An Invitation to Sin

by Suzanne Enoch

  Finally the coach bumped onto a smoother, better-maintained stretch of road, a hopeful sign that they’d entered a private drive. Zachary released the strap and flexed his fingers. “There’s supposed to be some good fishing in this part of Wiltshire,” he said, deciding to make the best of the situation. “Is there a Mr. Witfeld?”

  “There is.” As Aunt Tremaine packed her embroidery back into the basket, she gave him a sideways look. “I don’t imagine you’ll have much difficulty keeping yourself occupied for a few days.”

  A tiny spark of uneasy suspicion tickled at the back of his brain. “Sally Witfeld doesn’t have a young, marriageable daughter, does she?” he asked as the coach stopped.

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  Huffing and puffing, a rotund butler appeared to pull open the coach door. With Zachary and Harold’s assistance from behind and heavy reliance on her cane and the butler’s proffered arm, Aunt Tremaine crabbed awkwardly to the ground. She looked up at him again, grinning.

  “She has seven, actually.”

  “Seven what?” Zachary bit out, despite the sinking realization that he had a very good idea what she was talking about.

  A high-pitched tittering began from the window that apparently opened onto a downstairs sitting room. A moment later, females began streaming out the double front doors in a flouncing rainbow of sprig muslin.

  Harold lowered his head and barked. It was too late to duck back into the coach and escape, though Zachary couldn’t help thinking about it for a bare second. Watching over Aunt Tremaine was supposedly a test of his ability to be responsible and patient, and he wasn’t going to give up that easily. Seven daughters, though. Good God.

  Deciding he would voice his annoyance with his aunt later and in less crowded company, he pasted a smile on his face and finished his descent from the coach to the ground. The puppy followed, beginning a mad tear around the drive in pursuit of a trio of hens.

  The chits seemed to know Aunt Tremaine; deafening shrieks and trills of “Lady Gladys” filled the air, nearly drowning out Harold and the chickens.

  “Girls, girls, hello!” Aunt Tremaine returned, beaming as she took a dozen kisses to her round cheeks. “This is my nephew, Lord Zachary Griffin.”

  The feminine army curtsied in an undulating wave. “Lord Zachary.”

  Zachary sketched a return bow. Just as he was being surrounded, two more females emerged from the house. What was this, a bloody finishing school?

  “Gladys!” the older one, nearly as broad as she was tall, shrieked, grabbing his aunt for a sound hug. “Oh, my dear! I’m so pleased to see you!”

  The mother of the brood, obviously. He could see where the daughters learned their reserve. When his aunt beckoned at him, Zachary deepened his smile and waded through the crowd to her side. “You must be Mrs. Witfeld,” he said to his aunt’s companion, taking the woman’s plump hand and bowing over it. “My aunt Tremaine speaks very fondly of you.”

  “Oh, heavens, what a charmer,” Sally clucked, blushing. “You were right about him, Gladys.”

  They’d been discussing him? That didn’t bode well. “You have lovely daughters,” he continued, thankful that he came from a large, boisterous family himself. Otherwise the onslaught would likely have been overwhelming. And if he fainted here, there was no telling where he would wake up.

  “Tut tut,” Mrs. Witfeld chided. “Let me introduce you. Come on, girls, stop gawking, you silly things.” With that she began towing the chits into a long line that wasn’t dissimilar to a regiment at attention, except for the gowns and bonnets, and the giggling and whispering. Apparently sensing the lessening of chaos, Harold bounded back over and began attacking Zachary’s left boot. Thankfully he’d worn his old, comfortable ones and packed the better pair.

  As they organized themselves, one of them—the chit who had emerged last from the house—caught his attention. It wasn’t that she was particularly striking, though she did have soft copper hair a few shades darker than her next sister, clear green eyes, and a trim, tall figure. No, it was the way she kept eyeing him from head to toe, even edging around to view his profile, as if he were some sort of insect and she an entomologist.

  “Lord Zachary,” Mrs. Witfeld said, hauling the copper-haired girl to the head of the line, “this is my eldest girl, Caroline.”

