The Art of Sinning (15 page)

“That's not true.” Every bit of him recoiled at the idea.

“The only difference is that you don't paint me naked, but—”

“I don't paint
them
naked.” He bore down on her, unable to help himself. “But
you
I would paint naked in every conceivable position, if I had the chance.”

She sucked in a ragged breath, her gaze locking with his.

Determined to banish her notion that she meant so little to him, he tugged her against him. “I do not lie in bed at night burning to possess
them
. I do not spend every modeling session enjoying
their
wit or being painfully aroused by it.” He bent his head close. “And I assure you that I've never felt jealous of any man who looked at one of my models with lust. But I'm damned well jealous about you.”

And as she stared up at him with those heartbreakingly beautiful eyes and that sweet mouth that tempted him every time he saw her, he gave in to his worst impulses and kissed her.

Fifteen

Much as Yvette knew she should resist him, she couldn't for the life of her. Certainly not in this place that reeked of sensual encounters, with its red velvets and its heavy perfumes and its half-naked rogues.

That in itself should have reminded her of what happened to women who gave in to men. But when he kissed her with such ardor, all she wanted was to kiss him back. Forever.

The forever part was a problem.

Breaking the kiss, she gazed up into his too-­handsome face. “Yes, but why me? Why do
I
make you jealous?”

She knew he wasn't going to answer when his eyes glittered in the firelight . . . when his breathing grew hard and his body even harder as he backed her up against Mrs. Beard's desk. “You ask too many questions.”

Then he kissed her again, with sweet, hot plunges of his tongue that tore down her walls and swept her
into a maelstrom of conflicting urges. She'd wanted so much for so long. Why must he be the only one to knot all her wants into one giant need that had her flinging her arms about him, straining for more of him?

“My luscious lady.” He untied her cloak and shoved it off her shoulders, then covered one of her breasts with his hand, fondling and kneading and thumbing her nipple to a fine point. “You don't know what you do to me.”

She had some idea. She could feel the hard length of him through his Cavalier breeches and her flimsy shepherdess attire. She should have worn more petticoats.

But then she wouldn't feel the exquisite excitement of his hand sliding down her belly. And when he cupped her between her legs, she was definitely glad of her dearth of petticoats. “
Heavenly day!”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “A most heavenly day.”

Somehow she doubted he meant the same thing as she. Because his eyes burned into her while he rubbed her down there, as if he knew what his touch did to her and roused those feelings deliberately.

Well, of course it was deliberate. He might not be quite the scoundrel she'd assumed, but he had experience that he put to good use.
Such
good use. Her blood fairly stampeded through her veins. Every sense was attuned to his clever, wicked fingers plucking and plundering with a deftness that made her moan.

“You like that, don't you, my pretty wanton?”

She couldn't deny that she liked it. And if a wanton was a woman who enjoyed being touched and caressed and kissed, then clearly she fit the bill.

Then he slid her skirt up her thighs.

“Jeremy!” she squeaked, and caught his hand.

His breathing warmed her cheek. “I want to look at you.”

“T-there?”

“Yes, there. Just look. For now.”

Why must that send a heady anticipation kicking through her? “All right. But only if you promise never to paint what you see.”

He choked back a laugh. “You give me credit for more talent than I have. I wouldn't have to use models if I could paint from memory.”

“Oh.”

Apparently he took that for consent because he dropped to his knees and pushed up her skirts to expose her slitted drawers. With a gleaming gaze, he spread the split farther open, then gazed upon her. “What a fetching frame your drawers make for your lovely Garden of Eden.”

She gulped.
That
cant term she knew.

When he lifted her leg to hook over his shoulder, she was mortified. It opened her up to his gaze most shamefully. Could he tell how it made her throb down there? Heat up? Dampen most embarrassingly?

“Have you . . . seen enough?” she whispered.

“Not quite. I need to get closer.” So he did. But he didn't just look. He put his mouth on her.
There.

Oh, dear, was it intentional?

His tongue licked her, and she gasped. Oh yes. Most definitely intentional. And shocking.

Not to mention thrilling. “Jeremy . . . ohh . . . This is . . . very naughty.”

He chuckled but kept on what he was doing. Which was
amazing.

