An Invitation to Sin (18 page)

Caroline chuckled a little breathlessly. "I have no idea. It sounds logical." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again, her hunger as tangible as his own. "Would you please go back to the column again?"

He hoped the portrait wouldn't show the ruined line of his trousers. As he returned to his position he concentrated on images of ugly chits and rotten vegetables. Standing still for the next session was going to be difficult enough without making her aware of just how much she aroused him.

Amazing, that twenty-four hours earlier he'd been ready to strangle her, and now he wanted nothing more than to hear her moan with pleasure. She might have a focus, but now he did as well—she drew him both literally and figuratively. No one had spoken to him as she had, and he was either going to prove her wrong or possess her. Or both.

Stop thinking about it
, he ordered himself. He just needed to turn his attention to something else. He'd been thinking about something else right before she'd touched him and begun requesting anatomy lessons. What the devil had it been?

"Cows," he muttered.

"Beg pardon?"

Zachary cleared his throat. "Dimidius. How organized is your father's breeding program?"

Her fine cheek twitched. "It's actually quite… limited. We were only able to acquire two Guernsey cows and one mixed-blood South Devon bull. That's why it took so long to produce a cow. And then we could only breed one offspring, and that was with a South Devon bull belonging to an old army comrade of his. Papa didn't want any inbreeding."

Finances again. "So Dimidius's offspring might not possess the same milk-giving productivity as her dam."

"Correct. We won't know that for another year."

"What about the other local farmers? The sale of high-quality butter and cream alone could make the animals indispensable to the aristocracy. Aren't some of your neighbors willing to invest in cattle that might end up being so profitable? And their participation would certainly give a boost to the breeding population."

She shrugged as she dipped her brush in gray paint and swirled it into a touch of brown. 'To be honest, Papa is known about Trowbridge as something of an… eccentric. Especially after he blew off the top of that windmill."

"The wind—" Intriguing, but beside the point. Zachary had probably fixated on the cow to distract himself from Caroline, but at the same time this was genuinely interesting. He'd bred horses, or at least advised on it, on and off for some time, and one of his progeny had won the Derby last year. Everyone, though, bred horses.

"May I ask you a question?" Caroline added some yellow to her mix and began applying it to the canvas.

"Certainly."

She glanced over her shoulder at the dozing maid. "A moment ago we were discussing your taking advantage of me, and then you began talking about cows. Am I supposed to interpret something from this?"

Zachary laughed. Thank God for honest, witty chits. And for this one in particular. "Good God, no."

"Oh, thank heavens. Because I would very much like to be taken advantage of."

Ugly chits, ugly chits
. "I just happened to think that Dimidius could be a wasted opportunity."

"It takes a great deal of patience to breed cattle, Zachary. And Papa has a great many interests."

He understood. Edmund would undoubtedly do the best he could, but without finances and the then inevitable diluting of the new bloodline, Dimidius would be the best and possibly only representative of her kind. Melbourne would never let such an opportunity fall by the wayside—not if he thought it could be turned profitable. And twice the milk—rich, high-quality milk, at that—produced from each cow in a herd could be turned extremely profitable.

The epiphany struck him like a bolt of lightning. Profitability, which would please Melbourne, and breeding, which interested him, and a fair share of patience and responsibility if he could manage to start up a successful breeding program. And an increased income for Witfeld, which would certainly help the family and its plethora of females.

He wanted to stride back to the house and find Edmund. Every muscle itched to set him into motion. Who would have thought that he would find his salvation in a damned cow?

Caroline stood twenty feet from him, painting and absorbed once again in her project. His own plans would mean spending even more time with her and her family, and he found that the idea—despite the chaos—appealed to him. Her auburn hair showed glints of red in the mottled sunlight, her green eyes lit to polished emerald by the excitement of what she was doing. He wanted her. Badly.

"What would you think, Caroline," he said slowly, "if I offered to assist your father with the Dimidius project?"

She lifted her head again. "I thought you were joining the army."

He shrugged. "Plans change."

Her eyes lowered from his, and with a slight nod she returned to her work.

He understood that look, though; he'd seen it before, mostly from his siblings. "What?" he demanded.

