An Invitation to Sin

by Suzanne Enoch

  Caroline strolled away, not to try to talk some sense into her sisters—that would only make things worse—but to pretend for a moment that she didn’t know them. Luckily she came upon Frank Anderton. “Good evening,” she said, forcing a smile and pretending she wasn’t mightily annoyed.

  “Caroline. I’ve met your houseguest,” the solicitor said. “He seems very gentlemanlike.”

  She couldn’t very well say anything disparaging about Zachary until she’d sent off his portrait, and she’d pressed her luck with retaining his cooperation far enough this evening, anyway. She nodded. “And my mother has been quite happy to see Lady Gladys Tremaine again.”

  “I hope you’ll save a dance for me, Caroline.”

  “Certainly I will. With pleasure.”

  Unable to help herself, she glanced over her shoulder at Zachary. He was surrounded by guests and regaling his rapt audience with some undoubtedly amusing tale or other. Oh, he was very good at entertaining people, at lighting up a room with his mere presence, but it wasn’t his good humor or his warmth she questioned as much as it was his resolve and patience and his sense of responsibility. After all, he seemed to regard taking a walk about the grounds in her sisters’ company with the same general interest and easy nonchalance he devoted to posing for her, and from what she’d seen of Harold, the animal was more fit for the zoo than for a gentleman’s companion—not that she blamed Harold for that.

  Obviously Zachary didn’t understand anything—not her, not her sisters, and certainly not the importance of this portrait. Caroline clenched her fist. If he didn’t occasionally share those personal confidences with her or show more insight into art than anyone else she knew, then for all she cared, as soon as the portrait was finished, Zachary Griffin could fall into the pond and drown.

  Well, perhaps not drown, but at least go away. Or he could stay and marry any one of her sisters, because she would be in Vienna living her dream. And she certainly knew that her dreams—her waking ones, anyway—didn’t include him.

  Chapter 11

  Caroline managed to avoid Zachary for the next two hours, which wasn’t easy because everyone she wished to chat with had joined his ever-growing circle of admirers. Of course as a professional portraitist she should have been diplomatic and polite and bland with him from the beginning, but it was obviously too late for that. Thankfully for her portrait application, he seemed to like her uncharacteristically sharp tongue, but she wished he would stop encouraging her to use it.

  “Caroline!”

  She jumped, hurrying through the crowd to her mother’s side. “Yes, Mama? Are you tired? Do you wish to return home?”

  “Nonsense, girl. Lord Zachary was just saying he’s danced with all of the Witfeld sisters except for you.”

  At the same moment a warm hand ran down her bare arm to clasp her fingers. “I was only pointing out a sad fact,” his easy drawl came, “though I’m hopeful we can remedy my misfortune.”

  “Of course you can, my lord,” Mrs. Witfeld said. “Go dance with him, Caroline.”

  “But—”

  “There,” her mother countered as the orchestra began playing. “The last waltz of the evening is beginning. Don’t keep Lord Zachary waiting.”

  Clenching her jaw, Caroline acquiesced to Zachary’s gentle tug on her hand. She’d plainly been outmaneuvered. Together they wound their way to the dance floor.

  “It was hardly necessary to involve my mother,” she said, pretending not to notice his warm hand sliding around her waist as he drew her around to face him. “I agreed to dance with you.”

  “This is the last waltz of the evening,” he returned with an easy smile, “and you seemed very determined to be half the room away from me.”

  So he had noticed her avoidance. They stepped into the waltz. She’d seen him dancing all evening and knew he was skilled and graceful, but being in his arms as they swept about the room was a different experience entirely. “You exaggerate,” she said, exhilaration turning the ends of her sentences up. Feet on the floor, Caroline, she reminded herself. Don’t forget why you’re here. “I wasn’t avoiding you; I was chatting with my friends.”

  “Well, now you’ll just have to chat with me for a few minutes.”

