An Invitation to Sin

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Ah. You’re being gentlemanly. I thought perhaps you’ve been paying attention to me simply because I’m the one sister whose name you can remember,” she said smartly.

  “It would be easier if all of you wore your names on your sleeves,” he admitted with a grin. After all, it was the truth. “I thought portraitists were quiet and refined.”

  She flushed scarlet. “I—you—I am,” she stated. “You are very trying.”

  “And you are quite unique,” he returned, realizing he’d stumbled on the perfect word to describe this talented, odd, outspoken chit.

  “‘Unique,’” she repeated.

  “Yes. And where I come from, uniqueness is—”

  “Unique?”

  Zachary chuckled. “I was going to say ‘unusual,’ which isn’t much better. I hope my interest doesn’t offend you, but I truly would like to know which artists’ studio you’ve applied to. If you won’t tell me which one, might you at least give me a clue about where it’s located? I’ve been a great many places. Perhaps I could recommend a nice inn, or a park nearby.”

  He was certain he heard a faint snort. “Vienna,” she said after a moment, and continued toward the mercantile store.

  “Vienna,” he said, masking his surprise. “Lovely town. Cold in the winter.”

  “I could have told you that, and I’ve never been there.”

  No, he wouldn’t have described her as reserved, though she did seem to be trying—which made interfering practically irresistible. “To be honest, I never have, either. I was hoping you’d say London, or Venice.”

  Her feet hesitated. “You’ve been to Venice?”

  “On my Grand Tour. Rome, Paris, Athens, and everywhere in between. I stayed to the south, where it was warmer.”

  “So you saw David?” her quiet voice asked.

  “I assume you mean the statue?” he returned, sensing that he’d found another weak spot in her armor. Humor and statuary. Hm. “Yes, I did. And the Sistine Chapel. The—”

  She turned around again, seizing his sleeve. “Was it marvelous?”

  He hesitated. This was generally the moment when his brothers began asking him about the selection of wines and the quality of women he’d encountered during his travels across Europe. In fact, when he’d returned to England he’d swiftly come to the conclusion that he’d erred in spending so much of his time viewing antiquities and famous works of art, despite the fact that he couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed himself so greatly.

  The favorite joke at his expense from both Shay and Sebastian, and even Eleanor, had been his interest in the quality and quantity of the food more than anything else. After a few days of annoyance and frustration he’d shrugged and given in, deciding it was easier to accept the teasing than to keep protesting it—especially when he couldn’t really explain why he’d been so captivated by what he’d seen. It had been damned out of character for him, though at the moment he was glad for it.

  At least he had more in common with the unique Miss Witfeld than a sense of humor. Of course she would want to know about the artworks he’d seen. She expected that he would have an opinion about what he’d seen, and she actually wanted to hear it—which meant he had to be honest about it for once. And that made him surprisingly uncomfortable.

  “When I visited the Louvre,” he admitted slowly, “I stood for nearly an hour looking at Michelangelo’s painting, the Mona Lisa. Have you heard of it?”

  Caroline drew a sharp breath. “Of course I have. I’ve seen sketches and copies, but to see the actual…Would you please tell me your impression of it?”

  Pretending not to notice the way she’d twined her hand around his arm, Zachary pulled open the door to the mercantile store with his free hand. “I don’t know how much my impressions are worth, but I would be pleased to.”

  She nearly stumbled in the doorway, and he pulled her closer against his side to keep her upright. He couldn’t remember ever meeting a woman as focused as she was—and his sister, Eleanor, was famous for her single-mindedness.

  Zachary hid the smile that wanted to touch his mouth. “What was it that your father wanted you to get for him again?”

  “What?” Caroline blinked, as if suddenly realizing where they were. “Oh. Hello, Mr. Mullen,” she greeted the burly man behind the counter. “Did Papa’s modeling clay come in?”

  The shopkeeper nodded. “It did indeed, Miss Witfeld. And so did those sketch pads you ordered from London.”

