A Little Bit Sinful (10 page)

The servant’s eyes widened in horror, confirming
Sebastian’s theory. Atwood was still abed, more than likely with his lovely wife beside him. Or under him.

“The marquess—”

“Yes, yes, is not at home,” Sebastian interrupted. “Well, no matter. I’m here to see Miss Emma.”

“She is painting,” the butler replied, a small sigh of relief escaping. He opened the door wider and Sebastian sauntered over the threshold. Hawkins signaled discreetly with his left hand and a footman materialized. “Show Lord Benton to Miss Emma’s studio.”

Sebastian knew precisely where Emma did her painting, having been there numerous times. But he did not belay the command, deciding he’d already embarrassed the butler enough for one day.

Emma gave him a friendly, albeit distracted greeting when he entered her studio. She was facing the door, positioned in front of an easel that held a large canvas. The paintbrush in her hand was moving at a frantic rate. Sebastian was disappointed he could not view the canvas from where he stood, curious to see what had so inspired her passion.

“Obviously I’m disturbing you, but I’d like to stay anyway,” he said. “May I?”

“Can you be quiet for ten minutes?”

“I can,” he replied.

She nodded and he settled himself in an overstuffed chair, one of only two pieces of furniture in the room. Silence descended, except for the sound of brush against canvas. It was a relaxed, undemanding noise.

Sebastian closed his eyes, concentrating on smells of the room, evoking pleasant memories of the hours he had spent in the studio posing for
his portrait. The portrait his grandmother had commissioned from Emma a few months before her death. The portrait he had not yet seen.

After ten minutes or so, Emma heaved a sigh. Sebastian opened his eyes. Emma slowly lowered her brush. She gazed at the painting for a long moment. Finally, she removed it from the easel and gently propped it against the wall, facing inward.

Sebastian glanced curiously at the back of the canvas. Emma had always generously shared her work with him. What was it about this particular painting that made her so secretive?

“Is it finished?” Sebastian asked. “Can I see it?”

“No!” Emma blushed and took a protective step back, almost as if she were guarding the painting. “To both questions.” She hastily lifted an unfinished canvas from the stack behind her and placed it on her easel.

Sebastian felt strangely hurt by her actions. “Hell, Emma, when did you become so temperamental?”

“An artist’s privilege,” she answered saucily. “And if I were truly temperamental, I would bar you from my studio and take great offense at your language.”

“Point taken.”

Slightly mollified, Sebastian asked her about the rest of the family. They chatted pleasantly for a while, discussing each member in turn, then moved on to mutual friends and acquaintances and the newest round of society entertainments.

“Are you coming to dinner tomorrow night?” Emma asked. “I was helping Dorothea write out the placards earlier and noticed a question mark by your name.”

Sebastian frowned. An intimate, comfortable dinner
among friends sounded delightful, but he needed to be out in society, on the hunt for Lady Bianca. “I doubt I’ll make it to dinner,” he said. “There’s the Wilfords’ ball and Lady Georginia’s soiree.”

“Instead of spending the evening with us, you prefer listening to Lady Georginia’s bucktooth nieces massacre a Bach concerto on their violins?” Emma shuddered.

“Maybe they won’t play their violins,” he replied wistfully, knowing Emma was right. The valiant effort put forth by Lady Georginia’s nieces unfortunately did not make up for their lack of talent. Or their aunt’s tone-deaf musical ear.

“Hmm, yes, perhaps they will choose to sing this year.” Emma smiled and Sebastian groaned. “Pity about dinner, though. You’ll be missed, but I shall make a point of giving Lady Bianca your warmest regards.”

Bianca?
Sebastian’s heart picked up speed. He straightened in his chair and gave Emma a long look. “Lady Bianca? Since when is she a part of your sister’s inner circle of dear friends?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t believe she has reached that place of honor quite yet. Rather, Dorothea felt sorry for her and Lady Eleanor. They seem to have made little impression on society. I think Dorothea was merely being kind by extending the invitation.”

“They are coming?”

“Indeed.”

“With their father, the earl?”

Emma’s head tipped to the side. “No, I don’t recall seeing his name on the list.”

Abruptly, Sebastian grinned. “Then Lady Georginia’s
nieces can torture some other poor souls. I’ll be here enjoying dinner.”

