Page 116 of The Art of Sinning
Hertfordshire, England
December 1829
Jeremy headed for the drawing room of the brand-new home he’d purchased in Hertfordshire with the proceeds from selling his share of the mills. Walton Hall was located close enough to Stoke Towers that Yvette could visit regularly, but far enough to give them their privacy. It also put them a bit nearer London, a distinct advantage given his growing status as a prominent artist.
How strange that only a few months ago the idea of owning a sprawling estate would have sent him fleeing. Now, he took pride in it. Because of her. She’d utterly changed his life. By lancing the wound in his soul, she’d settled the restlessness that had made him blow with the wind.
Every day with her was an adventure. Every night with her was an erotic exploration. He liked adventures. He enjoyed erotic explorations. And helovedher. What more could a man ask for?
He quickened his stride, eager to catch her alone. Though this was the first day of their holiday house party, the other gentlemen were out shooting and the other ladies in town shopping. He’d been trying to get a bit of painting done when a footman told him that his wife had returned without the others and wanted a private moment with him in the drawing room.
He sincerely hoped she had something wicked in mind.
But the minute he entered, thunderous applause put paid to that hope—not to mention startling him out of his wits. “What the—”
He choked off the wordhell.His mother and sister were both here, along with the rest of their houseguests.
“Surprise!” Yvette gestured to the wall with a bright smile. “The shopping jaunt was a ruse to pick this up in town. We had it put up while you were in your studio.”
He turned to see the portrait of her in all its glory, hung in the beautiful frame he’d picked out himself. “That is the most excellent portrait I’ve ever seen,” he said. “By a very talented artist, too.”
When everyone burst into laughter, Yvette approached to kiss him on the cheek. “No one will ever accuse you of being modest about your abilities, darling.”
That got another laugh. He laid his hand on the small of her back. “Ah, but it isn’t my abilities that make the portrait excellent, my love. It’s you. You’re amazing.”
“You flatterer, you,” Yvette said with a teasing smile. “Do go on.”
“Here, here!” Blakeborough raised his glass of champagne. “To my amazing sister.”
She blew her brother a kiss as everyone joined him in the toast. Then their guests began to chatter among themselves, some of them heading over to examine the portrait more closely.
Jeremy slipped his arm more firmly about her waist. “You do like it, don’t you?”
“I like everything you paint.”
“No, you don’t. I seem to recall a rather insulting comment about looking at dead deer at the breakfast table.”
“Oh, right. I forgot about that. But I do likemostthings you paint.” She lowered her voice. “Especially the picture on our bedchamber wall that scandalizes the servants.”
He chuckled. “At least you’re not naked in it. I still have to paint that one.”
She eyed him askance. “That will have to wait until after our trip to America with your mother and sister. Can you imagine Amanda bursting in on us to tell us about some new piece of mill equipment and finding me nude?”
“I daresay she wouldn’t even blink. My mother, on the other hand—”
“Good Lord, don’t even think it!” She glanced over to where his mother was regaling a gentleman with the tale of her arrival in England. “I’m looking forward to our trip. To seeing where you grew up.” She slanted a wary look at him. “Do you mind?”
“Why would I mind? I’m the one who invited you.”
“I know, but... it’s been years, and—”
“I don’t mind, and I know what you mean. But I’m fine, really.” He squeezed her waist. “Besides, I can’t wait to see what you make of our quaint American customs.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Probably the same thing you and your sister make of our quaint English customs. Especially the Christmas ones. Like Stir-up Sunday, which you mocked exceedingly because we English have a whole day to celebrate ‘mixing up a dessert,’ as you call it.”
“That one is odd, but I do like others of your Christmas customs. I’m already rather fond of the mistletoe kissing idea.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Last night, when you asked me to explain what was hanging in the hall, I had no idea that this morning I’d find mistletoe in every available room in the house, you wicked rogue, you.”
