Page 72 of The Art of Sinning
As shock lit her face, he cursed his quick tongue.
But it was out now, and he couldn’t take it back.
“Thatis why.”
Seventeen
For several moments, Yvette could only gape at Jeremy. Then she wrapped her arms over her stomach in a futile attempt to stop its roiling. “You’re... you’remarried?”
“Not anymore.” Raking one hand through his already disheveled hair, he dropped onto the stool near the dressing table. “But I was, years ago.”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He’d had a wife. Awife!Heavenly day, she’d never guessed. He hadn’t even hinted at it! “Why have none of your friends and relations mentioned it? Lady Zoe or Jane or—”
“They don’t know about it. The marriage was so brief—only six months’ duration—that my parents never even told distant relations like the Keanes in England. And I prefer not to speak of it.”
“Clearly,” she muttered.
That gained her a dark look. “It was long ago, in a time far removed from my present life. I married at the age of eighteen, and she was dead by the time I reached nineteen.”
Dead. Not divorced or missing.
Yvette was glad of that, then chided herself for being glad. “What happened to your poor wife that she passed away so young?”
The pain that slashed over his face tugged at her heart. “She died in childbirth. Along with my son.”
She sucked in a ragged breath. No wonder he painted melancholy subjects and looked bleakly upon domestic life. How could he not, after experiencing such a tragedy so young? To lose his wife and son after a marriage of only six months—
Oh, dear. Wanting to clarify his meaning, she fumbled for how to ask. “I suppose difficulties are to be expected in childbirth when a babe is born so early.”
He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Don’t be coy, Yvette. The child was born after the requisite number of months. I’m sure you can guess why.” Glancing away to stare grimly into the fire, he added, “Although his death did make it easier for my parents toclaimthat a too-early birth was what caused the tragedy.”
A veil passed over his face. “God forbid that the Keanes of Montague have a grandson rumored to have been sired on the wrong side of the blanket. That wouldn’t do. Especially when no one but their black sheep of a son approved of the mother.”
Sothatwas why he’d been so quick to assume that Yvette had borne an illegitimate child. He’d had to face that possibility with another woman.
An intense curiosity welled up in her—to know about his wife, about his family, about all the things he’d refused to discuss in the past. But she must tread carefully to avoid spooking him. This was a weighty secret indeed, one he’d apparently kept quiet for some years.
She began with what she considered an innocuous question. “How did you and your wife meet?”
His stiff stance made her wonder if he would unbend to reveal even that much. Then, with a shuddering breath, he locked his gaze with hers. “You want to know it all, I suppose.”
“If you’ll tell me.” She let her compassion show in her face. “I promise not to judge.”
A bitter laugh escaped him. “You mean, you won’t judge me as unfairly as I judgedyouthat night at the brothel.”
“I don’t blame you for leaping to conclusions. You were unaware of the facts. Once you heard them, you understood my reasons quite well.” She tipped up her chin. “I should hope I’m just as capable of being open-minded.”
“Touché.” He bent forward to prop his elbows on his knees and gaze once more into the fire. “Very well, what was it you asked?”
“How you met your wife.”
“Ah, yes.” He threaded his fingers together between his knees. “We met because of our mutual interest in art. I’d sketched and painted for years, mostly just to amuse myself and my family, but the closer I got to eighteen and my departure for college, the more I wanted to make art my profession. Hoping to convince my father to let me study painting, I sought a teacher in our nearby town who could help me improve enough to show Father that I had real talent.”
A faint smile crossed his lips. “That’s how I stumbled across the Widow Miller, who was only twenty-two. Her late husband had been an engraver and she had some talent herself, but because he’d left her virtually penniless, she’d been forced to take on students in order to support herself.”
“And support her children?”
Again, pain twisted his features. “No. They’d had none.”
