The Art of Sinning (12 page)

Lord help her. Even as she groaned a protest at that insanity, he licked and sucked and plundered her flesh with all the fire and life and thrill of the night that she craved. She craved the heat of his mouth and the slick swipes of his tongue as he teased and taunted and dragged her down into an ocean of feeling.

It frightened her how far she sank, how much more she longed for. Surely it wasn't normal to want something so much, to want to touch everything,
feel
everything. Surely this gnawing in her belly was unnatural.

But at least she could finally touch his beautiful hair. Spearing her fingers through the sun-drenched curls, she reveled in the feel of them sliding over her hands, engulfing her fingers the way he was engulfing her.

“You taste like cherries,” he said against her breast.

“I doubt that,” she said, choking back a laugh. “I don't rub . . . cherries on my bosom, I assure you.”

“Then you
smell
like cherries.”

“I drank ratafia at dinner. It h-has cherr—” She gasped when he tugged at her nipple with his teeth, sending her spiraling down into a dark, wild pleasure.

And when he offered the other nipple the same intoxicating treatment, letting his hand stroke the damp nipple he'd left behind, she thought her legs would crumple beneath her.

She clutched at his head to steady herself and he pulled her down astride his knee. Then he was kissing her with a carnal intensity that had her writhing upon his hard thigh.

Ohhhh. That felt astonishing, both too much and too little. One of his arms came around her waist to lock her close, and she looped hers about his shoulders to lock her even closer. He kept stroking her breast, silkily, sweetly, and she rocked against his leg. She wanted to fuse herself to him, to wring out every ounce of the aching pleasure.

“Ah, my pretty wanton, you inflame me,” he breathed against her lips. “I could taste and touch you for hours. You're so damned lovely.”

She
wanted
him to taste and touch her for hours, so badly that she didn't even care he'd called her “wanton.”

Then she felt the dampness lower down and a tight little knot burning between her thighs, and panic startled to life in her. This was how seduction began. A woman fell in love with the feelings and forgot herself. It was dangerous, close to the edge . . . alarming.

She must stop this. Soon. Now. Before she found herself ruined.

Twelve

Jeremy had lost his wits, but he didn't care. Yvette was more sensual than he'd ever imagined. How could he stop caressing her soft breasts, kissing her soft mouth . . . wanting to bury himself between her soft thighs?

He ought to stop, yet he didn't.

She was his, damn it!
His
Juno, every lush inch of her, shining with vitality and humor and an unquenchable thirst for life. Her sweet warmth and dewy curls invited him in, and it took all his will not to jerk down his trousers and breach her. Even as he clasped her head to hold her still for his deepening kisses, he felt the pulse in her neck thrum hard against his hand.

Why did she do this to him? Women never had this powerful an effect on him. They never made him yearn for the impossible, want a life beyond what he could give. What he dared not give.

It was alarming how badly he wanted to keep her. He wanted to paint her a thousand times in a thou
sand ways, so he'd have her image to console him once he let her go.

As he must. As he would. In a moment or two.

But God, he didn't
want
to let her go. Not that he had a choice; he could already feel her slipping away. Her fingers were dragging on his shirt and her body stiffening.

She tugged her mouth free to stare at him with wild eyes. “I cannot,” she said bluntly. “Not like this.”

Disappointment slammed through him. For the briefest of moments he considered pressing the issue. If ever a woman was on the verge of seduction, it was Yvette. She wanted him. He wanted her. What else mattered?

You won't marry her. That's what matters.

“Damn it all to hell,” he growled, scarcely realizing he'd said it aloud until she flinched. “I'm sorry. I told you I would taste and hold and caress you as much or as little as you would allow, and I meant it.”

He should slide her off his knee, but he couldn't. Not yet. He bent his forehead to hers. “I just wish I were as much a rogue as you like to think. Because I
really
want to lay you down on this floor and have my way with you until the sun comes up.”

“And then what?”

The words jerked him up short, and he moved back. “Exactly.”

The look of hurt in her eyes made it easy this time to extricate himself from her body and set her on her knees beside him. But it didn't make it easy to extricate himself from the situation.

God rot it.

He rose to pace the room, hoping the movement
might subdue his rampant arousal, trying not to notice how erotic a figure she made as she remained kneeling on the floor while fastening up her buttons.

A foolish part of him whispered,
What if you were to offer marriage? Then you could have her to your heart's content.