  She grinned, the expression lighting her green eyes. “Oh, that’s splendid. How much do I owe you?”

  “Thirty shillings.”

  Putting the money on the counter, she accepted the flat bundle which must have been the sketch pads, and then reached for the damp, burlap-wrapped brick of clay. Zachary stepped in and intercepted it. “Allow me.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  He caught the straightening of the shopkeeper’s shoulders as Miss Witfeld addressed him. If the village was as company-starved as Caroline and his aunt had indicated, the news of his presence would make for an interesting afternoon.

  Unfortunately for Mr. Mullen, though, probably half of Trowbridge already knew Zachary was in the area by the time he and Caroline emerged from the shop. The sisters ranged up and down the street calling for him and for Caroline, though he heard his name uttered much more frequently.

  “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “Silly geese.” She waved her free arm. “Grace, Susan, we’re right here.”

  In a second they were surrounded again, all of them noisily blaming Caroline for stealing him away. “Ladies,” he broke in, “I’m merely here to tote purchases.” With a glance at Caroline’s dubious expression, he relieved her of the sketch pads. “Allow me to put these and your packages in the barouche, and then you can show me the next sight.”

  The mound of cloth bolts and bonnets, in addition to the heavy clay and paper, nearly broke him, but he managed to make it to the carriage and the waiting driver. Together they stowed the purchases in the back compartment and fastened them down. That done, he turned around to find all the girls watching his backside. He could include Caroline in their number, though her interest was probably purely artistic.

  “Shall we?” he suggested as he rejoined the group.

  “Oh, the bakery!”

  “No, the sweet shop!”

  “I still need a new brooch for my shawl!”

  So this was how he was supposed to prove he could be patient and responsible, though where the young ladies were concerned, it was definitely his patience being tested more than any sense of responsibility. Shay and Melbourne would be laughing to split their sides if they knew what he was up to. Still, at least the Witfeld household was more lively than the community he was likely to find in Bath.

  Offering an arm to each of the twins and finding that he still preferred the company of the sister who only seemed to want to hear about art, he inclined his head. “Lead away, ladies.”

  Chapter 6

  If she hadn’t feared how far it would push even Zachary Griffin’s definition of professional behavior, Caroline would have banged her head against the sketch pad. “Joanna, please don’t stand right in front of Lord Zachary,” she said, hoping no one could hear her teeth grinding.

  Joanna glared over her shoulder. “We’re chatting. I can’t very well stand behind him to talk. It wouldn’t be polite.”

  Blowing out her breath, Caroline stood and, for the fourth time, dragged her stool through the grass to a new location. Usually she practically had to resort to bribery to get any of her sisters to sit for her while she sketched; today, none of them would leave.

  Zachary Griffin sat on a stone bench in the midst of the Witfeld sisters and held court. Of course it probably didn’t look all that regal and haughty to him—he was no doubt used to being fawned over, the focus of absolutely everyone’s attention.

  “Which profile do you prefer?” he asked, putting his fingers to his chin and turning his face to the left
and then to the right.

  “If you’re speaking to me, I’m trying to sketch your hands,” she said succinctly. “I don’t need your head.”

  “Caro!” Julia chastised. “Don’t listen to her, Lord Zachary. I think both profiles are very handsome.”

  The duke’s brother, though, gazed at Caroline as he chuckled. He’d done a great deal of looking at her, first this morning in town, then during luncheon, and so far during the entire time they’d been out in the garden. She didn’t know how he managed it without appearing to ignore her sisters, but every time she caught him looking at her, all she could think about was how he’d kissed her, and how it still made her face warm. And he liked her laugh, of all things.

  “So tell me, ladies,” he drawled, “does Miss Witfeld speak to all her portrait subjects in such a…direct manner?”

  “No,” Violet offered, shaking her head. “She’s usually very professional.”

  Wonderful. He and her own sisters had her so frazzled that she’d landed on the verge of ruining her own future. After all, she needed Zachary’s letter of approval as much as she needed his likeness on canvas. If they would all just…cooperate a little.