  He bowed. “Miss Witfeld. Pleased to meet you.”

  Caroline Witfeld nodded back at him. “I advise you to save the bowing till the introductions are finished, or you’ll end up dizzy,” she returned in a low, amused voice. Since her mother had moved on to the next daughter, he was probably the only one who’d heard it.

  “Susan,” the matriarch was saying as she traveled down the line, “then the twins, Joanna and Julia. Grace is just eighteen. The youngest are Anne and then Violet.”

  Zachary shook Harold off his foot, waited a moment to be certain Mrs. Witfeld was finished with the introductions, then bowed again. “It’s good to meet all of you,” he said, glancing again at the oldest girl, who seemed to have forgotten her wit of a moment ago and was now staring at his left hand. He experimentally wiggled his fingers, and she blinked.

  “You’ve all grown so much,” Aunt Tremaine commented to the brood. “And into such lovely young ladies. My niece married a month ago, and I’m afraid I’ve been a bit starved for a good chat and a look at the fashion plates.”

  One of the twins rushed her, clasping her hand. “Then you must stay! Mama, tell Lady Gladys she and Lord Zachary must stay!”

  “Of course they’ll stay. I wouldn’t have it otherwise, and I’m certain Mr. Witfeld would agree.”

  Aunt Tremaine smiled. “If it’s not imposing, we would love to visit for a few days.”

  Caroline hung back a little as her sisters swarmed around Lord Zachary, each vying to be the one to show him to a guest bedchamber. She watched as he smiled again, diplomatically offering his arm to Violet, the youngest, and gestured the rest to lead the way.

  With deep brown, almost black hair that glinted a slight bronze in the afternoon sunlight, eyes that seemed to vary between a dusky charcoal and cloudy gray, and a pleasing figure both tall and athletic, Lord Zachary was an exceptionally handsome gentleman. In addition, his face, with its high cheekbones and aristocratic brow, had some very nice angles to it. Caroline would have smiled, but it wouldn’t do to announce victory until she’d made a few preliminary sketches and discovered whether she could do him justice on canvas.

  At this moment, though, it seemed as though her prayers had been answered. She’d asked for an aristocrat, and Lord Zachary Griffin had practically sprung to life on her doorstep. And with him, her way out of Wiltshire.

  Chapter 3

  Her sisters joined the parade of people and luggage as Witfeld Manor’s unexpected house guests were shown to private rooms, but Caroline climbed the back stairs to the third floor and her conservatory.

  The large turret-shaped room with its half circle of bow windows had previously been Edmund Witfeld’s study, his refuge from the female horde. She’d been the only one allowed to join him there, and as her interest and skill in painting had increased and her mother had seen a possibility for her unexpected talent to snare attention and income for the family and perhaps even an art-appreciating husband, Caroline had moved her studio into a corner of the room. Gradually she’d taken over more and more of it until two years ago her father had voluntarily and completely evacuated in favor of his smaller, if equally isolated, office on the ground floor behind the kitchen.

  She made straight for an unused sketch pad and carried it to one of the deep seats that circled half around the room beneath the windows. The conservatory gave her a good degree of light all day long, with perfect morning sun for painting and sketching subjects until just after noon.

  At the moment, she didn’t want to paint. She wanted to sketch. Under normal circumstances she liked to have her subjects pose for the preliminary sketches, and at the very least she needed to observe
them for more than five minutes. Today, though, she scarcely remembered to breathe as her pencil scratched across the pad.

  This subject was different—not just because it was for the most important portrait she would ever paint but because not many men had ever sat for her. Her father, of course, and Lord Eades dressed as King Arthur and various other historical figures, and Mr. Anderton, the village solicitor, who’d wanted a confidence-inspiring portrait of himself for his office. All older men, and men with whom she had been acquainted all her life.

