An Invitation to Sin

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I don’t have the position yet, Papa,” she said, sinking into the chair opposite him. “Thank you so much for the offer, but I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You don’t have to ask.”

  She blinked back unexpected tears. She knew precisely how dear even twenty pounds could be to the family. And it made what she needed to tell him even more difficult. But it also made it more important. “Papa, I think I know why Melbourne is here.”

  “It’s not because of Dimidius?”

  “I think it’s because of me.”

  He closed the ledger again. “Do you know that Melbourne’s yearly income is rumored to be somewhere over a hundred thousand pounds?”

  Caroline blinked at the figure. “Wh—No, I didn’t. But what—”

  “However valuable Dimidius and her kind might turn out to be for us and for the finer tables of England, a yearly investment of a few thousand quid is not enough to ruffle that man’s feathers.”

  “I don’t—”

  He leaned forward, putting his hand over hers as she fiddled with his letter opener. “I may have been a bit preoccupied lately, but I’m not blind, my dear. I know His Grace isn’t here because of the cows.” Her father gave her fingers a squeeze and released her. “Now. Tell me whatever you will; I promise to listen quietly and be reasonable.”

  Oh, dear. She’d tried to think of her conversation with Zachary in academic, logical terms: He’d offered her an alternative to the path she’d chosen for herself, and she’d declined. Logic, though, couldn’t explain the ache in her chest at the thought of never seeing him, never chatting with him again. It didn’t explain much of anything so much as it seemed to provide an excuse. “Zachary asked…well, not precisely asked, but suggested…” she stumbled, her voice shaking, “he intimated that he would perhaps like to marry me.”

  For a moment the entire house seemed so quiet that she swore she could hear the grandfather clock ticking up in the library. “Good God,” her father finally said, his face paling. He cleared his throat. “I see. And your reply was?”

  Oh, was he disappointed? Even a tiny portion of a hundred thousand pounds would make life in Wiltshire so much easier. She reached for the level, logical part of herself she’d been leaning on so heavily today. “I told him that I wanted to be a portraitist, and that I couldn’t do that as any man’s wife, and I asked him not to ask me.”

  After a long moment her father nodded. “And he complied, I assume?”

  “Yes. But I wanted you to know that…that His Grace probably suspects something, and that he wants to make certain one of the precious Griffins isn’t going to wed someone of inferior standing.”

  “Caroline, I would set you up against any noblewoman in England, and you would come out the better,” he returned. “But I wouldn’t have you miserable in even the most advantageous marriage.”

  That was the thing. She hadn’t merely been speculating about her future if she married into the Griffin family, and the appearance of the Duke of Melbourne made that even more certain. He wouldn’t allow a female painter who insisted on having a studio and clients and her own income into the family, and she had no intention of giving up her dream.

  The problem, though, was that her waking dreams and her sleeping dreams were drifting further and further apart. And the idea that one day Zachary would marry someone else—someone not her—hurt almost more than she could stand. “You’re not angry, Papa?”

  “You have a dream, Caroline. I wouldn’t have you turn your back on it for anything in the world.” He leaned across the desk and squeezed her fingers. “But I want you to be certain. Marrying Zachary could open a great many doors for you.”

  “But it would close one very important door, wouldn’t it?” she returned, at the edge of begging him to agree with her—or to disagree with her. Oh, she didn’t know.

  He smiled. “The frustrating thing about doors, my dear, is that it’s difficult to know precisely what you’ll find on the other side until you’ve stepped through.”

  She stood. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  “It’s an interesting problem, to have too many choices. And I don’t think I can advise you to do anything but discover which path makes you happiest, and follow it.”

  Goodness. “Thank you, Papa. You’ve given me more to think about.” Her heart and her mind both full, Caroline mumbled something and escaped. She felt very much in need of a long, long walk. On her way down the hall, however, she spied Zachary lurking in the morning room next to the window. She stopped, debating whether she could face talking with him again. It would have been so much easier if she didn’t like him, admire him, trust him so much. But maybe he had the answer—no one else had ever caused her to ask herself such questions.