  “Certainly,” she ventured, making herself smile, hoping she could conceal how deeply…frustrated he made her feel. It was very like her problem with his painting; she kept seeking, wanting something she couldn’t quite grasp. “I only thought you’d appreciate spending time with someone other than a Witfeld, since we’ve practically kept you hostage for the past week.”

  He gazed down at her for several turns. “Stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Being nice when you’re annoyed.”

  “Beg pardon? I’m being polite, just as any young lady would be expected to do.”

  “What happened to your ‘lack of convention’ tack? I liked that better.”

  “I don’t want you to get angry and refuse to pose for me.”

  He chuckled, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “With the exception of my family, people of my acquaintance have made an art of telling me what they think I want to hear. I’ve been feted and flattered nearly into oblivion since I attended my first social gathering. I gave my permission for you to paint me. I’m not going to take it away because you choose to speak your mind. I’ll be thankful if you speak your mind, Caro—Miss Witfeld.”

  In a way that made sense: With the way he waltzed through life, other people’s criticisms probably never even touched him. Or if they did, he would more than likely simply adapt his dance to please them once more. Well, now her challenge would be to be direct and diplomatic at the same time. She could tell him what she thought, as long as it wasn’t everything she thought—particularly about him, both good and bad. “In that case,” she began, mentally crossing her fingers, “why did you really encourage my sisters to pursue Martin Williams?”

  He nodded, apparently expecting the question. “Because they seem to want to marry.”

  “And you’re removing yourself from consideration.”

  A smile curved his mouth. “Could I court one of them without causing a bloodbath?”

  Despite the violence of his words, his smile had her thinking of his kiss again. “Would you court any of them?”

  “I’m about to join the army. I’m not marrying anyone.”

  He’d managed to avoid insulting the rather diluted aristocratic blood of the Witfelds, anyway. At times she wondered if he had a mean bone in his body. He certainly seemed to have passion—and compassion—but where was his drive, his strength of character? Did he ever get angry, want anything enough to fight for it? She doubted he’d ever faced those questions, or had any sort of answer for them.

  “You mentioned your plans before,” she said, noting how many of the assembly guests were watching her—or rather, him. “Why the delay?”

  “My brother asked me to escort Aunt Tremaine to Bath.”

  She declined to note that Trowbridge definitely wasn’t Bath. “But you have another brother, do you not?” she asked instead.

  Zachary lifted an eyebrow. “Melbourne asked me to do it. Besides, you wouldn’t have wanted to paint Charlemagne.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m prettier and less stubborn.” He grinned. “And since we’re asking questions, why did your mother introduce Lord and Lady Eades to me by saying they had offered you a governess position?”

  Wonderful. So he knew about her darkest nightmare. “Because they offered me one.”

  “I thought all of Wiltshire knew you were going to Vienna.”

  Caroline cleared her throat. “Lord and Lady Eades are somewhat eccentric.”

  “Yes, I noticed.”

  “We try to humor them.” Honest as he claimed to want her to be, she had no intention of letting him know just how vital his cooperation was to her. He had enough power over her as it was. And she had enough trouble concentrating when he was clo
se without giving him even more influence.

  “Caroline?”

  She blinked. “Apologies. I was just thinking I’d like to start painting you tomorrow.”

  “About that. If you wanted to paint a nobleman, I was just wondering why you didn’t select Lord Eades.”

  Caroline made a face. “I have done his portrait. Both of theirs, actually. I would rather not have a studio decide whether to accept me or not based on a portrait of Earl and Countess Eades as Antony and Cleopatra.”

  Zachary laughed. “I’d like to see the paintings you’ve done of them.”

  “I imagine they’d be happy to invite you to dine with them.”

  “They already have. Are you free tomorrow evening? I imagine they could manage that.”

  “Me?” she yelped. “I didn’t mean I should accompany—”

  He pulled her a breath closer. “Is your objection to visiting the Eades, or to accompanying me to visit them?”