  Her hands, however, didn’t share any of her mind’s hesitation. With quick, short strokes she formed the overall shape of Lord Zachary’s head, then feathered in the dark, wavy hair. She generally didn’t attempt the eyes without her subject being in front of her, but when she closed her own eyes she could see his clearly, light gray and amused despite the straight, sensual line of his mouth. They were remarkable eyes. Unforgettable.

  The conservatory door rattled and opened. Sisters began bouncing and skipping into the room, all of them chattering so fast and so loudly that they couldn’t possibly be listening to anyone but themselves.

  She tucked her pencil behind her ear, quickly stifling her abrupt annoyance as she closed her sketch pad. “Will you please be quiet? You’re going to shatter the windows.”

  Julia sat beside her. “But didn’t you see him?”

  Susan dragged over the painting stool and joined them. “He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever set eyes on,” she breathed.

  Grace plunked down on her other side. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice him, Caro.”

  “Of course I noticed him. I’d like to sketch him, I think. The letter from Monsieur Tannberg requested the portrait of an aristocrat. And he is definitely an aristocrat.” She would have known that, she thought, even without hearing anyone calling him “my lord.” His bearing, his confidence, the light in his eyes—she would have known.

  “I’d like to sketch him, too,” Joanna said, giggling.

  “Or make a model out of clay,” Julia suggested, her fair cheeks darkening.

  “Oh, yes, clay,” Joanna seconded with a breathy sigh. “I could shape him with my hands.”

  Violet made a face. “You make a model. I want to marry him.”

  “You’re barely fifteen, silly girl. He’ll never marry you with the rest of us here.” Julia gave a condescending laugh.

  “He won’t marry you, either,” Violet grumbled. “Caro’s the oldest. She has to get married first.”

  A low, uneasy flutter ran through Caroline’s stomach. “I’m not marrying anyone,” she stated, keeping her gaze on her closed sketch pad. He was in there, and she wanted to go back to working on him. “And you all know it. I’m going to the Tannberg Studio and paint portraits and travel the world.”

  “Well, if he stays until after you go to Vienna, then I can marry him,” Susan put in.

  “He has to ask you first, Susan.” Julia shrugged. “Besides, he’s probably betrothed to someone else already. How could he not be, handsome as he is? And wealthy, too, from the look of that carriage and his fine clothes. And another carriage with their luggage and servants is following.”

  “Mama said he’s not married.” Violet still looked annoyed that her marriage plans had been so swiftly thwarted. “And he is wealthy. And he has two older brothers. They’re not married, either.”

  “He has two brothers?” Clapping, Grace shot to her feet. “That’s husbands for three of us. I’m going to talk to Mama.”

  “You don’t even know him,” Caroline protested. “Or his brothers. How do you know you want to marry any of them?”

  “You don’t know anything, Caro, unless it’s on canvas,” Susan returned. “So don’t criticize us.”

  Well, that was hardly fair. “I—”

  “Yes, you can be an old spinster. I want to get married.” Joanna bounded to her feet again. “Come on, let’s ask Mama.”

  In a flash of muslin skirts, the conservatory emptied. Caroline shook her head, removed the pencil from behind her ear, and flipped open her sketch pad again.

  “So you’re not interested at all?”

  Caroline jumped. “Anne,” she exclaimed. “I thought you were going down to hear the Griffin family history.”

  “I already know it.” The pretty seventeen-year-old, her honey-colored hair piled atop her head, crossed the room to sit beside her. “Unlike certain other members of the household, I read the news and Society pages instead of just looking at the fashion plates. The oldest Griffin brother is the Duke of Melbourne.”

  Caroline’s heart stopped, then began hammering again. “Oh, goodness. He’s one of those Griffins?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “But they’re…famous.”

  “And extremely wealthy. Mama was correct about that. So I repeat: You’re not interested at all?”

  “In him? Of course I am. If I can secure a Griffin on canvas, Monsieur Tannberg will have to take me on. It’s only a shame the Duke of Melbourne didn’t come instead. I’d get into Thomas Lawrence’s studio if I painted him.”

  “Lawrence’s studio rejected you.”

  “The Duke of Melbourne’s portrait would make them reconsider.”