"Nothing. I don't want to make you angry again."

Zachary scowled. At her impatient breath, he wiped the expression from his face. "I told you that I'm not going anywhere until your painting is finished. So what were you thinking?"

"Fine. I was thinking that your plans change a great deal. I'd hate for you to get Papa's hopes up about something and then dash them again when something else more interesting catches your attention."

She did know him frighteningly well, considering their short acquaintance. Or rather, she knew the man he
had
been. A day—short in minutes, but long on time to think and see and understand—had altered him in a way he never would have expected, and it had made him aware of a Zachary Howard Griffin he never wanted to be again.

And just as clearly as he remembered his conversation with Caroline, he remembered the one with her father. In some ways, that had troubled him even more than her harsh words. No more mistakes—not ones born of boredom or impatience, anyway. It was time for him to choose a future and shape it into what he wanted and needed. "I won't change my plans this time." He meant it, and the clarity with which he felt that surprised—and pleased— him to his bones.

"Zachary, I hope that you're not changing your plans because of something I said."

"Of course I am." He faced her directly, ignoring her responding frown as he moved out of position. "For years my family's teased me about my aversion to responsibility. Right before I came here I think Melbourne tried to tell me what you succeeded in saying yesterday, but he was either too generous, or I just wasn't ready to hear it. Some things are going to change. And I thank you for pointing my faults out to me."

She set down the brush with a distinct thud. "Zachary, please do not put all of this on my head. For heaven's s—"

Zachary grinned. At least he wasn't the only troubled one. "I'm putting it all on your head, my dear. Now paint."

And thank goodness for that. However increased the attraction she felt for Zachary, nothing could explain what had happened earlier. He'd approached her, complimented her work, and she'd simply… melted. Not touching him would have caused physical pain.

Luckily she'd kept enough of her wits about her not to end up immediately naked and ruined, but it hadn't helped her concentration. And then he'd begun talking about cows, of all things.
Cows
.

Perhaps it served her right, since she'd completely ignored yesterday's resolution to be quiet and polite. The way he continued to bait her, though, he could hardly expect anything else. But it wasn't just that; not even with

Anne had she ever been able to speak so candidly about… everything.

She kept an eye on him as everyone trooped back to the mansion. He might think she'd suddenly decided she wanted him to ravish her, but she'd been contemplating it in theory since he'd removed his shirt. As of last night, though, the idea of an actual lesson had begun to seem less foolish.

Since she meant never to marry, and since after she reached Vienna she had no intention of doing anything to ruin her reputation and thereby her career, he was the best, most discreet chance she would have to experience being with a man. For heaven's sake, after the portrait left Wiltshire, so would he—and then so would she.

Or that had been the plan when they'd kissed. Since the cow discussion, she wasn't quite so certain what
he
meant to do. But that wouldn't matter, anyway, because
her
goals were not changing for anything. Yes, her plan for Zachary was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Emotion free, complication free, and wickedly enticing.

One thing did bother her, though, as they sat down to a luncheon of cucumber sandwiches, ham, and lemonade. Or two things did, rather. First, if he hadn't backed away, she would have simply fallen on him, even at the risk of not turning the portrait in on time. That made no sense at all. In fact it was so unlike her that it was almost frightening. And secondly,
he
had deferred their rendezvous in favor of her work.

She'd made an error. A stupid, inexplicable error, as far as she was concerned. And from this moment until the portrait was finished, nothing further could be allowed to distract her again. Especially not Lord Zachary Griffin. Afterwards, though… Her abdomen tightened deliriously.

Caroline frowned. So much for not allowing herself to be distracted. That had lasted for less than a minute. Still, she did have a considerable amount of willpower. She wouldn't have gotten this far if she didn't. Now she just needed to use it.

"Mama, even with Caroline taking all of Lord Zachary's time, we're not cancelling the ball, are we?" Grace asked.

"Of course not, dear. Your father gave the rest of you Lord Zachary's evenings, anyway."

Caroline started to point out that Zachary's evenings belonged to him, and that if he felt charitable he might choose to spend them in her sisters' company rather than his dog's, but he was chuckling. "I actually have a new game in mind for all of us to play tonight, if everyone is willing."

