Page 26 of The Art of Sinning
He must gain control of himself. In the drawing room he’d made the mistake of showing how deep his attraction to Lady Yvette ran, and she’d registered it. He’d seen that in her eyes.
Maybe she even shared it, but it didn’t matter. It could go no further.
Especially with some Englishwoman of high rank. Lady Yvette might collect slang and speak of charity work and show kindness to his apprentice, but she needed a certain kind of husband.
Not the kind who would trudge through the Alps to find a scenic view worth painting. Or the kind who was the subject of gossip about his sojourns in the brothels, where he went to search for whores to serve as models. Not the kind who was so incapable of love that he’d left his own wife to be—
No. He was perfectly capable of lust, but love was beyond him, as his short-lived marriage had proved. And a marital union without love on both sides was destined to end in a stultifying existence that crippled creativity. Or in heartbreak and suffering and death.
Silencing his memories, he concentrated on the task at hand—preparing the setting. First he had to stoke up the fire and light plenty of candles and lanterns. Unlike some artists, he didn’t mind working at night if it suited the image he sought to create. The colors wouldn’t be quite true—he’d have to review them by day to make sure he wasn’t going awry—but this particular painting would benefit from some shrouding.
There was a bit of a moon and normally he could have used that, too, but not in this case. Regretfully, he closed the heavy curtains to keep anyone outside from noticing that they were working up here.
Then he peered at the curtain fabric—damask, in a pattern that could pass for wallpaper. He stretched out one panel until it formed a straight surface. With the frieze above it and the wooden table in front of it, it looked remarkably like bank décor. Better yet, it provided a lush backdrop that would make his subject’s “sacrifice” more poignant.
Art, innocent and fresh and full of promise, being ravaged by the cold knife of Commerce. Yes. Excellent.
Next came the covering for the “altar.” He’d figured out how to have his cake and eat it, too. Bank tables were sometimes littered with papers, so he’d had Damber working all evening on covering sheets of foolscap with inked words. Now he tossed those randomly across the oak surface. Yvette would lie upon them, and he could paint blood pouring over the white paper. He might even throw in some banknotes for good effect.
Growing more excited by the moment, he moved the chairs from around the table to a spot across the room. Then he put some cushions atop the papers for her to recline on. They would enable him to place her how he wanted. If he posed her right, the cushions wouldn’t show.
With the scene set, he turned to erecting his easel, centering the sketch pad, and laying out his charcoals. Tonight he’d only be sketching.
Finally he opened the box he’d carried up the two flights of stairs. He drew out the floor-length Grecian chiton of white linen that he’d appropriated from Zoe’s store of masquerade attire and shook it out. Silver clasps held the fabric at the shoulders, leaving the arms bare. He tried not to think of how provocative his Juno would look in it.
“Is that it?” came a voice from the doorway. “My costume?”
He tensed. She was here. “Yes.” He glanced up at her, and his heart slammed to a halt.
Her hair was undone, frothing over her shoulders like a fine dark ale, and she wore what looked like a linen shift or nightdress with a muslin wrapper over it. She’d swaddled both in a voluminous brown shawl that was edged with a paisley design and finished with gold fringe.
The effect was stunning—like cream wrapped in a pastry shell and dotted with golden specks. He wanted to take a bite. He wanted to drink the ale and lick the cream. He wanted to peel away the layers—
God, at this rate he’d never survive the night. “You’re early,” he managed. “And more... er... informally dressed than I expected.”
Her cheeks shone pink. “I had to allow my maid to undress me or she would have been suspicious.” Lady Yvette stepped warily into the room, and the shawl’s gold fringe sparkled about her in the lantern light. “Fortunately, everyone is generally abed by eleven here in the country.”
“Then tomorrow we’ll meet at eleven,” he said. “I’ll have little enough time to paint you as it is.”
“At least you won’t need to rise early. I sleep late most days, so Edwin won’t find that the least bit suspicious. I’ve never been one to jump out of bed at dawn.” Hugging her arms, she approached to look at the costume. “Shall I put this on?”
“Certainly.”
“I suppose you want me to remove my nightdress underneath.”
Yes. Oh hell, yes.“It would be best. I want the arms showing, and your nightdress is too fussy a design for a classical look.”
Her cheeks were bright red now. “And my... other undergarments?”
“You can leave those on. I’ll have you take off your stockings when I get to the feet, but that won’t be anytime soon.”
“All right.” A few moments passed. When he simply stood there, she said, “Well? Are you going to turn around so I can change?”
“Sorry,” he muttered as he put his back to her. “I’m not used to having a respectable female pose for me. Most of my models are... not the sort of women who care if I see them naked.”
“Well, Iamthat sort,” she said testily from behind him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it.”
The rustling of fabric that followed made him clench his hands. He wanted to watch. He wanted to touch. He wanted to run his fingers over that smooth, porcelain skin until she lost her stiffness and melted in his arms.
