Page 8 of The Art of Sinning
Mr. Keane’s warm gaze poured over her like honey. “I don’t recall ever seeingyouat my exhibit. Trust me, I would have remembered.”
A shiver danced down her spine before she could steel herself against reacting. Very nicely done. She’d have to be on her toes with this one. “We attended it in the morning. I daresay you were still lying foxed in some gaming hell or nunnery.”
“Good God, here we go,” Edwin muttered under his breath, recognizing the vulgar slang for bawdy house.
“I am rarely foxed and never in a nunnery,” Mr. Keane retorted, “for fear that it might tempt the ‘nuns’ to bite me.”
“I should love to know what you consider ‘rarely,’” Yvette said. “That you even know that ‘bite’ means ‘cheat’ in street cant shows how you must spend your days.”
“And how you must spend yours,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “After all, you know the terms, too.”
She stifled a laugh. Mustn’t encourage the fellow. Still, she was impressed. Rogues always fancied themselves wits, but seldom did she meet one who really was.
“Mr. Keane has kindly agreed to paint your portrait, Yvette,” Edwin cut in. “Assuming that your tart words haven’t changed his mind.”
The scoundrel had the audacity to wink at her. “Actually, I like a little tart with my sweet.”
“More than a little, I would say, having seen your paintings,” she shot back.
Suddenly he was all seriousness. “And what did you think?”
The question caught her off guard. “Are you fishing for compliments, sir?”
“No. Just truthful opinions.”
“That’s what everyone always says, though they never mean it.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Lady Yvette?” he said in that deadly tone men use when their honor is questioned.
“Of course not,” she said hastily. A man’s honor was nothing to be trifled with. “As for your work, I would say that your idea of ‘tart’ borders on the ‘acidic.’”
“It does indeed,” he drawled. “I prefer to call it ‘real life.’”
“Then it’s no surprise you’ve taken up with Edwin. He considers real life to be acidic, too.”
“Oh no, don’t dragmeinto this,” Edwin put in.
Mr. Keane’s gaze searched her face. “And you, Lady Yvette? Doyouconsider real life acidic?”
My, my. Quite the persistent fellow, wasn’t he? “It can be, I suppose. If one wants to dwell on that part. I’d rather dwell on happier aspects.”
A sudden disappointment swept his handsome features. “So you prefer paintings of bucolic cows in a field.”
“I suppose. Or market scenes. Or children.”
The mention of children sparked something bleak in the depths of his eyes. “Art should challenge viewers, not soothe them.”
“I’ll try to remember that when confronted at my breakfast table by a picture of vultures devouring a dead deer. Thatisone of yours, isn’t it?”
Mr. Keane blinked, then burst into laughter. “Blakeborough, you forgot to tell me that your sister is a wit.”
“If I’d thought it would get you to agree to our transaction sooner,” Edwin said wearily, “I would have mentioned it.”
“‘Transaction’?” She stared at her brother. “What transaction?”
Edwin turned wary. “I told you. Mr. Keane is going to paint your portrait. I figured that a well-done piece of art showing what a lovely woman you are... might... well...”
“Oh, Lord.” Sothatwas his reasoning. A pox on Edwin. And a pox on Mr. Keane, too, for agreeing to her brother’s idiocy. Clearly, the artist had been coerced. Mr. Keane was well-known fornotdoing formal portraits. Ever.
