Sinful Deeds (3 page)

She
rolled her eyes. “You do not. How did you find me?”

“Barnaby’s.”

“Barna—”
She huffed a sigh. “I should have told him to keep my new address quiet.”

“Why,
Josephine? Why do you need to hide from me?”

“Because
I knew full well you would turn up on my doorstep before long.”

“Damn,
I hate to be predictable.” He edged forward until he nearly stood on her toes.
She stepped back. “Will you not invite me in?”

She
closed her eyes briefly and opened them before giving him a stiff nod. She
stepped back, and he slipped in and removed his hat. He placed it on the hat
stand and glanced around the small hallway. Well-decorated, simple, nice
enough.

Josephine
led the way into what his mother would call a quaint drawing room. Heavy blue
drapes framed the window that looked out over the street and several clusters
of fresh flowers sat on all the various wooden surfaces. Had they been bought
for her by a lover?

He
forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand—coaxing her back.

She
clasped her hands in front of her and faced him. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No.”
He stepped forwards and tried to take her into his arms, but she shied away.
His
Jo-Jo shied away. What in the hell was going on? She always melted as soon as
he touched her.

“What
are you doing?” she hissed.

“Don’t
be like that, Jo-Jo...”

“Dante,
you cannot just touch me however you please.” She bit her lip. “Not anymore.”

He
slashed a hand through his hair. “Look, I cannot claim to understand what’s
going on here, but if this is you trying to teach me a lesson—” he released a
laugh “—consider it learned. I miss you. I need you back, sweeting. Come back
to the house, and I will make more of an effort to be home on time. I’ll
change, I swear it.”

Josephine
eyed him and shook her head slowly. “You’ve not learned a thing. Forgive me,
but I cannot return. I am content here.”

“Content?
How can you be content in this small house? Even the furnishings are basic.
Return to the house, and we can talk about this properly.”

Chin
lifted, she shook her head again. “There is nothing to talk about. I’m staying
here. I do not wish to be your mistress anymore.”

Those
words...Lord, how they struck him in the chest. He’d hoped this was all some
big mistake. She was simply trying to make him want her more or something. But
no. He knew from her expression and strong stance that Josephine truly meant
what she said. She wished to end their relationship.

The
temptation to storm away and lose himself to drink created a deep ache in his
gut. But before he drowned his sorrows he needed answers.

“Is
there someone else?”

“No, of
course not.”

She
wasn’t lying. Josephine hadn’t suddenly conjured up the ability to tell
falsehoods it seemed. Her voice remained steady, her gaze firm. He’d seen her
try to lie to him once or twice—usually about wanting him. He’d caught her
admiring him at an inappropriate moment and had dragged the confession from her
later.
You want me
, he would say.
No
, would always be her
response. But before long she would be soft in his arms, begging for more.

“How
the devil are you even funding this place?”

Red
patches appeared high on her cheeks. “I am not destitute. In fact, I have
sold—”

“Goddamn
it, the jewellery I gave you?” Of course, he had given her a fortune in jewels.
Why had he not figured it out before? She intended to fund her new life with
his gifts. Damn her. He didn’t begrudge the money or the jewels but to be so underhanded...

“No!”
Her eyes widened, and she unfolded her arms to clench her hands by her side. “I
left them in the safe. You know me better than that surely?”

He did.
He really did. But Josephine leaving, moving out, and declaring she did not
want him...He couldn’t fathom it. It had addled his wits. Up was down, and down
was up. Few things in his life were certain. Being the second son of a marquess
tended to leave one rather aimless and uncertain. But Josephine...for the past
four years she had been his anchor. She carried him through every stormy event.

Now he
was lost at sea.

Dante
drew in a breath, held it, and expelled it slowly. “Jo-Jo, do not make yourself
destitute to spite me,” he said softly.

