Page 67 of The Art of Sinning
Yvette tensed, and Blakeborough stared at him questioningly. “No?”
“Not tonight.” He couldn’t spend another evening with her alone and control himself. He needed time to think, to figure out how to go on. His work was becoming entangled with her, with his feelings for her. He had to sort things out.
“I need some additional pigment for the portrait,” he went on. “I also want to take care of a few business matters, and to find out if there’s been any word about my mother’s ship. I’ll return to Stoke Towers in a day or two.” He met Yvette’s gaze. “You’re not rid of me yet.”
Her face fell, and the sight of it cut him to the bone. But it was for the best. Even if it hurt her temporarily, they needed to cool their friendship. Then maybe when he saw her again, they could keep a more professional distance. A safer distance.
It took everything in his power to walk into the ballroom away from her, knowing that her feelings were probably wounded. And that such wounds would harden into anger by the time he saw her again. Or, worse yet, indifference.
But at least he hadn’t compromised her.
“Hold up, Keane!” called a voice behind him.
Knightford, damn him.
Jeremy faced the ass. “What?”
The marquess grabbed him by the arm and steered him back out into the garden. Blakeborough and Yvette had already disappeared, probably headed for the entrance to call for their carriage, so it was just the two of them in the corner as Knightford released his arm with a little shove.
“You are not to go near her again, is that understood?”
With a nonchalance borne of the armor he’d developed through the years, Jeremy examined his fingernails. “It will be rather difficult for me to avoid her while painting her portrait.”
“You know precisely what I mean, you arse. I’d better not hear of any more private rendezvous in locked rooms.”
Jeremy cast him a bored look. “I’d better not hear of you speaking one word about them to anyone, her brother included.”
“Why? Because you care about what happens to her? I have trouble believing that.”
And Jeremy wasn’t about to contradict it. Knightford mustn’t suspect how deeply hedidcare, or the man would surely go to her brother. “Because Blakeborough has commissioned her portrait from me, and I mean the painting to be my ticket into the Royal Academy. You understand.”
Knightford cocked his head, as if uncertain whether to believe him. “I understand that you have a reputation.”
“A well-deserved one, I assure you. So if you think I would settle down with some English chit who probably dresses in the dark, you’re mad.”
“But you’d seduce one, I daresay,” Knightford said grimly.
“And be caught in a parson’s mousetrap? Not I. Besides, she put me in my place very effectively.”
Knightford relaxed his stance. “She does have a way of doing that.” His gaze turned speculative. “Tell me what she was looking for at the brothel.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She asked me not to. I may be a scoundrel, but I’m no tattletale.”
“But Edwin should know of it.”
“Then she’ll tell him. In her own good time.”
Knightford scowled. “You’re an arse, do you know that?”
“It’s a popular opinion,” Jeremy said dryly. “I live down to it as often as possible.”
But he grew weary of playing that role. Once, it had suited him to assume the mantle of Byronic artist. It kept people from getting too close. Ever since he’d met Zoe and Bonnaud, however, he’d begun to see that family could be pleasant to have around sometimes. Lately he’d been less inclined to hold people at arm’s length, which was probably why he’d foolishly allowed Yvette beneath his guard.
“Are we finished here?” he asked Knightford.