  Anne shook her head indulgently. “You are very single-minded.”

  “Honestly, Anne, do you think it matters whether I might be interested in Lord Zachary or not? For heaven’s sake, with his family’s pedigree he could marry Prinny’s daughter if he wanted. I doubt that with a choice of hundreds of eligible young Society ladies he would choose a Witfeld girl.” She chuckled. “Even Susan.”

  “Don’t tell her that.” Anne looked at the sketch. “I can see who it is you’re drawing, already. And he is very handsome.”

  “And thank goodness for that. But pleasant or frog-faced, painting him is more important than marrying him.”

  Anne kissed her on the cheek and stood. “To you, yes. I, however, don’t paint.”

  “Does that mean you’re joining the fox hunt, as well?” Caroline asked, a little disappointed in her usually pragmatic younger sister, if not all that surprised.

  “Well, someone has to catch the fox. I’ll run with the other hounds for a bit, so at least I’ll have a good view of the proceedings.”

  “Mm hm. Best of luck, then.”

  Caroline watched her sister out the door. It didn’t bode well for family harmony if even sensible Anne was mooning after Lord Zachary. Of course he was undeniably attractive, but she had no intention of marrying anyone—much less a lord. Marriage meant gossiping, doing embroidery, buying clothes, anything to fill up the waste of useless, endless days. That might be what the rest of her sisters wanted for themselves, but she would rather die.

  However handsome he was, she needed—wanted—him for one thing only: His likeness on a canvas that was going to arrive in Vienna by the twentieth of the month.

  Caroline Witfeld was staring at him again. Zachary tried to ignore it, a feat that should have been easy amid the cacophony of questions being thrown in his direction, but every time he looked around the table to avoid excluding any members of the huge family from the conversation, her gaze was on him.

  If she’d conversed it would have been less noticeable, but all she seemed interested in was staring. In truth, perhaps he looked at her more frequently than he did at the others, but Caroline Witfeld was the only chit he didn’t have to keep at bay with a pitchfork. And the flecks of brown in her green eyes…Zachary shook himself. Losing concentration here could lead to some very sticky entanglements, multiplied by seven.

  “Lord Zachary, is it true that you have two older brothers?” one of the twin Witfeld girls asked.

  He finished his bite of roasted chicken and nodded. “Yes. Charlemagne and Mel—”

  “And all of you are unmarried?”

  No wonder just about everyone at the table had finished their dinner except for him. He didn’t have time to get words out or food in. “Melbourne is a widower, but yes, technica
lly we’re all—”

  “Mama said that your sister recently married the Marquis of Deverill. Is that true?”

  Zachary sighed. “Yes, last month in Scot—”

  “How do you like your chicken, Lord Zachary?”

  The two bites he’d managed had been cold by the time he’d gotten to them. “It’s quite delicious. Thank y—”

  “Chicken is my favorite, as well, isn’t it, Anne? Do you like to waltz?”

  And the oldest girl kept staring at him. This was beginning to be annoying. “I enjoy dan—”

  “We had a private tutor teach us all the latest dances. The assembly rooms at Trowbridge are fabulous for balls and soirees. They put up silver ribbons and balloons.”

  Zachary was beginning an internal debate—not something he generally wasted time on—over whether it was more rude to stare or to interrupt. He enjoyed a good conversation, and definitely a good meal, but though he’d been gazed at admiringly before, he couldn’t remember so…intense or extended a look before now.

  “Lord Zachary, do—”

  “Lord Zachary, how—”

  “My lord, did—”

  He set down his fork with a clatter and turned to face her. “Miss Witfeld, is something troubling you?”

  The corners of her eyes crinkled as she gazed back at him. “No, my lord.”

  He noted that the rest of the horde stopped peppering the air with questions. They stopped talking altogether, as a matter of fact. Even Mr. Witfeld, who’d been ignoring the female cacophony in favor of his roasted potatoes, stopped a forkful halfway to his mouth. “Oh. Good, then,” Zachary muttered, disconcerted at the abrupt silence, and went back to his meal.