  “I apologize, then,” she said stiffly. “But Grace, will you please—”

  “Excuse me, Miss Witfeld,” the butler said, appearing at the head of the path, “but your mother has visitors. She has requested all of you to join her in the drawing room. You as well, my lord.”

  Susan swept to her feet. “Who is visiting us, Barling?”

  When Barling’s eye twitched in response to the question, Caroline knew immediately who it must be. “Mrs. Gorman,” she supplied, tucking her pencil behind her ear. Blast it all, by the time Portia Gorman left the house, she would have lost every iota of sunlight.

  “And Miss Mary Gorman,” Barling added, nodding.

  Julia and Joanna began giggling. “It didn’t even take them a full day to come calling,” Julia chortled.

  “Oh, hurry, I want a good seat to get a look at Mary’s face when she sees our new houseguest.” Joanna led the stampede around the house and toward the front door.

  Caroline stood, tucking the sketch pad under her arm. A moment later, though, someone pulled it free from behind her.

  “Anything I should know?” Zachary asked conversationally, lifting the pad to look at it. Whether he was impressed or repulsed she couldn’t tell, but he did gaze at the various sketches of his hands for several hard beats of her heart.

  “Drink as many fluids as you can manage,” she said, forcing her voice to sound light and uncaring, as though she didn’t give a hang what his opinion of her work might be. “That may prove to be your only means of escape.”

  He laughed. “Thank you for the advice.” Zachary handed back her sketch pad as they reached the front door. “I suppose you’ll be hiding in your tower?”

  “I don’t hide,” she retorted. “I’m working.” In a house full of noise and silliness and distraction, how else was she supposed to accomplish anything except by putting a door or a floor between it and her?

  “I thought you needed me for your work,” he commented, allowing her mother to snatch his arm as they entered the house. A second later he was gone into the cacophony of the drawing room.

  Caroline stood for a moment gazing at the half-open door. Even though it was Portia and Mary Gorman who’d caused the delay this time, the result was the same. She’d lost another few hours of the limited time remaining for her to complete her Vienna application. And amusing as he was, she would have appreciated it if Lord Zachary had given her requests a little more weight than he had Grace’s plea for assistance in holding her hats.

  Well, if he allowed himself to be pulled this way and that, it was his business, she supposed. Her life wasn’t that aimless, thank God. She headed upstairs. She had a rough model of a man to assemble on paper.

  As Sally Witfeld dragged him into the drawing room to show him off to the neighbors, Zachary glimpsed Caroline outside the door. He couldn’t hear it over the din of female voices surrounding him, but he imagined she was pacing, angry that her family could be so frivolous as to want to spend an afternoon gossiping.

  The rest of the Witfeld sisters didn’t seem to have any problem with that pastime. It was becoming painfully obvious to him that what Caroline Witfeld truly needed was a hot, sweaty romp in the bedsheets. That should satisfy her unusual need for being occupied.

  He shook himself. Christ. She was a friend of the family. Untouchable. And aside from that, it hadn’t even occurred to her that he was a man until he’d bumbled in and kissed her.

  “Is it true, my lord, that your sister just married the Marquis of Deverill?”

  Before Zachary could answer the shy squeak of Mary Gorman, a half dozen Witfeld chits jumped in to do it for him. Sighing, he managed a smile he didn’t feel. The Witfeld girls thought they knew him well enough to carry on his conversation for him. Perhaps they did. As far as he knew he didn’t have any hidden depths. No one else thought he did, anyway. Caroline was no doubt finishing his likeness as he sat there. She probably didn’t even require his presence. He glanced at Aunt Tremaine, to find her eyeing him over the rim of her teacup. “What?” he mouthed.

  She lifted both eyebrows and returned to the conversation. Whatever she was up to, he didn’t know, and likely didn’t want to know.

  What he did know was that these chits’ lives must all have been astoundingly dull if they could find him so incredibly interesting.