He
eased closer, drawn in by her beauty. Part of him knew it would not help the
situation but the sight of her golden hair all coiled up made him want to ram
his fingers into it and send it loose over her shoulders. The faint scent of
roses wrapped about him and drew him in like a siren’s song. Every part of his
body hungered for her.

She
held her ground and offered him a gentle smile. “I am not destitute. I have my
dowry and some savings. But if you would let me explain.” Her smile increased a
little. “I have sold a painting.”

“A
painting?”

“Yes. I
sold one.”

“But...I
didn’t even know you had exhibited them. I mean, how did someone just purchase
one?”

The
faintest sensation of possession came over him. He was feeling jealous about a
painting he realised. Never in their relationship had he felt any kind of
primitive instinct over her until today. First it was the thought of her having
other lovers and now he was envious because someone had bought one of her
paintings.

“I
haven’t exhibited any, but I hope to. Mr Allen says my work is highly
fashionable and will sell easily.”

“Mr
Allen?” he spluttered. “Who is Mr Allen?”

Her
excited expression waned. “I have mentioned him, Dante. Several times. He works
at the National Gallery.”

He
searched his memory and came up with some vague recollection. The truth was,
whenever he spent time with Josephine he was too busy imagining stripping off
her clothes to concentrate too hard on what she was saying.

Or, of
course, he was actually doing the stripping, in which case not a single word
would have sunk in.

“So
you’re going to make your living as an artist?”

That
grin came back. He couldn’t help notice how radiant she seemed. When had he
ever seen her smile like that? Josephine was certainly not a grim creature or
else they would never have got along so well, but the way her eyes glowed and
her smile seemed to stretch farther than he’d ever seen. It was like viewing a
new woman.

And one
he wanted very, very much.

“I hope
so.”

“I
see.”

He
didn’t really. How would she support herself by merely painting? He hated to
shatter that smile but if she thought she could survive long as an artist,
she’d be sorely disappointed. She should remember that he knew how much she
cost to look after. His Josephine was not a demanding woman but nor was she
cheap.

“Perhaps...perhaps
when my paintings are displayed, you shall come and view them?”

Donning
a quick smile, he nodded. “I shall indeed.”

“I’d
like us to remain friends, Dante. You mean so much to me, and you helped me at
a time when I had no one else to turn to.”

What
she meant was he saved her from destitution when her husband died. Apparently,
he was no longer good enough for that. No,
painting
would keep her now.
He snorted inwardly. He would not damage her dream, however. She would discover
the real world soon enough. As rich and as well-liked as he might be, he’d seen
more of the world than she had. It might have been a long time ago, when he was
but a boy, but he had seen enough of it to understand how it treated the poor.

And
when she discovered it, she would come running back to him. He suppressed a
smile. “If you need anything, please do not hesitate to come to me.”

She
nodded. “Of course. I am sorry, I really didn’t wish...” Her throat worked and
a slight sheen came across her eyes.

Damn
her, why was she putting them through this?

“Well...”
He paused. There had to be some way to persuade her to give up this folly. He’d
never been the best at talking but actions...actions he could do. So, what were
his options? A gentlemanly kiss to the hand when she offered it? Maybe he
should simply sweep her up in his arms and seduce her until she lost her mind
with passion. It had been known to happen many a time with Josephine.

She
leaned in and went onto tiptoes to graze his cheek with her lips. He saw his
opportunity and took it. He snatched her arms and pressed a fierce kiss to her mouth.
She struggled at first—the briefest hint of surprise making her tug against his
hold—but she softened rapidly, as he knew she would.

A small
sigh escaped her mouth, and he answered with a groan. It really had been too
long since he’d tasted her. Dante pushed his fingers into her hair and began to
unpick the pins while easing the pressure of his mouth upon hers so he could
slip his tongue between her lips.

Her own
tongue met his greedily. She had missed him as much it seemed.

Once he
had her hair loose enough, he cupped the back of her head and tilted her just
so. Her body met his perfectly, and he used his other hand to come down and
grab a breast.

