Page 3 of The Art of Sinning
Jeremy took pity on the chap. “Cigar?”
“God, yes.”
Lighting both off the taper, Jeremy offered one to his new companion. He watched as the dark-haired man in perfectly tailored attire puffed on it with what looked like satisfaction.
“These are good,” the man said, as if surprised.
“They ought to be. Brought them from America myself.” Jeremy drew on his.
The fellow shot him a hard glance. “You’re American?”
He nodded. “The name is Keane. I’m a distant cousin of the groom’s sister-in-law.”
“You’re the artist whom the papers criticize so much.”
Jeremy grimaced. “Indeed I am.”
The man gazed back into the room. “I’m Blakeborough. A... er... friend of the bride’s family. Of sorts.”
The bitterness in the man’s tone gave Jeremy pause. He’d heard that name somewhere. Ah, yes.LordBlakeborough. Or more precisely, Edwin Barlow, the Earl of Blakeborough. “Rumor has it that you were jilted by the bride,” Jeremy said with a bluntness equal to the earl’s.
Blakeborough scowled at him. “Rumor has it that you’re an arse.”
“Rumor is correct.” Jeremy took a puff of his cigar. Might as well live down to his reputation.
The earl hesitated, then smiled. “You can’t be all bad if you carry around cigars of this caliber.”
“I believe in being prepared for the rare occasion when one must wait out the excruciating boredom of wedding toasts given by people whom one barely knows.”
“Or people one knows too well,” Blakeborough said morosely.
Jeremy almost felt sorry for the chap.
Almost. The earl was lucky not to have ended up married. Having a wife was a burden when a man was ill equipped to be a husband. “What we really need to salvage the evening is some good brandy.”
“Ah! Excellent idea.” Blakeborough fished around in his coat pocket. “I brought a flask.” As he offered it to Jeremy, he added ruefully, “One must also come prepared for when the wedding of one’s former fiancée becomes interminable.”
Jeremy swigged from the flask and handed it back. “I’m surprised you came at all.”
“Jane and I were never really romantic. Besides, I wanted her to know there were no hard feelings.” His voice held an edge that belied his words.
“And that your pride wasn’t damaged in the least.”
Blakeborough smiled stiffly. “That played some small part in it, yes.”
They smoked a moment in silence, the muted sounds of sonorous voices barely penetrating their refuge. Then a burst of laughter made them both glance through the glass doors.
That’s when Jeremy saw her again—his Juno, in the flesh. Thank God.
“Speaking of beautiful women,” Jeremy said to Blakeborough, “can you tell me the name of that one there in the emerald silk?”
The fellow looked over and blanched. “Why do you want to know?”
“I want to paint her.”
The earl glared at him. “That won’t ever happen.”
“Why not?” Then the man’s curt tone registered. “Don’t tell me—you’ve fixed on her as your future countess.”