  “Neither. I only have eight days to paint and package you off to Vienna. I don’t have time for visiting, or for dancing.”

  It seemed a good exclamation point to their conversation. She tried to pull away, but in response he tightened his grip a little.

  “Since you’re already here,” he murmured, “we might as well finish our waltz, Caroline.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  As he gazed at her she sensed it again, that very sexy interior beneath the veneer of easy compatibility. Zachary Griffin generally got what he wanted. And uncertain as his focus was, at the moment he was looking directly at her. Warmth spiraled down her spine.

  How could he have that effect on her, when she viewed him strictly as a means to an end? She needed his face, and that was only to get her to Vienna. As for the rest of him, yes, he had very nice musculature and no, she wouldn’t have objected to seeing more of it, but she refused to be interested in someone whose companionship would preclude her from attaining what she wanted for herself.

  That conclusion did nothing to explain the rapid beat of her heart or why tonight she already knew she would dream of his mouth on hers. It was warm and crowded in the assembly rooms, however, so perhaps she was just a little overset.

  “Miss Witfeld,” he drawled softly.

  She shook herself again. For heaven’s sake, she was never this distracted unless she was painting. Caroline met his gray gaze. “What is it?”

  “The waltz is finished.”

  And there the two of them stood in the middle of the dance floor, hand in hand and his arm close around her waist. Her cheeks heated. “Of course the waltz is finished,” she blurted. “You’re the one who insisted that we dance. Are you satisfied now?”

  “That’s a very complicated question.” As he spoke he shifted her hand to his sleeve and started toward the refreshment table and her mother. Even with all the attention he drew, the end of the crowded dance was so chaotic that she doubted anyone had noticed them standing there in frozen silence. “And by the by,” he continued quietly, “you’re not packing me off to Vienna. I’m staying right here. My painting is going. Could you keep the difference in mind?”

  Her back stiffened. “Yes, I believe so.”

  As soon as he could do so without appearing to be rude, Zachary left Caroline with her mother and went to get a drink. He liked Caroline; he liked her directness and her focus. Their conversation during the waltz, though, had made something clear—something he’d suspected but was now certain about. Caroline Witfeld saw him as a collection of parts—his profile, his head, his hands—but she either didn’t realize that he was an actual flesh-and-blood man, or she didn’t want to see him that way. And whether he pointed the reality out or not, he remained unconvinced that she grasped the difference.

  He frowned as he downed a glass of claret. Women liked him; the rest of the Witfeld girls certainly liked him. And he’d kissed Caroline and taken his shirt off to demonstrate that he wasn’t just a cravat and jacket that lay in a closet until she wanted to sketch him. She’d noticed something about him; she was the one who’d approached him about the portrait, after all. He’d just been polite and agreed. Of course he’d also begun to have the sneaking suspicion that his only necessary qualification where she was concerned was that he didn’t insist on being painted in historical costume.

  “There you are, lad.” Edmund Witfeld clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve been busy this evening, haven’t you?”

  Zachary smiled. “You have a great many daughters who all enjoy dancing.”

  “Yes, I do.” Witfeld gestured at the man beside him, and Mr. Anderton stepped forward. “You’ve met Frank, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have. Good evening again.”

  “My lord.”

  “Anderton and I thought you might like a bit of a change after a week in the henhouse, so to speak,” Witfeld continued. “Perhaps a day of sport fishing?”

  “There’s a perfect spot about five miles north,” the solicitor added. “Largest trout in the county.”

  A day without having to dispense lessons—which the girls obviously needed more of, considering the scene with the near dismemberment of Martin Williams—sounded like just what he needed. In addition, Caroline needed a lesson herself in the difference between a portrait and what lay beneath the paint, and taking a day to demonstrate that was too good an opportunity to pass up. “I’d love a little sport fishing. My thanks.”

  “We’ll set out at daybreak.”