  “You’re looking very thoughtful,” she said, quoting his earlier lessons on how to impress a man and trying very hard to make her heart stop beating so hard before he heard it banging about. “Is something troubling you? I’d very much like to know what it is. Or I could fetch you some pie.”

  “Very amusing.” He gestured at her. “Come here and look at this.”

  Frowning, she joined him at the window. For a moment, she couldn’t move beyond the sensation of his solid warmth behind her, close enough to touch, to lean into, to lose herself inside. Steady, Caro. This wasn’t about losing herself; it was about finding a logical solution to her dilemma. Then, following the point of his finger, she spied her sister Susan leaning against an oak tree while Martin Williams stood speaking to her adamantly.

  “Are they fighting?”

  “She’s smiling. I think he may be declaring himself.”

  “You mean he’s proposing?”

  Zachary glanced at her before returning his gaze to the scene outside. “It does happen in the world. Men and women marry fairly frequently in fact, from what I’ve observed.”

  “Zachary—”

  “One sister out of six isn’t wonderful odds, but it’s early yet. I have high hopes that at least one or two other of your siblings might receive proposals in the next few weeks.”

  From Caroline’s expression she wasn’t sure whether to nod, flee, or yell at him. At the moment, though, Zachary didn’t have a great deal of sympathy for her. He was the one who’d been rejected, after all. And despite that, he couldn’t seem to stay away from her. He wasn’t even angry as much as he was frustrated. True, if they married he couldn’t see her going to Vienna, especially since his new business would obviously keep him in England, but neither would he expect her to stop painting once she put on his ring. How could she not feel the pull between them? And how could she ignore that, put it aside?

  “I hope you’re right,” was all she said, still gazing outside.

  He found himself wishing that he could paint her. He would have her posed just like she was now, still and thoughtful, her gaze out the window, to somewhere other than where she was. Would she be happy, he wondered, when she reached her destination? Thanks to her he’d reached his, and yet without her there, he found it lacking. “I love you,” he said quietly.

  Her face whipped up toward his, tears in her eyes. Then without a word she turned and left the room. For a long time he stood there, looking after her and wondering how his heart could continue beating with a gaping hole in his chest. He’d been rejected by chits before, but mostly because they’d found someone willing or eager to marry them, while he’d only been interested in some amusement. He’d never lost a woman to a bundle of paints and canvases before.

  “That went well,” he muttered, and headed for the liquor tray and the bottle of whiskey. It was definitely time for a drink.

  “Good morning, Miss Witfeld.”

  Caroline looked down at the foot of the stairs, grateful that it wasn’t Zachary who stood in the foyer looking up at her. The day before yesterday had very nearly been enough to kill her. “Lord Charlemagne.”

  “Zachary tells me there’s some fine fishing hereabouts.”

  Sh
e nodded. “The Wylye River is a few miles away. Izaak Walton wrote his Compleat Angler about it. Every river and stream in the area is well stocked.”

  “Well, that sounds too splendid to pass by. Have you seen either of my brothers?”

  “I believe His Grace is in the library. I haven’t seen Lord Zachary yet today.” She’d barely seen him over the past three days, though she could hardly blame him for that, since she’d been the one doing the avoiding. The last three words he’d said to her in private had kept her awake every night since then, tossing and turning in fits that swung from absolute euphoria to deepest despair. If only he’d been a penniless painter like herself. If only he lived in Vienna. If only he weren’t a Griffin.

  The front door slammed open, nearly sending Lord Charlemagne into the side table. “Caro!” Anne shrieked, doing a spin about the foyer before she bothered to look up the stairs.

  “What in heaven’s name is wrong?” Caroline asked, hurrying down to her sister as, with a graceful step, the middle Griffin brother moved backward, out of the way.