He fisted his hands at his sides. Yes, he could have her . . . until things went wrong. Until she realized he couldn't be the right sort of man for her. Couldn't love her as she deserved to be loved, couldn't give her a settled, normal life. Didn't
want
to give her a normal life.

Desire wasn't enough to make a solid marriage. Hannah had been fool enough to risk it with him anyway, but all she'd gotten for her trouble was an early death.

Guilt stung him, as always. With a scowl he strode to the easel. He wouldn't put another woman through that. Especially not one as tenderhearted as Yvette, who deserved better than an inadequate husband. Despite her prickly outside, she
was
tenderhearted. He'd figured that much out, at least.

“I can't stay,” she said behind him.

With his back to her, he nodded. If he looked at her, he was liable to make the mistake of pulling her into his arms again. And if he did that a second time, he feared he wouldn't stop.

“I'm sorry that I—”

“Don't you
dare
apologize,” he gritted out. “You did nothing wrong. It was my doing, all of it.”

“I'm not apologizing for . . . what we did. I'm apologizing for not staying to pose for you. At this rate, you'll
never
finish your painting.”

The hint of wry humor in her voice tugged at something deep in his belly, something he'd buried more years ago than he could count.

He shook his head ruefully. “I'll finish. I have to.”

Even though he still hadn't figured out why this particular project consumed him, the burning need to paint it hadn't abated one whit. If anything, being here with her stoked it higher. He couldn't figure that out, either. He probably wouldn't until he completed the work.

“Don't worry about the painting,” he said. “The parts that involve you won't take much more now.”

“If you say so. But we have the masquerade tomorrow night. You won't get a chance to work on it then.”

“That's fine,” he said absently. Her mention of the masquerade reminded him that he still hadn't gleaned the information he wanted.

“Well, then. I'd better go.”

“Wait!” He turned toward her, and his heart slammed in his chest.

She looked achingly beautiful, with her hair tossed wildly about her shoulders and her eyes glistening. Tears? Surely he hadn't made her cry.

God, this was precisely why he should never have touched her. “Just wait a moment.”

“I can't stay,” she said warily.

“I know. I merely wanted to ask you . . . concerning tomorrow night . . .”

If you expect to hear all my secrets, you must tell me some of yours.

Remembering her bitter words, he stifled an oath.

“Yes?” she asked. “What is it?”

“Never mind. I'll see you in the morning.”

With a perplexed look, she shrugged and then left.

But he knew he would see her long before morning. In his thoughts, his fantasies. He would see her and want her, even as he knew how foolish it was to indulge the dream. Sometimes having a vivid imagination was more of a curse than a blessing.

Clearly, it would be yet another night of boxing the Jesuit.

The closer their coach rumbled toward London the following evening, the more nervous Yvette became. This was the night. She had Samuel's letter tucked inside her corset. Would she find his son? She hoped so. She didn't know how much longer she could play these mad games with Jeremy.

It didn't help that she fancied she could feel him staring at her again. The same way he'd been staring at her all day as she'd posed for him.

Their session had been entirely different from the last several. Oh, he'd been as reserved as ever around Edwin. But every time he'd looked at her, his words from last night had echoed in her ears:
I notice
everything
about you.

Had she really not recognized it before? The way his gaze roamed her when Edwin wasn't looking? The rigid edge to his smile, the raw power of his eyes? She must have been blind. Or else he really had been as good at hiding it as he'd claimed.

She glanced his way now and caught her breath.
Yes, he
was
still staring at her. Or rather, absorbing her with his gaze, like a chunk of iron absorbs the sun's heat, then radiates it back.

Cursing how that made her heart flutter, she turned to look out the window at the full moon.

But he was having none of that. “So, Lady Yvette, whom exactly are you masquerading as tonight?”

The husky words strummed her senses, drat him, and when that made her hesitate, Edwin answered for her. “Can't you tell? She's a shepherdess.”

“Ah. I wasn't sure. She could as easily be a dairymaid, a laundress, a linen draper—”

“Don't be ridiculous—women can't be linen drapers.” Her anxiety over the coming evening lent sharpness to her tone. “And you would have recognized my costume at once if you hadn't been so tardy. You missed me handing my enormous shepherd's crook up to the groom.”

