Page 4 of The Art of Sinning
“Hardly. She’s my sister.”
God rot it, that was worse. Sisters were sacrosanct.
But Jeremy wasn’t ready to give up. The earl appreciated good cigars, which showed him to be sensible. Maybe he could be made to see reason. “Since I have a sister myself, I understand. I would strangle any unworthy fellow who went after mine. But my interest in yours is purely professional.”
“Forgive my candor, sir, but I’ve seen your paintings. There’s no way in hell I’d let you paint my sister as one of your hopeless lunatics or seedy whores or whatever else you’re thinking to make her.”
Damn. Admittedly, his work had turned rather bleak of late, but only because he’d come to prefer depicting the raw drama of the real world rather than prettified history or wealthy ladies and gentlemen in fine attire.
And his latest painting would not only be dark but violent. Not that he meant to tell the earl that. “I can always disguise her features, change her hair color—”
“That won’t work. In case you haven’t noticed, Yvette is rather distinctive in appearance.”
Yvette. Even her name was exotic, which made him want her even more. For the painting. That’s all. “Exactly. She’s arresting, and that makes for a good image.”
“Yes, but to change her enough for her identity to be kept secret, you’d have to turn her into another woman entirely. So you might as well gochooseanother woman.”
“I don’t want another woman. I want her.”
Blakeborough drank some brandy. “Well, you can’t have her. Between her argumentative nature and her ‘arresting’ looks, she’s had enough trouble finding suitors as it is. You paint her in one of your provocative scenes, and she’ll die a spinster for certain.”
Incredulous, Jeremy stared through the window at her. “A spinster! Are all the men in England mad?”
“Yes.” Blakeborough sighed. “Not to mention wary of the scandals that dog our family wherever we go.”
Suddenly Jeremy remembered the other bit of gossip he’d heard. Blakeborough’s brother had been convicted of kidnapping the bride’s cousin. That must be quite a tale. He’d have to get the earl to tell him sometime.Afterhe arranged to have the impressive Yvette model for his latest work.
The first ones he’d exhibited in London—depictions of a lunatic asylum, a butcher shop, a carriage accident, and other “genre paintings,” as some called them—had received mixed reviews. Some critics had lauded his new direction. Others had complained that he no longer created the grand historical paintings for which he’d become known.
But his new work, an allegory, would give to everyday struggles the same weight as great events in history or mythology. It would be his masterpiece. With any luck, it would gain him a place in London’s Royal Academy of Arts.
With any luck, it would also launch him as an artist of equal caliber to Géricault or Delacroix, not just one more painter of the same old historical scenes. But for that, he needed a woman with a striking appearance to play the primary role. A woman like Blakeborough’s sister.
“As it happens, I’m quite a popular fellow in society right now,” Jeremy said. Even if not lauded by his peers to the extent he wanted. “So a fine painting of your sister by me might increaseherpopularity, too.”
The earl pondered that a moment, then narrowed his gray gaze on Jeremy. “That’s an excellent notion.”
“You see? I wouldn’t robe her in anything outrageous—”
“No, not that. What I mean is, you could paint her portrait, a formal one that shows off her attractions. That would surely help her in society.”
Jeremy cursed under his breath. “I don’t do portraits.”
“Why the devil not?”
“Because the sitters always want false representations. They think they should be depicted as more beautiful or clever or rich than they are. And since I refuse to cater to such hypocrisy, they’re never happy with the results.”
Blakeborough looked him over as if assessing his worth. “What if I paid you handsomely for the painting?”
“Fortunately, I don’t need the money.”
The earl snorted, clearly unfamiliar withthatsentiment, especially coming from a lowly American artist. “Well, that’s the only way I’ll allow it. It’s a portrait or nothing, sir.”
Stubborn ass. “I will not paint a formal portrait of Yvette—”
“LadyYvette,” Blakeborough corrected him.
“And even if I did, I would paint her as she is. I would never agree to a portrait that ‘shows off her attractions,’ whatever that means. Might as well ask me to dress her up like a whore to entice customers.”