  “It’s here! It’s here!”

  “What’s h—”

  Her father came through the door, a box in his arms. “It’s from Vienna,” he said, his voice choked and his smile beaming.

  Oh. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Her hands shook so hard that she could only clench them together as she stared at the box. What could it be? The portrait? That made sense. They’d returned the original works she’d sent, the ones that had won her an application. Zachary’s portrait should go to Zachary, and the Tannberg studio wouldn’t have space to keep the work of every applicant. They were a business, not a gallery. Except that she wanted to take the painting with her to put in her room in Vienna. If she couldn’t have him, at least she could have his likeness. He hadn’t paid her for it, after all, and—

  “Shall we all go to the morning room?” her father prompted.

  She shook herself. For heaven’s sake, the most important moment of her life and she was lost in thoughts of someone else. “Yes, yes. We should fetch Mama.”

  “I’ll do it,” Anne said and bolted up the stairs, yelling.

  Dazed, Caroline followed her father into the morning room. She’d been expecting an answer since she’d sent an application, and the fact that the response had come a day early shouldn’t have thrown her so far out of her own skin. But it had, and now she was fighting her way back to reality so she wouldn’t begin sobbing like a simpering fool when she read the letter from Monsieur Tannberg.

  She took a seat, and her father set the box in her lap, bending to kiss her on the forehead before he sat in one of the chairs close by. Whether they’d all supported her dream or not, she felt deeply that her family should be present when she opened the box, and she waited as singly and in pairs they hurried into the room. The wait gave her the few moments she needed to compose herself, anyway.

  That composure faltered a little as Zachary slipped into the room, Charlemagne on his heels. Her sisters made more of a fuss when the Duke of Melbourne arrived, but though her gaze was on the box, half her attention remained on Zachary. He looked like he hadn’t done much sleeping, either.

  “Oh, goodness,” her mother tittered, sweeping into the room like a grande dame entering a ballroom, “I’m positively shaking with anticipation. Open it, Caro my dear, at once!”

  Caroline took a deep breath and let it out again. “Very well.”

  She pried open the box with the crow her father had provided. Beneath the layer of padded cloth she’d originally provided lay Zachary’s portrait, a folded letter on top of it. As she removed the painting and set it to lean against the chair beside her feet, she heard a murmured comment pass between Melbourne and the middle brother. It sounded like a compliment, but she was too nervous to pay any attention.

  Setting the box aside, she slid her finger beneath the wax seal of the letter and unfolded the stiff paper.

  “Read it out loud, Caro,” Anne urged, bouncing on her toes.

  Caroline cleared her throat. “‘Dear Miss Witfeld. When you submitted your application we were under the impression that you were a man. This studio is not in the…habit of hiring females.’” Her voice faltered, but the slow, dark feeling of nightmare sank into her, making her feel as though something, someone else entirely was forcing her to continue.

  “‘Your style is admirably clean and skillful, but with a typical female’s lack of sensibility you have idealized your subject beyond what is generally tolerated. We have returned said work. In our estimation you have a fair amount of skill, and we suggest you seek employment teaching painting to children as more befits an artist of your sex. With regards, Monsieur Raoul Tannberg, Tannberg Studios, Vienna.’”

  And so it was over. No fanfare, no drama, no hope for a future acceptance. The only studio that had asked for her application, and they’d thought she was a man. In truth, she had applied as M. Witfeld after twenty-six rejections. Perhaps in the back of her mind she’d done it on purpose, thinking, hoping that they would be so impressed with her work that her sex wouldn’t matter. Obviously it did.

  “Oh, Mr. Witfeld!” her mother cried, and fainted.

  In the ensuing chaos, Caroline sat where she was, reading the letter over and over again. She felt numb. After the first stab, nothing seemed able to touch her. In a sense she understood why the studio wouldn’t wish to hire a female; their success rested on having clients, and if clients disapproved of her, they would go elsewhere. But they’d asked to see her work, and she hadn’t actually lied about her identity. If they’d looked for clues, they would have found them.