As if fully aware of how her private parts ached, he stroked and soothed and laved them with his tongue so eloquently that her heart beat in places it never had before. What he was doing felt like . . . like . . .

“You taste like sin, my Juno,” he murmured against her.

That was it. It felt like sin. Very good sin.

A wild laugh rumbled up from her throat. She was sinning in a nunnery that was really a bawdy house. And she wanted more, too. More of his devilish caresses. She wanted them harder. Deeper.

Deeper?

Heavens, his tongue had slipped
inside her.
She might just explode. Or faint. Or both. Could a person faint and explode at the same—

Ohhhh, good
Lord
. Her knees gave way and she gripped the desk for dear life. His lips were . . . and his teeth were . . . and . . . and . . . oh,
marvelous
! She pushed into him, greedy for more.

With a growl, he gripped her hips to lock her against his insolent, clever mouth. A drumbeat call to pleasure sounded in her ears, and, like a soldier blindly following, she marched toward it, faster, determined to catch the elusive sensation running just ahead of her.

“Jeremy . . . please . . . oh,
please
!”

He quickened his strokes, and she strained to capture that delicious feeling that was so very . . . very . . .

She hurtled over the edge and plunged right into bliss.

Oh yes . . . yes . . .
yes
!

A fractured cry escaped her, and her body shook and writhed with her enjoyment. What exquisite heaven!

It took some moments for her gasps to subside, and her body to settle into a luxurious contentment. So this was what it could be like with a man. She threaded her fingers through his thick hair, wanting to touch him, to be close to him.

His motions had already slowed. His mouth turned gentler, softer. Withdrawing. He kissed her thigh, wiped his mouth on her drawers, then slipped from beneath her leg and rose.

She leaned into him, unable to look at him. “That was . . . I didn't know . . . I never guessed—”

“I knew you would take your pleasure with the fierceness of a lioness.” Enfolding her in his arms, he nuzzled her neck. “And I had to see it, at least once. Forgive me for that.”

At least once.
Why did he insist on building walls between them when there was no need? She didn't understand him. He wouldn't let her.

“Now
that
is something I wish I could capture on canvas,” he said. “You in the throes of pleasure. But alas, I could never be that good an artist. No one could.” He kissed the pulse at her temple. “That should tell you right there that you're more than a model to me.”

“But not enough to be a wife.” When he stilled, she wished she could take back the words. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm the one who's sorry. I could never make you a good husband. I lack an essential—”

A loud knock came at the door, and they jerked
apart. Then they heard someone try the handle. Frantically, she sought to restore her clothing, to don her cloak and find her mask.

“I told you, my lord,” Mrs. Beard said to someone else, “he's in there with his actress friend, Miss Hardcastle. He'll be out when he's ready.”

“He'll be out
now
, if I have anything to say about it,” growled a male voice.

Oh, Lord, it was
Warren.
How in heaven's name had he known to come
here
? Hastily she tied on her mask and worked at closing up the cloak's frog fastenings to hide her shepherd's costume.

A pounding began on the door. “Keane, you'd better open up! I want to talk to you!”

“Just stay calm, sweetheart,” Jeremy breathed. “He thinks you're an actress. Keep quiet, and I'll get us out of this.” Showing a remarkable presence of mind, he went to open the door. “What the devil, Knightford? You have no business—”

Warren pushed his way into the room, his gaze scanning it . . . and her. “
You
, Keane, have no business stealing . . . er . . . Miss Hardcastle from me. She and I have an agreement.” Warren stared hard at her, and she could fancy he saw right through her mask. “Don't we, love?”

“You can't have her,” Jeremy bit out. “Go back to your other wenches and leave her be.”

“She's leaving with me,
right now
,” Warren said with a meaningful glance in her direction.

Oh no, he obviously knew who she was. And he would tell Edwin, if she didn't stop him.

She headed for the door, but Jeremy caught her arm. “You're not going anywhere with him.”

“Take it outside, gentlemen!” Mrs. Beard said. “I'm not having any disputes over a light-heeled wench who ain't even one of my girls. Out, the three of you!”

This time, Yvette was glad to be ordered out. Warren mustn't be allowed to talk to Edwin; she still hadn't learned where Samuel's boy was! But she didn't dare ask more questions of Mrs. Beard, not with each man gripping an arm as if he'd carry her out if necessary.

