quite different from your normal attire. I can even change your hair color if you wish. And you’ll only be in profile, anyway. I doubt anyone will realize it is you.”
She gave a harsh laugh. “Right. Because no one will notice that the woman in your painting happens to have my ungainly proportions.”
“Ungainly!” He shook his head. “More like queenly. Majestic.”
The compliment came so unexpectedly that it startled her. She was used to being teased for her height, not praised. She had to turn her head so he wouldn’t see how very much the words pleased her.
She’d swear that he meant every word. Then again, she’d also believed Lieutenant Ruston’s compliments, though they’d been far less original and far more dubious. At least Mr. Keane wasn’t calling her “a great beauty” and “a delicate flower.” She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for that last one. She’d never been delicate a day in her life.
“But your proportions are unlikely to signify, anyway,” he went on. “You’ll be lying down.”
That arrested her. How had she forgotten he was a rogue? “Why would I be lying down?”
He gazed at her as if she were witless. “Art sacrificed to Commerce? Were you even listening? Damn, woman, I can hardly show a sacrifice without laying you across an altar.”
Stunned by his matter-of-fact tone, as if it were perfectly obvious to anyone with sense, she mumbled, “Oh, right, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Actually, she did know. She thought him quite mad. When he spoke of his art, there was no trace of the rakehell in him. Was it by design? Was hetryingto rattle her?
Because he was certainly succeeding.
“Will you do it?” he asked. “Assuming we can manage it?”
“Managing it isn’t a problem,” she said, thinking aloud. “Artists doing portraits generally reside with the family during the process. So if you come to our estate for the portrait, we can arrange some way to meet for the painting you wish to do for yourself.” She slanted a glance at him. “If you’re willing to leave London for a bit, that is.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He stopped beside a marble fountain to smile teasingly at her. “It would take me away from all those gaming hells and nunneries. However will I survive?”
“I’m sure you can find a sympathetic tavern maid or two nearby to tide you over.”
“So, no nunneries in your neck of the woods?”
“Believe me, if there had been, my other brother would have found them ages ago.”
When he looked at her oddly, a blush rose in her cheeks. She didn’t know why she’d mentioned Samuel’s proclivities. She couldn’t seem to put his request out of her mind.
“I’ll be fine, I promise,” he said silkily. “Though you still haven’t given me your permission to paint you. Foreitherwork.”
And suddenly it hit her—the solution to her problem with Samuel. She hadn’t sent the sealed letter, fearful that no one would call for it at the Covent Garden post office as promised, but perhaps she could still right Samuel’s wrong.
“I haven’t, have I?” She stared him down. “Tell me something, Mr. Keane. Are you as willing to make a bargain with me for your painting as you were to make a bargain with Edwin for my portrait?”
His gaze turned wary. “It depends. What sort of bargain do you mean?”
Avoiding his gaze, she stirred the water in the fountain with one finger. “I will sit for you—clothed, of course. You may draw as many pictures of me as you please.”
“And in exchange?” he prodded.
“You will find some way to get me inside a Covent Garden nunnery.”
Three