She
stiffened. Her mouth stopped moving beneath his. A sound most unexpected
reached his ears.

No.

A
muffled no. He released her and stared at her, his breaths raw and ragged.

“No,”
she said again, turning away from him.

“Jo-Jo...”
He reached for her, but she waved him away with a hand, leaving him staring at
her shoulders as they rose and fell as heavily as his.

“Go.”

He
didn’t understand. She had wanted him. She’d enjoyed that kiss. Why would she
deny him? He truly was lost to the tempest.

Turning
away, he strode out of the room and retrieved his hat. He paused in the hallway
and waited for her to dash after him, but she never came. He rammed his hat on
and gave himself a reassuring grin in the hallway mirror. That had not gone as
planned, that much was true, but she had wanted his kiss. She still felt the
fire that danced between them, and she could not deny it forever.

His
smile wavered so he forced it. She would not. Dante would make sure of that.

Hiding a yawn behind a fan, Josephine
forced herself to listen to the man at the front of the assembly rooms. It
wasn’t that the topic was boring—well not particularly—but he had the most
awful droning voice. She suspected he could talk of something truly
scandalous—like the sexual appetites of women—and still be dull.

Of
course, a man would never speak of such matters, but Josephine was all too
aware of sexual desire and the effect it had upon a woman.

It had
been almost one week since she’d last seen Dante. Nearly two since he’d bedded
her. Going from four years of constant company to nothing had left her tense
and exhausted. She couldn’t sleep and struggled to find her appetite.

But it
wasn’t simply her lack of male company making her a little addled. It was the
lack of
Dante
.

Her
heart throbbed whenever she said his name in her mind. Why could she not stop
loving him? She drew in a breath and released it. She knew why. Because she was
not that fickle and in spite of his flaws, she’d always loved him. Those flaws
had not been a problem for a long time. For the most part, she managed to
ignore them. However, when it had come to the point where his treatment of her
affected her everyday life, even to the point of potentially ruining any chance
of becoming known for her painting, she could not allow it to continue.

Dante
was Dante, and he’d never change.

She
offered Diana a smile. Her friend seemed enraptured with the discussion on
fashion and the demonstration of the new bustle that was sure to entirely
change their lives. The only reason she had agreed to attend this talk was for
some distraction. Unfortunately, Dante seemed to follow her everywhere.

Sometimes
when she heard a particularly low laugh, she’d spin, thinking it was him. Or if
she walked past somewhere they used to frequent, she couldn’t seem to prevent
herself from darting her gaze here and there in the hopes of spotting him.

Gosh,
even now...

“Oh,
look who is here.”

Dante
.

If
Diana had seen him, then perhaps she wasn’t mad after all.

She
flicked a glance to where he rested against a marbled pillar just behind the
chairs upon which they were seated. Her heart thumped in her chest so loudly
that she could swear she heard the blood rushing through her body.

Why did
he have to look so sinfully handsome?

And so
devastatingly lost?

It was
as if, perhaps, her leaving him might have really had an effect on the dashing
and enigmatic Dante. His chestnut hair was mussed as though he had been pushing
his hand through it, and she noticed his necktie was askew. His valet would
have tied it perfectly so he must have been tugging at it.

The
rest of him was immaculate, from his polished shoes to his beautifully cut navy
blue jacket. A strong pulse of longing thread through her. How she longed to
press her hands under that jacket and feel the strong warmth of him.

He
glanced her way, and she snapped her head forward. Mr Thomas, the speaker, drew
out a laced corset and demonstrated how a lady might wear it. She tried not to
giggle. The absurdity of it all. Here she was, her entire body pounding with
desire and unease, while this starchy old man was demonstrating corsetry. And
all the while, her ex-lover was in the background, being his usual rakish self.

“What
do you suppose he is doing here?” Diana whispered.

