Page 51 of The Art of Sinning

“I’m sorry that I—”

“Don’t youdareapologize,” 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’llneverfinish 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 noticeeverythingabout 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, hewasstill 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.”