Page 36 of The Art of Sinning
“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, “Iaman 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.Youare not bland.Youare 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.
He bent his head closer. “Your heart beats for something more than the insipid porridge that society feeds a lady of rank. You need fire and life and the thrill of the night. You want to get inside things and learn them, to feel everything and avoid nothing.”
Her eyes suddenly shone luminous in the rich light of dawn. At last she seemed to understand what he’d been trying to say, albeit stupidly at first.
“The reason I know this,” he went on, “is I have such needs, too. It’s why I left home, why I won’t go back. I want more. In that, we are very much alike.”
They stood so close that he could smell her sweet scent, probably some ladylike decoction of hothouse flowers that he would despise on any other woman. Yet when she wore it, his every sense was aroused.
As if she knew what he was feeling, her translucent skin pinkened, and her expressive mouth parted slightly, a mere breath away.
His blood thundered in his ears. It would be so easy to close the distance and seal her lips with his. Or dip his mouth down to caress that spot on her throat where her pulse beat ever more quickly. Or even use his teeth to tug free the fichu that coyly hid the tops of her plump breasts—
“Good morning,” said a steely voice from the doorway. “Am I interrupting something?”
Jeremy fought the urge to jerk back and give away what he’d been contemplating doing. Damn, damn, damn. Blakeborough had the most infernal timing.
It was probably just as well. Jeremy didn’t need to be putting his lips and mouth and teeth anywhere near Yvette. He should be squelching this attraction between them, not encouraging it.
Straightening leisurely, he kept his gaze on her but infused his tone with boredom. “Your sister and I are merely having a dispute about her choice of attire.”
With a quick, enigmatic glance at Jeremy, she pivoted to face her brother. “What do you think, Edwin?” She swept her hands down along her skirts. “Is this suitable for the portrait?”
Blakeborough still seemed suspicious as he looked from Jeremy to her. “I’m surprised you’re even awake. You don’t usually venture from your room before noon.”
She planted her hands on her hips, making Jeremy itch to start sketching her. “I was too excited about the portrait to sleep. So, what is your opinion? How do I look in this?”
The earl’s suspicion faded as he scanned her attire. “You look exactly the way a debutante should—pretty and demure. A well-bred example of respectable womanhood. You’re every decent gentleman’s dream for his wife-to-be.”
She blinked. Then she grumbled something that sounded like “Lord have mercy,” before stalking off toward the door.
“Where are you going?” her brother asked.