“Once again,” he drawled, “I apologize for my lateness. Damber had a bit of trouble with this hat.” He blew at a feather that dipped down in front of his face. “The lad has never dealt with plumes before. Neither have I, for that matter.”

Jeremy was dressed as a Cavalier, a costume he said he'd brought with him from London. She had to admit he looked quite dashing in his doublet and his coat trimmed in gold braid. Every lady at the ball would salivate at the sight of him.

She
certainly was.

“It doesn't matter how late we arrive anyway,” Edwin said with a dismissive gesture.

Edwin was dressed as himself. She had yet to see her brother don a costume for a masquerade. He
always said there was no reason to do so when he intended to spend the entire evening in the card room anyway.

“I doubt anyone will even notice our entrance,” Edwin went on. “Especially with Yvette dressed as she is.”

“Why, thank you for the compliment,” she said dryly.

“I only mean, dear girl, that for once you look like all the other young ladies.” Edwin cocked his head at Jeremy. “She usually wears something more dramatic.”

“Does she?” Jeremy's eyes gleamed at her in the darkness. “Like what?”

Curse him for that. Jeremy knew perfectly well why she wanted to blend in tonight—it would make it easier for her absence to go unnoticed. But if her brother started to wonder at her tepid choice of costume, his suspicions might be roused.

“Once,” Edwin told Jeremy, “she went as Queen Elizabeth, complete with ruff and white painted face. She cowed every man she saw. But a shepherdess?” He grimaced. “There will be scores of them. Most young ladies aren't creative in their costume choices.”

“Except for Clarissa,” Yvette said quickly, hoping to change the subject. “She's going as a man.”

Edwin scowled. “That's not creative. It's foolish. She couldn't pass for a man if she tried.”

“I can't wait to meet this indomitable female,” Jeremy said. “Between your description of her last night, and Yvette's clear admiration of the chit, I'm expecting nothing less than an Amazon.”

“Edwin!” Yvette cried. “Surely you didn't describe delicate little Clarissa as an Amazon.”

“I honestly have no idea,” Edwin admitted. “Some of last night is a bit fuzzy.” He glanced at Jeremy. “Though I do remember our talk of starting a club.”

“A club?” Yvette sniffed. “What sort of club could the two of you possibly belong to? You're as different as chalk and cheese.”

“Not as different as you think, eh, Keane?” Edwin said, elbowing Jeremy.

“Not when it comes to boiling pots and hot springs,” Jeremy responded.

“And exploding champagne bottles,” Edwin added.

They laughed heartily, bewildering her. What on earth was wrong with them? They'd been making enigmatic comments all day, punctuated by sly winks and nudges. She couldn't imagine what they'd done last night to turn them into such bosom companions.

Or perhaps she could. Jeremy had clearly been drunk in the schoolroom, and Edwin had dragged himself to the breakfast table at midday, looking like a piece of chewed-up gristle. If not for the fact that she'd never seen her brother overindulge, she would swear he'd been cropsick.

Bad enough that Jeremy was having a terrible influence on her. If he started turning Edwin into a mirror image of himself, the earth would fall off its axis.

“Well,” she said, “I'm glad Clarissa is being daring, no matter how much stodgy old Warren complains.”

“Knightford is stodgy?” Jeremy said incredulously.

“With her he is,” Yvette said.

“I told you he'd make a good club member,” Edwin told Jeremy. “We should add him to the list.”

“We're making a list?” Jeremy said.

“We should. I've got half a dozen names I could add to it.”

Yvette gaped at them. “You're not seriously starting a club.”

Edwin crossed his arms over his chest. “We might. Why not? I have that property in Pall Mall we could use.”

“We could call it St. George's,” Jeremy offered. “Since we're fighting dragons.”

“Or at least finding out their secrets so we
can
fight them.”

“Dragons have secrets?” she quipped. “Next you'll be telling me you're hunting unicorns for their horns.”

“Oh, we're hunting for horns, all right,” Edwin said. “As many horns as we can lop off at the root before they impale someone precious to us.”

When both men burst into laughter, she just shook her head. She'd long ago lost the gist of this conversation.

It was only after they'd arrived at the ball and Edwin was helping her down that she remembered what “horn” was slang for in the street.

A man's aroused penis.

Her blush flamed all the way into the Keane town house. Clearly she'd been collecting cant words far too long if she imagined they'd been talking about lopping off penises. That made no sense at all. No man wanted that.