"Oh, yes!" the chorus of responses came,

"What sort of game is it," Susan asked, placing her hand over Zachary's, "that involves all of us?"

"You'll just have to wait and find out."

"Caro, you can't use Lord Zachary much after luncheon, can you?" Julia questioned, glaring at Susan. "The light will be wrong."

They would take him away from her if they could. And he was so notoriously easygoing, there was no telling what he would do if given the opportunity. "I have most of the light angles marked. I can't do as much, but enough to last another two hours or so." She looked at Zachary, to find him gazing at her. "If that's acceptable."

"I promised to stand out there all night, if necessary," he returned with an easy smile, "and once we finish for the day, I have an appointment with Harold."

"Your dog?" Violet protested.

Zachary nodded. "When I acquired him, I accepted a responsibility to train him to be a proper dog. I've been shirking that duty for far too long. So my apologies, ladies, but I'm spoken for until dinner."

Even his smile wasn't that same carefree one he'd worn a few days ago. It was more thoughtful, and as far as she was concerned, much more… intriguing. And he hadn't given in to their pleas. He'd kept his word to her—and to Harold.

"You know," Joanna said, slicing her ham, "I think art is wonderful. In fact, I've been working on my own painting."

"You?" Caroline blurted before she could stop herself.

"Yes. It's Apollo and Psyche." She sniffed. "I'm Psyche, and I'd like Lord Zachary to pose for Apollo." Joanna gazed at him from beneath her lashes. "If you would, of course."

"I, um—"

"I'm doing a painting, too!" Grace's fork clattered onto her plate as she sat forward.

"So am I," Violet put in, at even higher volume.

Wonderful
. Caroline closed her eyes for a moment. She supposed it would have been amusing if it hadn't been so obviously pitiful. Out of all of her sisters, not even Anne had professed the least interest in art, except for that book showing sketches of naughty sculptures that Mrs. Williams had accidentally shelved in her store. After seeing Zachary in the bath yesterday, Caroline was wishing she'd spent more time studying that particular book, herself.

"I'd like to see your work," Zachary said, his eyes dancing despite his solemn expression, "as soon as I've finished helping Miss Witfeld and Harold. After dinner, perhaps."

At least his sense of humor had survived. Thank goodness for that.

"How much longer are you going to keep Zachary to yourself, Caro?" Susan demanded.

"Yes, Caroline," her mother said. "I have to agree. I know finishing your portrait is important, but we have to be fair to your sisters."

"I__"

"You know, girls," Lady Gladys interrupted, "it occurred to me that even better than my sending you gifts at Christmas, we might go into Trowbridge and select them together. Mrs. Williams's shop has catalogs, I believe."

Thank heavens for Lady Gladys
. Caroline sent her a grateful look amid the chorus of happy cheers, and the baroness winked at her. At least someone understood how important it was that she finish the portrait in a timely manner. Someone aside from Zachary, that was, since they had clearly come to an understanding about that.

As they stood from the table, though, obviously her sisters hadn't forgotten about their abrupt new love of the arts. "Caro," Joanna said in a whisper, grabbing her arm, "do you have any spare canvases?"

Caroline sighed. "In the wardrobe behind the conservatory door."

"I need a sketch pad," Violet said, tugging her other hand.

"They're stacked against the far wall."

"Thank you, Caro!" They all dashed off in a herd of flying skirts.

"Don't touch anything but the new ones!" she shouted after them. If they tried drawing on the backs of sketches she'd already done, heads were going to roll. Harold had already done enough damage.

"Shall we return to the ruins?" Zachary murmured, drawing her hand around his arm.

A shiver ran down her spine. Stating to herself that she was going to remain undistracted was one thing; not reacting when his skin touched hers was another, entirely. Waiting two or even three days with this… tension running through her veins and muscles, this awareness of his presence—it was worse than the wait for a new canvas. "Yes, of course. I've left poor Molly sitting out there by the ruins."

"She's probably still asleep," he returned in the same low voice. "Make certain you keep her with us for the next few days."

Goodness, he sounded so sure of himself. He probably knew exactly the effect he was having on her. "Please try not to distract me," she said half seriously. "I'd hate to have to spend all of the third day fixing my mistakes."