  “I’ll be ready.” Zachary finished off his claret. Finally he had something to look forward to without the accompanying frustration and exasperation that marked all his sessions with Caroline. Yes, tomorrow would be a nice little holiday.

  Caroline set her canvas out on its tripod stand and clamped it down. She would have preferred not to begin painting the morning after being out so late, but she was running out of time. Lady Eades had even approached her last evening to say what an aptitude her son Theodore seemed to have for art, and how generous they would be toward the right teacher.

  That in and of itself would have been enough incentive for her to stop her preliminary sketching to pull out the paints, but however resolved she was, she still had the distinct impression that Zachary regarded her portrait painting as a hobby. It shouldn’t do so, but it annoyed her. He certainly treated their time together with the same lack of seriousness he showed his other appointments.

  Well, this would be her best work ever, and even he would have to acknowledge that. She went over to the window and adjusted the curtain a little. The light this morning was perfect. A low tremor of excitement and anticipation ran through her. True, she hadn’t found the exact perfect pose or angle or expression, but she fully meant to be inspired the moment she seated herself to begin work.

  She checked the clock, then sat down to flip through her sketch pad. Zachary was late, but then that wasn’t anything new. According to the schedule, Violet had him next, and she could probably bribe her youngest sister for a little extra time. At least Anne had had enough foresight to grant her a full three hours today—despite a strenuous objection from Susan.

  His smile, his shoulder, the line of his jaw, the muscles of his thighs when he sat on horseback—any of his parts separately or together would make a fine painting. But setting spoke as loudly as facial expression, and her constant, nagging artist’s eye kept saying that perhaps her conservatory wasn’t the right setting for him. Out in the garden, though, she would never get a moment’s peace. The same applied to anywhere else they might go on the property. Her sisters would always find a vital reason to speak to him if they had the slightest opportunity to do so.

  The door opened, and she shook herself. “There you—”

  “I wanted to ask Zachary a question,” Joanna said, slipping inside the conservatory. “I’ll only take a sec—Where is he?”

  “He’s not here yet. And aren’t you having luncheon with him? Ask him then, Joanna.”

  “You’re very selfish. You have three entire hours
this morning. I only have one.”

  Actually her three hours had shrunk to two hours and forty-three minutes with no sign of her subject. “I didn’t make the schedule,” she returned. “And you all agreed to it, anyway.”

  “That was before he set all of us to chase after Martin Williams. Do you know that Martin claimed a headache and left after only three dances? Now none of us will have him.”

  “None of you had him, anyway. You always approach him like a mob of Catholic cardinals after a Jacobin.”

  “Well, perhaps so, but I’m not the one whose man hasn’t even made an appearance.”

  Caroline frowned. “He’s not my man, and if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find him.” She rose, setting the sketch pad on the stool and wondering whether she had stepped too far in speaking her mind last night. It was a fine line she had to tread, after all.

  Joanna hurried for the door behind her. “I’ll go with you.”

  From what Joanna had said, none of the Witfeld sisters was very pleased with Zachary this morning. Good. Perhaps his shiny veneer was beginning to wear off. It was about time. Too much more praise of his fine manners and handsome features, and she was going to vomit.

  “Barling,” she called, seeing the butler manning the front door, “where might I find Lord Zachary this morning?”

  “He is out, Miss Witfeld.”

  “Out? Out where?”

  “He and Mr. Witfeld and Mr. Anderton were to go sport fishing today, miss. They promised the cook a full basket of trout for dinner. Mrs. Landis is already making the butter sauce.”

  He wasn’t there. The morning she’d scheduled to begin the painting, he’d decided to go fishing. Fishing.

  “Did Papa say when they’d be back?” Joanna asked, her expression annoyed.

  Annoyed, though, didn’t begin to describe Caroline’s mood as she stood there trying not to gape at the butler. Damn Zachary.

  “I believe they were heading toward Shaverton, so I don’t expect them back until late this afternoon.”