Josephine
gave her friend a look. Diana was digging for more information and they both
knew it. Josephine had been tight-lipped about the whole thing. Frankly, it was
too painful to speak on. Besides when an arrangement ended, one did not go
speaking of it to the whole world. If she wanted to retain her respectability
as a widow, she had no choice but to pretend all was normal and that her heart
was not splitting in two at the loss of her lover.

“Perhaps
he has an interest in the newest fashions from
Paris
.”

“Or he
has an interest in you. He hasn’t stopped looking your way.”

She
couldn’t help taking a peek and, sure enough, his gaze was firmly on her. Heat
flowed into her face and she suspected, even from where he was, he would be
able to see the likely crimson stains on her cheeks. Why did he have to be
here? Why did he have to do this? Everyone would be watching them, waiting to
see what would happen.

Perhaps
he was simply looking to buy some new clothes for his next mistress.

Yes,
that was probably it.

She
glanced at her gloved hands and worked on setting the tiny buttons perfectly
straight. The very real pain threatening to engulf her would not abate at the
simple task of straightening the seams of the gloves, however. It was foolish
of her to believe he would not find another mistress. Dante was a healthy,
virile man of eight and twenty. She certainly should not begrudge him the
company, either. After all, she had been the one to end things.

Mr
Thomas announced that it was time to take a break for tea. The words only
really registered when Diana stood and waited expectantly. Josephine hastened
to her feet and followed her over to where they were serving the drinks. A
tingle surged up and down her spine, and she was acutely aware of Dante pushing
away from the marble pillar and stalking her like a beast on the hunt.

“He’s
coming this way,” Diana hissed as she clutched the delicate china cup.

Josephine
had to tighten her grip on the cup in her hand lest she spill it. She fought
the need to run, to fling away the cup and escape. But pride would not let her.
She lifted her chin and met Dante’s intense stare head on. He strode over with
purpose while she fought to maintain her calm disposition. If nothing else, she
would not have people saying they saw her panic and flee.

Her
friend, however, did not have the same concern apparently. After offering her
an impish smile, she waved at no one in particular and began to move away.

“Don’t
you dare,” Josephine warned.

“Oh
look, it’s Lady Jessop. I shall be back in a jiffy.”

In a
flurry of pale pink muslin, her friend disappeared, leaving her alone to be
hunted down. Blast Diana. No doubt her friend thought she might be doing her a
favour. Goodness, who would willingly part with Lord Dante Cynfell after all?

Posture
stiff, she awaited his approach. Josephine resisted the urge to flick out her
fan and waft it in an attempt to disperse the heat building inside of her.
Instead, she clutched her purse and remained the refined, worldly Mrs Josephine
Beaumont. That was what people expected of her, was it not? She had travelled
to Europe, married young, witnessed the passing of her husband, and taken her
place as a wealthy man’s mistress. No one would expect her to be flustered by
the presence of Dante.

“Josephine,
you are looking well,” he murmured as though speaking the words to a lover.

“My
lord, as are you. Pray tell, what brings you to a talk on French fashions? I
did not think you were even interested in fashion.”

“You
think me unrefined perhaps?” He had inched closer, swallowing up the scant
space between them. “Do I not dress well enough to infer that I might be
interested in fashion?”

In
spite of herself, she ran her gaze over him. Dante had always been
well-dressed. He never particularly wore clothing that was the height of
fashion but instead, affected the air of a country gent. It was what made Dante
unique and oh so attractive to women. He wasn’t likely to fall foul of whatever
fashion was
en vogue
. No, instead he wore whatever he wanted, bringing
with it a flavour of casual indifference and rakish handsomeness.

He
saved her from answering by leaning in. “I did not think you particularly
interested in the French fashions either. With the exception of some of their
exquisite nightrails, of course.”

The
heat inside her nearly burned her cheeks. He was referring, of course, to the
many lacy concoctions he had purchased for her. He always enjoyed seeing her in
something transparent and sensual. And she had enjoyed the freedom such
garments had brought. No longer confined by corsets—or even society—in Dante’s
bed, she could be the artistic free-spirit she felt she truly was.

