Page 70 of The Art of Sinning
Yvette recognized that look. “For the last time, I am never marrying Warren, even if he would have me, which he wouldn’t.”
With a sigh, Clarissa poured more needles out of the bottle. “You can’t blame me for trying. My cousin desperately needs a wife, whether he acknowledges it or not, and if it were you, I’d have an ally whenever he becomes draconian in his restrictions.”
“I do sympathize. I’d hoped for the same thing with Jane. But she ran off and married Lord Rathmoor instead.”
“Silly woman. Edwin is miles more handsome than Lord Rathmoor.” When Yvette shot her a sharp glance, Clarissa added hastily, “Well, he is. But don’t tell him I said that. It will swell his head. And the last thing that man needs is more arrogance. Why, he couldn’t even lower himself to wear a costume at the ball!”
“He never does. Not even a domino.” Yvette shoved a folded piece of linen into a canvas bag. “And speaking of dominos, Warren didn’t ask you about how I came to be wearing your cloak, did he?”
“He did, but I told him what we agreed upon—that I had no idea. He assumes that you stole it for your own purposes.” She slanted a sly glance at Yvette. “Did you have your secret rendezvous with your secret friend whom you won’t tell me anything about?”
“I did. But it proved pointless.”
Clarissa turned serious. “Do take care, Yvette. For all my teasing about flirtations, this smacks of Lieutenant Ruston all over again.” Clarissa was the only person in the world, other than Samuel, who knew the details of that disaster.
“It’s nothing like that, I assure you.” Yvette focused her attention on folding a yard of wool. “My secret meeting was perfectly respectable. Besides, I’m much older and wiser now. I would never fall for the likes of such a rogue again.”
Clarissa looked skeptical. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Time to get Clarissa off dangerous subjects. Setting down the wool, Yvette stood and held out her hand to her friend. “Now, how would you like to see my unfinished portrait?”
It was after midnight when Jeremy carried a wooden box up the stairs and down the hall to his room at Stoke Towers, accompanied by the footman who was hauling his empty trunk up from storage. Jeremy had given the servant some story about why he’d come in the middle of the night to pack up his belongings, but it didn’t matter what the fellow thought. No footman would be fool enough to wake the family when they were all abed. So Jeremy ought to be safe until morning.
He meant to have his trunk ready to be brought down for when the servants rose, and then be waiting for the earl in the breakfast room early. That way he could explain his hasty departure without having to see Yvette, since she would undoubtedly rise later.
Coward.
Yes, he was. But he couldn’t face her one more time alone. And if she learned he was back, she would do her utmost to see him privately before he could escape.
The servant carried the trunk inside Jeremy’s bedchamber and accepted with a nod Jeremy’s overly generous vail. Once the footman left, Jeremy shut the door and set the wooden box down by the bed. He’d returned for two reasons—to retrieve his masterpiece, on the slim chance that he could complete it one day, and to tell the earl that he’d finished enough of Yvette’s portrait that he could put the final touches on it elsewhere.
Because he had to leave Stoke Towers. He’d thought it over the entire time he’d been in the city—engaging the Duke’s Men in Yvette’s search, visiting the exhibit... trying not to think of the woman who’d seized his cursed imagination.
The idea of being with her intimately consumed him. That little taste of her at the brothel hadn’t been nearly enough. He wanted to taste her again, to tease her and take her and school her in all the ways of pleasure he’d learned through the years. If he stayed here, he would almost certainly indulge those urges.
He would almost certainly ruin her.
Damn it, why had he no self-control around her? The last time he’d been unable to curb his prick, he’d been eighteen and in the throes of his first infatuation. Although, to be fair, as a young widow, Hannah had been as eager for their joining as he.
Indeed, she’d blamed herself for their first swiving once it had forced him into an untenable position. It was true that their affair might have ended then, if not for her becoming pregnant...
Thrusting the dark memory from his head, he strode over to the dressing table, dragged its stool to the large seventeenth-century oak bed, and climbed up to feel around atop the oak tester. His painting remained there, where he’d left it the night before they’d ridden off to the ball. He’d been storing it there every evening after he was done working.
He let out a breath. No one had discovered it, thank God. He’d figured they wouldn’t; he couldn’t imagine the servants cleaning atop the tester every single day, but it never hurt to be sure.
Dragging the canvas down, he propped it against the bed and examined it to assess his progress. He could make do with what he’d painted so far, since the Commerce figure was done, but if he left now, the Art figure would never be as good as he wanted.
Yvette had an elusive air he still hadn’t managed to capture, a blend of naïveté and sensuality that was the very essence of allegorical Art at its best. His depiction of her face just wasn’t right. It wasn’t entirely... her. And he wanted it to be her. Ithadto be her, whether it was recognizable to anyone else or not.
He slammed his fist against the bedpost. He didn’t want to leave his work undone. But neither did he want to leaveherundone. And if he spent even one more night alone with her...
No, he couldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t riskher. Which meant he must go.
But not without his work. The difficult part would be getting it out before dawn, unnoticed. As long as he removed it before anyone saw it, they could never tie it to her. He’d painted her face in enough shadow that he was fairly certain she wouldn’t be recognized if he ever exhibited the work.
That was what the deep wooden box, made to the proper dimensions, was for. Since the paint was still wet, he couldn’t wrap the canvas up, so he’d needed the box to transport it in. He and Damber would have to carry it out very carefully.
Right now his apprentice was packing up the paints and other materials in the music room downstairs, which would take him a couple of hours. Then they’d figure out how to get the box outside without damaging the painting inside or being questioned about it. After all this, Jeremy wasn’t going to lose his masterpiece. One day hewouldfinish it, damn it.