She felt his chuckle. "But I want to tell you all about what will happen the moment you set down your paintbrush and palette for the last time. The way I will strip you out of your gown, and pull the pins from your hair, and cover your bare skin with kisses."

Well, now she was going to faint. "I hope some of it is going to involve the part of your anatomy I glimpsed in the bath," she managed in a fairly level tone, knowing her face must be scarlet.

"It certainly will. That's a vital part, as a matter of fact." They reached the path that circled the pond and led directly to the ruins on the far side. As they moved between a high stand of elms and the willows that lined the bank, he put a hand over hers and stopped. "Speaking of vital," he whispered and drew her up against him.

Slowly he lowered his mouth over hers. Yes, their relationship had definitely altered in the past twenty-four hours. That thought occurred to her only fleetingly, though, because her mind refused to function any further. Instead she felt flooded with sensation—the ply of his mouth against hers, the heat, the pressure, the yearning that seemed to flow back and forth between them, his hands sliding from her shoulders and down her back to her hips, and the way he pulled her close against his body.

Caroline wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, holding herself tightly against his lean, hard-muscled body. The kiss deepened, open-mouthed and plundering. She heard herself moan. Passion. The sensation was remarkable—and remarkably close to how she felt when a painting swept her away out of all reason. She wanted to climb inside him, to keep the feeling forever.

"Caro," he murmured, his voice muffled against her mouth.

She subsided, closing her eyes and trying to focus her mind. The painting. She needed to finish the painting.

With what she considered remarkable composure, she released him. His own arms loosened more slowly, his mouth still brushing hers. "There," he finally said huskily, "that should do me for another day or so."

Caroline smoothed his ruffled hair. "Are you certain about that?"

"No. You probably shouldn't ask me again."

She would keep that advice in mind. Because things were becoming very confusing, and now that he was being nice and touching her and kissing her, she'd developed the alarming tendency to be distracted, despite every oath she'd made to herself. "I won't, then. Come on. I want to work on your face before we get the full afternoon sun."

As they reached the ruins in the clearing he shed his coat again, dumping it beside her paints. Her sisters were probably ransacking the conservatory right now, taking every blank canvas she had, ruining her brushes and making a mess of her organized sketch filing system.

Normally the idea would have had her pulling out her hair. After all, she used every spare penny she earned from painting to pay for her supplies. If they would leave her alone for the next two days, though, just long enough for her to finish one portrait and to… experience Zachary Griffin, she would forgive every bit of it. After all, they would be remaining in Wiltshire, left to the Martin Williamses and Peter Redfords, and she would be in Vienna, living her dream.

"Here?" he asked, placing a foot on the fallen pillar.

She compared the sketch to his position. "About eight inches back with your right foot, and about four with your left," she decided, narrowing her eyes.

Zachary complied, shifting and twisting slightly. "Better?"

"Perfect. Now tilt your head and gaze toward the horizon over my shoulder so I can do your eyes."

'The horizon over your shoulder isn't very exciting. Why can't I be looking at the artist?"

Because if he stood staring at her all afternoon his face would end up looking like a bowl of pudding
, "Because I'm not your domain. Survey in that direction."

"All I survey is a tree stump and a bird eating a beetle."

"Good. Concentrate on the beetle. And relax your mouth." She picked up her narrow-tipped brush, touching it to her cheek to make certain it was clean and dry.

"I thought you were painting my face, not your own."

Her cheeks heated. "Obviously you're not looking at the beetle."

"The beetle's been consumed, and you're more interesting."

Finally she lifted her gaze to him to find him still studying her face, and with an intensity that sent her blood stirring again. No wonder his name in the society pages always seemed to be associated with some eligible young lady or other—at least according to Anne. "Zachary, tree stump. Please."

His broad shoulders lifted and lowered. "Fine. Tree stump."

"And don't scowl."

"But the bird is leaving a gift."

Her lips twitched, despite her determination to eliminate all nonsense from her thoughts. "Then you have the beetle to concentrate on again."

"I'm not spending the next hour staring at bird droppings."

This time she couldn't help chuckling. "It's for the sake of art."