  Zachary seized on the thought. If it was true for the rest of the Witfeld girls, it was probably true for Caroline. She was bored, and being a slightly more discerning…breed than her sisters, she’d turned to art rather than clothes and gossip for something with which to occupy herself. He could certainly help her stay occupied.

  A smile curved his mouth, and he hurriedly quashed it. Stop it, Zach. A bit of teasing and flirting was one thing, but he wouldn’t stray beyond that.

  What was it about her, anyway? Any of the other girls would literally bend over forwards or backwards to please him. Of course they would expect something in return—and that thing would be marriage. Perhaps that was the attraction of Caroline. She didn’t want to marry. No traps, no entanglements. And her soft lips tasted like warm summer strawberries.

  If she asked him to engage in a flirtation, hell, it would be ungentlemanly to refuse a lady’s request. So all he needed to do was to get her to view him as more than hands and ears and a painting on canvas. Taking another swallow of watery Madeira, Zachary surveyed the crowded room. According to his brother, by the time he returned to London he needed to have demonstrated that he could show some responsibility and patience. And simply escorting his aunt didn’t seem likely to qualify. He was certain that was how Melbourne would see it.

  There was, however, another possibility for him to prove himself. Caroline wasn’t the only one who could benefit from his presence. If any of the Witfeld girls wanted to marry—which they obviously did—someone was going to have to whip the household into shape.

  He wondered what Wellington would make of seeing the Witfeld house reform project on a Griffin resumé. This time Zachary couldn’t help his grin. Hell, if he could organize the Witfelds, Bonaparte would be easy.

  How to go about it, though?

  At this point, the hows and wherefores really didn’t even matter. A Griffin had decided on a course of action; Griffins always succeeded in their endeavors, no matter how large or small. And this Griffin had a great deal to prove, both to his family and to himself. He was training a dog; this couldn’t be any more difficult.

  A walking cane thwacked him on the knee, and Aunt Tremaine sank onto the couch beside him. “Ouch,” he yelped, stifling the sound as best he could.

  “I’m writing your brother tomorrow to tell him we’ll be delaying here for a fortnight or so.”

  “That’s fine,” he returned in a low voice, nodding at something one of the twins was saying, though he didn’t have a clue
what she was jabbering about. “I don’t actually think he cares where we are, as long as I don’t have access to the Horse Guards in London.”

  “I’m not holding you prisoner,” she returned, her voice tighter. “You have a horse; ride back to London if that’s where you want to be.”

  That would only demonstrate that Melbourne was right; he couldn’t see any task through to its conclusion. And like a child he had to prove he could do one thing before he was allowed to try another. But none of that was his aunt’s fault. With a deep breath Zachary reached over to cover her plump hand. “Melbourne assigned me a task. I’ll see it through. Besides, I enjoy your company.”

  She smiled. “I am glad. I certainly enjoy yours.”

  Aside from that, if Zachary couldn’t manage something as simple as tagging after Aunt Tremaine, Sebastian would move heaven and earth to prevent him from getting near a military uniform. “Then we leave together.”

  “I thought you’d be in raptures with so many young ladies fawning over you, anyway,” Aunt Tremaine said, humor returning to her tone. “Are you certain they’re not the reason you’re so amenable to staying on?”

  He eyed her. They were exactly why, but not for the reason she thought. Still…“Firstly, you told me to leave them be, and secondly, you said you weren’t matchmaking.”

  “I’m not. I’m merely pointing out the merits of the local scenery. Scenery. For looking at.”

  “Yes, well, the scenery’s lovely—and rather chatty. I can scarcely get a word in edgewise.”

  She laughed. “A rare phenomenon for you.”

  “Don’t worry, Auntie. I have a plan.”

  It was her turn to become suspicious. “What sort of plan?”

  “Never you mind. By the end of your visit, all of the Witfeld sisters will be thanking me.”

  “Zachary, that doesn’t sound terribly promising.”