“Because of Lady Bianca?”

Sebastian’s grin widened. “Her and others.”

Emma tossed her head and muttered beneath her breath. Sebastian’s brow raised. “Pardon?”

“You surprise me, Sebastian.”

“You are surprised by my interest in a woman? I believe I should feel insulted.”

“For heaven’s sake, of course I know you like women. Honestly, Sebastian, what sort of silly goose do you take me for?” Emma slammed her paintbrush on the small table beside her easel, then picked up another brush. “It’s just that I assumed your relationships were with older, more experienced females.”

“Maybe I felt it was time for a change.”

“And you have chosen Lady Bianca?” Emma rolled her eyes. “She is nothing more than a pretty face, an empty-headed creature incapable of deep feeling.”

“That’s rather harsh.” Sebastian adjusted his position on the chair. “If I had been so quick to rush to judgment when I met you, we might never have become friends.”

Emma’s paintbrush paused in midair and she looked sharply at him. “I am nothing like Lady Bianca.”

“I never said that you were.”

“You were paying a great deal of attention to her at the park the other day. Pray, tell me what is it that makes her so special?” Emma asked as she slashed her paintbrush across the canvas.

“She’s different,” he replied noncommittally.

“Are you planning on marrying her?”

Christ!
Leave it to Emma to get to the heart of the matter without mincing words. He opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. The room grew quiet.

“Is that a
none-of-my-business
glare, Sebastian?” Emma ceased painting entirely, resting her hand against her waist, the brush dangling between her fingers. “Or are you unable to come up with an honest reply?”

“Neither,” he said evenly. “‘Tis a
we-are-going-to-change-the-subject
expression. What are you working on these days? Something extraordinary, I imagine.”

She gave him a long, impenetrable stare before answering. “‘Tis a landscape. My instructor insists I broaden my skills.”

“Sound advice.”

“I am a portrait painter, Sebastian. I find little inspiration in grass and trees.” Emma sighed. “I’ve made a few sketches of Gwendolyn’s twins, but they are too young to sit for a proper portrait.”

“Then find someone else.”

Her shoulders sank. “I promised Atwood I would not accept any commissions from outsiders. Your grandmother was the only one who was able to persuade him to do otherwise and allow me to paint you.”

“I haven’t seen the finished portrait yet,” he mused.

“No, you have not.”

The hurt in her voice was clear, stabbing at his heart. “I’m sorry. ‘Tis just that—”

“I understand. ‘Tis a painful reminder of your grandmother.”

Sebastian felt grateful for her quick understanding
and acceptance. She was remarkably insightful for such a young woman. “Why don’t you paint the duke?”

“He grumbles too much to sit quietly. I fear I would paint him with his mouth open and a scowl upon his noble brow. And that portrait would not endear me to my brother-in-law.”

Sebastian laughed. “Atwood knows better than you or I how cantankerous his father can be. Don’t fret. I will help you find someone.” He stood and walked to her side. “I’ll speak to Atwood myself, if necessary.”

Her gaze darted to his, then shifted away. “You are very good to me, Sebastian.”

“That’s because I adore you, Emma,” he replied, with a smile.

Reaching out, he placed his hand on her back, rubbing it reassuringly in a slow, circling motion. She heaved a large sigh and swayed toward him. Sebastian increased the pressure, trying to ease the tension from her body, missing entirely the spark of yearning in her eyes.

By Thursday, the weather had turned dismal. The lovely warm sunshine of the previous afternoons gave way to cool gray skies. Eleanor stood at her bedchamber window gazing out at the grim, damp day and sighed. Bad weather would dictate indoor activities, which meant the earl might stay at home.

Eleanor shuddered. It was never pleasant spending time in her father’s company. He always managed to make her feel like an unwanted intrusion. It was better when Bianca was present, but lately she
had begun to feel anxious whenever she saw her father and sister together.

The earl treated his youngest daughter in a condescending manner that grated on Eleanor’s nerves. Bianca was so starved for attention she allowed it, and that was hurtful to witness. But it was her eager, anxious attitude to please their father that upset Eleanor the most.