  But as for saying that her portrait of Zachary was idealized, that was simply ridiculous. She’d drawn and painted him precisely as he was. It wasn’t her fault if he was exceptionally handsome, and it wasn’t her fault if his expression inspired admiration and confidence.

  A hand touched her shoulder. “Caroline?”

  She jumped at the low voice. Zachary. What was she supposed to say? That faced with the reality of having to work for Lord and Lady Eades, she would rather be married to him? The wording, the timing, sounded in her mind as awful as it felt in her heart.

  Zachary sat beside her, taking her clenched fist between his warm hands. So now he wasn’t even trying to hide that he favored her. Did he think she’d been backed into a corner? Did he want her to be forced into marrying him? Her thoughts flew so quickly that she couldn’t slow them long enough to compose a sentence. She wanted him to go away, and she wanted him to stay right there.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly.

  “Are you?”

  “I know how much you wanted this. Of course I’m sorry. I could write to Tannberg again, and see if the Griffin name could influence him to change his m—”

  “No,” she said, standing. She still had too much to think about, but she did know that getting a position because Zachary threatened someone wasn’t anything she wanted.

  “You still have an alternative to taking a governess position at Eades’s manor, Caroline. I haven’t changed m—”

  “If I may,” the Duke of Melbourne broke in, “after seeing Miss Witfeld’s work in the conservatory the other day I took the liberty of writing a friend of mine about her considerable skills.” He pulled a letter from his pocket and walked forward, handing it to her. “That is his answer.”

  Wonderful. He probably had a more prestigious governess position lined up for her in northernmost Yorkshire. Anything to keep a Witfeld from marrying a Griffin. She unfolded the missive. And froze as her eyes caught the signature line.

  “This is from Thomas Lawrence,” she breathed, numbness turning to a shaking buzz beneath her skin.

  “He is willing to offer you an apprentice position with his studio in London,” the duke said, his gaze on Zachary rather than her, “with the proviso that you begin by the end of the month.”

  The end of the month. That would give her three days to pack and make her way to London. “I sent Sir Thom
as a letter before,” she said, fighting to keep a grasp on reality, “and his secretary’s reply was only that Sir Thomas did not take on apprentices, and certainly not females.”

  “I’m more persuasive than you are,” Melbourne said succinctly.

  “But—”

  “Miss Witfeld, didn’t you tell me several days ago that your quest to be a professional artist wouldn’t be swayed by any obstacles or conflicts? I’ve recommended you to Lawrence; it is still up to you to impress him. But you have three days to journey to London if you wish to prove your conviction.”

  “Melbourne, that’s very generous of you,” Zachary said, anger deep in his voice, “but I would like to know why you’ve decided to use your influence to aid Miss Witfeld.”

  “You’re the one who’s been so supportive of her efforts,” his brother returned smoothly. “I’m doing my part as well.”

  “Like hell you are. I won’t—”

  “Enough!” Caroline snapped.

  Melbourne was practically daring her to decline the offer, to admit that all of her talk about marriage as a last resort for females when they had nothing else available to them was just that—talk. And then there was Zachary himself, ready with his consolation prize of marriage with someone who would at least tolerate her if she continued to dabble with painting. Except it wouldn’t be merely consolation: She could imagine that for a while she would be very happy. Until she wanted to pick up a paintbrush again, that was.

  So she had three choices now—two more than she’d expected. Governess to the earl’s son, marriage to Zachary, or an apprenticeship with Thomas Lawrence. And either of the first two meant admitting that her dream was finished, unattainable, and never to be realized.

  She looked at her parents’ expectant faces. Her mother didn’t know for certain what Zachary offered, but she would prefer a good marriage for one of her daughters over anything. Her father would want her to take the apprenticeship, to succeed at realizing a dream when he’d never had the chance to do so.