Page 20 of The Art of Sinning
“He feeds himself well,” Jeremy grumbled. “He’s been eating me out of house and home ever since I hired him to be my painter’s apprentice.”
“So why did you?” She watched him with a veiled look. “Few people would take on a street urchin for a post.”
“I regret the decision daily, every time I’m forced to wrestle with the lad over speech and manners. But...” He smiled, remembering the drawing of Damber’s that had arrested him. “Then he’ll show me one of his sketches, and I’m reminded of why I did it. Because he has a good eye and an amazing talent. That’s rarer than you might think.”
“Yet not many would try to nurture it.”
Her eyes warmed, and he was once again struck by their lovely color. What a shame he wouldn’t be able to capture those cat eyes sparkling from beneath dusky lashes. In his masterpiece they would be looking upward, only one of them visible, and that in profile.
Then again, there was the portrait. He’d get to paint her eyes for that. It was some solace for being forced to do the sort of work he detested. He could use the cobalt blue, tempered with Indian yellow and a trace of umber to get that emerald hue. But how would he capture the emotion within?
She had kind eyes, the sort a man could lose himself in, drowning in their soft sweetness while he—
Damn, there he went again. “Where’s your brother?” he asked sharply as he realized they were entirely alone.
“Edwin had urgent business to attend to with our steward. But he will join us for dinner. In the meantime, I thought we could tour the house.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “It will give us a chance to pick which room will suit your purposes for your secret work.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, surprised by the conspiratorial glee in her voice. She was apparently enjoying their subterfuge. “Lead on, madam.”
As she walked inside and began to take him around, he found himself memorizing her movements: the turn of her head when she glanced back at him, the abbreviated wave she gave when indicating something he should notice, the lift of her imperious brow when he made some wry comment.
He should be focusing on the succession of rich rooms they passed through, but he’d rather studyher. After all, he was to paint her.
That was the only reason he watched her obsessively. It wasn’t because she fired his blood—oh no. He wasn’t that foolish.
Right. Ofcoursehe was that foolish. He was a man, after all, faced with a lovely and remarkable young woman. He’d have to be carved of granite not to notice her attractions as she mounted the stairs ahead of him.
He wished she were already wearing that flimsy Grecian costume. Back in his wife’s day, gowns had clung to a woman, showing every curve, but they’d grown stuffed of late—with petticoats and drawers and what all. It was hard to see the female figure beneath.
Oh, to see Lady Yvette’s figure beneath. To run his fingers up those long legs to where her stockings ended and the bare flesh began. Odd that one buttoned-up English lady could so fire his imagination.
And his lust. Damn her.
“Does your apprentice know about the other painting?” she asked as they reached the next floor.
“He’s aware that I’m working on a second project while I’m here, yes. I had to tell him that much so he’d understand why I’m having him mix extra paint, stretch extra canvases, etc. But for all he knows of the subject, I might be doing a private portrait of your brother’s mistress or illustrating your diary.” He grinned. “I could be up to any manner of shenanigans.”
She flashed him an arch smile. “So he’s been with you long enough to know your dissolute character.”
“He knows enough,” Jeremy said blandly.
“But once the painting is exhibited, won’t he guess that I modeled for it?” She strolled down the hall.
“I create six or seven works a year. If this is chosen to be hung at the Royal Academy’s exhibition next summer, he won’t see it until then, much less be aware of when I painted it. It could be a work from before I hired him.”
“Still—”
“Leave Damber to me.” He caught her hand to halt her. “I promise to preserve your reputation, even with him.”
Only after her eyes widened did he realize that her hand was bare. That the way he held it was intimate. That her skin was buttery soft, and her fingers more delicate than he’d expected.
That her breath had begun to quicken... as had his pulse. Thunderation.
He dropped her hand.
For a moment she stared at him with a look of unsettling intensity, as if trying to parse out his intentions. Then she released a ragged breath that clutched at him somewhere deep, and turned to walk briskly down the hall.
Fighting his lecherous urges, he strode after her. God, what devil possessed him? He ached to keep touching her. Which was absurd. He generally had better control over his desires.