None of them said a word until they were in the street. Then Warren spoke in a low voice. “My rig is around the corner. Yvette's going with me, Keane.”

“The hell she is! Everyone will see your crest when you drive up to the damned ball, and they'll know that you've been out alone with her. I'm not taking that chance.” Jeremy waved to their hackney driver, who scurried to bring the horses round. “She and I already had a plan, and we'll stick to it.”

That seemed to flummox Warren. “A plan? For what?”

“Let me explain—” Yvette began.

“No time for that,” Jeremy said. “If Knightford has come after us, we've already lingered longer than we should have. Your brother will be looking for you.” He opened the door to the hackney. “Get in.”

“I'm going, too,” Warren said firmly.

Jeremy glared at him. “Fine. It's better we have this discussion in private anyway, so we can get our stories straight.”

Then Warren was half helping, half lifting her into the carriage. He sat next to her, as if to protect her from Jeremy, who jumped in and took the oppo
site seat with a glower that would have done Edwin proud.

As soon as the carriage set off, Jeremy snapped, “How did you find us?”

“How do you think?” Warren said. “I followed you to Mrs. Beard's.”

“But that makes no sense,” Yvette said. “I'm in disguise.”

Warren snorted. “Some disguise—Clarissa's cloak.”

“But any number of women tonight wore cloaks.”

“True, but I didn't happen to see any of
them
leave with Keane.”

“Thunderation,” Jeremy said to Yvette. “Let's pray no one else recognized you.”

“I don't think they did,” Warren grudgingly ad­­mitted. “I only noticed when I headed out into the garden for a bit of air and saw you go off with a woman in a black cloak. At first I thought nothing of it. Although I knew Clarissa had worn one, she hasn't even been introduced to you. Then I spotted Yvette's crook behind a bush and put it together.”

“Oh, Lord,” she said.

“It took me a bit to figure out where you'd gone—I had to question the coachmen milling about—but I finally found one who'd overheard Keane giving the direction to the hackney driver, and I recognized the address.”

“Of course you did,” she said archly. “You're a frequent visitor to Covent Garden nunneries, as I recall.”

Warren muttered a curse. “That's neither here nor there.” He jerked his head toward Jeremy. “Besides, so is Keane. And he actually had the audacity to bring you
with
him!”

“Because I asked him to!” she cried. “He's doing me a favor.”

That took the wind right out of Warren's sails. He sat back hard against the seat. “If this is about getting more words for those bloody dictionaries—”

“It's a serious private matter that's none of your concern. Mr. Keane was merely helping me learn the truth about . . . something.”

“A truth that necessitated being locked up in a room with him?”

Thank heaven he couldn't see her crimson cheeks beneath the mask. “That was because I got into a dispute with Mrs. Beard. I became . . . rather hysterical, and Mr. Keane got me off alone to calm me down. And to discuss what to do next, since she refused to give me the information I required.”

“What information?” Warren demanded.

“It's
none of your concern
,” Yvette repeated.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Why couldn't you ask
me
to help you?”

“You would have gone right to Edwin. And I didn't want him sticking his nose in it.”

Warren blanched. “Bloody hell, girl—”

“I am not a girl! I am a full-grown woman with a mind of her own.”

“More than you could possibly know,” Jeremy muttered.

“Damn it, Keane,” Warren said, “couldn't you stop her from whatever her scheme is? Why didn't you refuse to help her?”

“We
are
talking about the same female, aren't we?” Jeremy drawled. “The Lady Yvette
I
know is rather bullheaded.”

Warren swore again. He was swearing an awful lot for a respectable gentleman.

“We're nearing our destination,” Jeremy said. “So here's what I propose. The three of us will enter the garden by the same gate we left through. Once there, Lady Yvette will remove her cloak and give it to you. Then she'll retrieve her crook, and we'll return to the ballroom. If anyone asks, you say you were retrieving Clarissa's cloak, and found us talking in the garden.”

Warren crossed his arms over his chest. “Here's what
I
propose. I march her straight inside to Edwin, and tell him you've been squiring her to a brothel and God knows where else.”