The earl’s behavior toward Bianca remained a deep puzzlement. Eleanor had been certain he had brought Bianca to London expressly for the purpose of finding her a rich husband. Yet aside from providing her with a fashionable wardrobe, he had done little to advance his daughter in society.

Eleanor had envisioned him escorting them to numerous social events where he would press Bianca on the men of his choosing, but that had not occurred.
Yet.
Of course it was preferable not to have him involved in their lives, but this neglect worried Eleanor.

More than once in the past week she had caught the earl eyeing Bianca with a calculated look, almost as if he were assessing her worth. It made Eleanor very nervous to think what their father might be planning.

She worried he might have already selected someone to be Bianca’s husband. Perhaps he had already struck a marriage bargain with this person and was waiting for the right time to make the introduction to his daughter. Or announce the marriage, regardless of Bianca’s opinion of the matter.

Eleanor knew money was the driving force behind it all. She knew her father gambled—most gentlemen did. But until coming to Town, she had
not realized the amount of time he spent at the tables. Most likely it was an attempt to supplement his income, however, the fickle turn of a card could hardly be counted upon in times of need. No doubt the earl lost as much as he earned.

Having formed a friendship with their steward, Eleanor was aware of exactly how much profit the estate produced each year. She was also aware that the earl’s investments had steadily declined in value over the past few years, but she saw no signs of personal economic restraint.

The earl liked the finer things in life: expensive wines, fashionable garments, prime horseflesh. He appeared to deny himself nothing, for these were items easily obtained on credit. But creditors could not be put off indefinitely. Eleanor’s deepest worry remained that Bianca would be the one to pay for their father’s excesses, that her happiness and future would be sacrificed to keep him in the style that he felt he deserved.

She sighed, then shook off her gloomy thoughts. The reason she had journeyed to Town was to protect Bianca from their father’s plans. If she remained vigilant and determined, it did not have to turn out so badly.

Chin up,
Eleanor told herself sternly as she strode down the hallway to the sitting room. She settled herself in a worn, yet comfortable armchair before the roaring fire, her needlework in her lap. She always thought better when moving her hands and the pile of garments that needed mending was never ending.

Eleanor knew the earl would be annoyed if he saw her engaged in such a menial task.
Servants
mended,
ladies
embroidered. But old habits died hard and the familiarity of this task calmed her nerves.

For a moment she longed for the peace of the country, the quiet, dull life where her biggest worry had been how to stretch the meager household budget to ensure the servants were paid each month.

“There you are!” Bianca exclaimed as she barged into the room. “I’ve been looking all over the house for you. The rest of my gowns were just delivered and I can’t decide what to wear to Lady Atwood’s dinner party tonight. Please, Eleanor, help me.”

“Such drama, Bianca,” Eleanor said with a smile as she glanced up from her sewing. “What has gotten into you? ‘Tis not such a dastardly fate, my dear, having too many dresses from which to choose.”

“Don’t tease, Eleanor. I am truly in a quandary.”

“Goodness, we can’t have that, now can we?” Eleanor replied, repressing a smile. Obligingly, she put down her sewing and allowed herself to be dragged off to Bianca’s bedchamber.

As she crossed the threshold of her sister’s room, Eleanor could not contain her gasp of surprise. Never before had she seen such a large assortment of elegant garments. The normally neat chamber was totally transformed, nearly bursting with everything a fashionable lady could ever need, from dancing slippers to bonnets. In the center of it all was a sea of color, with gowns too numerous to count, placed carefully, almost reverently, upon the high four-poster bed.

Bianca fairly danced into the room, heading
directly for the bed. She lifted a gown from the top of the pile and turned toward Eleanor.

“What do you think of this one?” Bianca held up a pale green satin gown with a square-cut bodice that was heavily embroidered in gold thread. The color set off the green in her eyes and the gold brought out the lighter highlights in her amber hair.

“It’s lovely.” Eleanor stepped forward and lifted the hem. It felt soft and silky between her fingers. “Will you wear it tonight?”

“Should I? I mean, it’s very pretty, but I thought it might make me look too young. How about the yellow?”

Bianca lifted another dress. It had a similar shape, but a round neckline and less embroidery. “That’s also very pretty. But I like the green better. It reflects the color of your eyes.”