Page 12 of The Art of Sinning
Jeremy was shocked. Then intrigued. Then disturbed by the notion of Lady Yvette going anywhere near a den of iniquity.
Not that he would let her see it. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. “You don’t need my help for that. Covent Garden is known for its enthusiastic acquisition of... er... nuns. Just walk in, and I’m sure they’ll welcome you with open arms.”
Her outraged gaze shot to him. “I’m not aiming to be a Covent Garden nun, you devil!”
He’d figured that, of course. He’d just wanted to spark that intoxicating fire in her eyes again. “Then why go in a nunnery?”
“I’m looking for a... a person.”
“Ah,” he said, as if he understood. Which he certainly did not. “A friend of yours?”
“Something like that.” Her rosy cheeks showed she wasn’t nearly as nonchalant about this as she let on.
“You have a friend in a whorehouse,” he said bluntly.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It doesn’t matter why I want to go into one, just that I do. And since you enter them all the time, I figure you’re the perfect person to sneak me in.”
“I do have a bit of experience in that regard.” Not as much as everyone assumed, but enough to know his way around. “Indeed, it would probably be safer for your reputation if I entered alone. If you’d just give me the name of the person—”
“I can’t. I don’t know for certain that my... er... friend is even there. This must be handled very discreetly. And it’s essential that I go with you. I can’t explain why.”
This got more curious by the moment. “I assume that asking your brother to help you is out of the question?”
She paled. “He cannot know I’m doing this. He mustn’t know.”
“So if he finds out, he’ll throttle me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of my brother.”
He bit back a smile. Her taunts were so transparent. “What can I say? I’m an artist, not a fighter. I’ve no great desire to have my nose bashed in.”
“That would only happen if Edwin learned of it. Which he’s not going to.” She glanced away. “Our visits must be conducted in utter secrecy.”
“You expect a notorious scoundrel like me to bring you into a brothel without having anyone remark upon it?”
“I can wear a disguise.” She eyed him from beneath sooty lashes that made something tighten in his chest. And lower. “Or pretend to be your paramour, joining you for... whatever a paramour would do in a place like that.”
Oh, he could think of several interesting things he could do with Lady Yvette in a whorehouse, none of them acceptable to a lady of her upbringing. Best to shove those ideas right out of his mind. “So how are we to visit a brothel when we’re to be closeted out at your country estate for the next few weeks while I paint your portrait?”
She shrugged. “Preston isn’t that far from London. We come into town often enough. All you and I need do is attend some other social affair, find a way to keep Edwin busy, and then dart off for a bit to make our Covent Garden visit.”
“Really? That’s ‘all you and I need do,’ is it?”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she tapped her chin with her finger. “We should go to the theater. It’s already situated in Covent Garden. Of course we’d have to find a way to occupy Edwin...”
“A minor consideration,” he said tersely.
This time his sarcasm registered, and he was rewarded with another lovely blush. “I’m sure we can manage it.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you want to paint me or not? Because the only way I’ll agree to sitting for either painting is if you do this for me.”
If he had any sense, he would throw her bargain back in her face, and her brother’s, too, for that matter. He didn’t like being taken for a fool, especially by some secretive chit, no matter how clever and arresting.
But his mind was already leaping ahead to how she would look robed in Roman white. Or maybe a knee-length Greek chiton. He already knew she’d have shapely calves to match the beautiful contours of her arms in those long, formfitting gloves she wore. And the image of her in something little better than a shift was rousing more than his artistic imagination.
He moved closer to the fountain, praying that the imposing marble bowl would hide his unwise attraction.
“Well?” she asked.
Her demanding tone wasn’t helping his arousal any. He found imperious women intoxicating. They tended to be honest in bed. Nothing more erotic than a woman, even a saucy innocent, who asked for exactly what she wanted. Just the thought of this particular innocent asking for what she wanted, what sheneeded,had him hardening even more.