“Dante,”
she hissed.

“Of
course, I always preferred the more refined style of our British ladies. Makes
you wonder what might be beneath the stiff collars and heavy skirts.” Amusement
glinted in his olive eyes.

Josephine
feared she might combust from embarrassment. It seemed as though everyone was
watching them. No doubt, many of them knew they were no longer lovers. No one
spoke of it outright—it was simply not the done thing—but they would speak of
it behind her back.

“If all
you intended by coming here was to humiliate me—” she gave him a stern look “—then
consider me humiliated.”

One
dark eyebrow rose as he took her elbow to guide her out of the room. Not
wanting to cause a fuss, she let him lead her into a vestibule. Behind the
relative protection of some ferns, they paused in front of one of the many oil
paintings. Here only passers-by gathered as they entered the hall, none of whom
had been attending the talk. None of whom had seen the way Dante had stalked
over to her with great purpose. Even fewer of them knew either Dante or herself.

“I had
little intention of humiliating you, Josephine,” he said softly while they
stared up at the painting of a riverside scene.

She
kept her gaze on the form of a woman dipping her toes in the water. The
slightest hint of an ankle showed as she lifted her skirts and touched her foot
to the river, and the artist had captured the essence of freedom in her
expression. At present, she envied that woman. She felt so very imprisoned.

Schooling
herself, she offered him a smile. “I know.”

Of
course, he didn’t. Dante never meant anything he did wrong. He never intended
to make her wait all night for him, wondering if he had fallen down drunk
somewhere or been attacked and robbed. He certainly never meant to make her
feel anything less than cherished, she knew that much. But somehow he always
did. What had started out as an exciting, wonderful relationship had grown into
something tiring and dispiriting. She could tolerate all his flaws if he could
only offer her what she needed.

But he
couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Dante was too set against marriage and everything that
entailed. He never understood that with marriage came a closeness one could
never achieve with a simple tryst. She had witnessed as much with her parents
and even with her first husband. They had not been a love match, for certain,
but they had worked together to create something worthwhile.

They
kept their attention on the painting for some time. Aware of his arm a scant
inch away, she fought not to sway into him. Her mind might not want him anymore,
but her body had not received that message it seemed. It was as though every
fibre of her being reached out for him. While they had many problems, passion
and desire had never been among them.

He
glanced her way, and she saw the look out of the corner of her eyes. He knew as
much too. By letting herself be affected by him, she had given herself away. Josephine
had revealed her weakness.

Dante
leaned closer so that his breath brushed the curl by her ear. She tensed so as
not to shudder. “I miss you, Jo-Jo.”

She
closed her eyes to the joyful faces in front of her.
I miss you
, her
heart said.
I miss you more than you can know.
But she had to stay
strong. She was on the verge of achieving something for herself. Something she
simply couldn’t achieve as a mere mistress. Josephine hungered for recognition
as something more than a mistress—as a person in her own right.

“I know
you miss me too.”

“Stop,”
she begged.

But he
didn’t. He reached over and looped his little finger around hers, hooking it so
that he held her by the one mere digit. With the protection of the ferns and
her skirts, no one would notice. Not that such a movement could even be
considered that scandalous. But it still sent sparks of sensation up and down
her arm. How was it that even after four years and everything they had done
together, her body reacted so?

He used
the hold on her finger to close the small gap between them and he leaned in
while pointing at the painting, as though showing her something. “Jo-Jo,” he
whispered in her ear. “I need you, sweets.”

A
shiver skimmed down her side as his breath and words washed over her. Her body
pulsed in response. She needed him. She always had, from the first moment she’d
met him. But desire wasn’t the problem.

Well,
perhaps it was now.

She
shook her head, more to herself than anything. She needed to centre herself
right now. It wouldn’t do to go falling back into Dante’s arms again. It had
taken two weeks of heartbreak to feel even slightly normal on her own. If she
cracked, she would only be hurting herself.