An Invitation to Sin

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Zach—”

  “Excuse me. I need to send a letter off to Witfeld today.”

  As Zachary headed upstairs, Harold on his heels, he reflected that he’d hit on the crux of the problem. It wasn’t so much that Sebastian didn’t want the match; that wouldn’t have stopped him for more than a moment, and certainly not any longer. The problem was that Caroline didn’t want the match—or so she thought. At the time she hadn’t had any actual experience to contradict her dream of an ideal life. Now, though, she’d had a chance to live that dream for several months. He wondered whether it still tasted as sweet.

  He stopped in his bedchamber doorway. She was in London, and at least for the moment, he was in London. And maybe he couldn’t convince her to marry him. But he could damned well try. And if he was lucky, he would kiss her and talk with her and hold her in his arms again. If he was very lucky…

  A wave of heated energy ran through him. Grabbing his hat and gloves and snapping for Harold, he turned down the stairs again. “Stanton, I have an errand,” he said as the butler pulled open the front door. “Please let Melbourne know I won’t be back for…some time.”

  “Very good, Lord Zachary.”

  Oh, he hoped so. He damned well hoped so.

  Chapter 25

  Caroline dipped her paintbrush into a jar of alcohol. Carefully rubbing the bristles into a cotton cloth, she set aside the cleaned brush and reached for another.

  Paint. She loved paint, the smell of it, the texture, the magnificent rainbow of colors. But over the past few weeks she’d begun to understand what Zachary had been trying to tell her that day. In the end, the people she met, the art she created, the life she’d made for herself were just…paint. And in learning that lesson she’d come to realize that she’d lost the most vibrant, most alive man she’d ever known. God, she missed him—the sound of his voice, his laugh, his unique, optimistic view of the world. Life felt…incomplete without him, no matter how well her career was going.

  “Miss Witfeld?”

  She started. “Yes, Bradley?”

  Lawrence’s assistant walked into the well-lit studio and handed her a folded paper. “Sir Thomas asked if you would meet a client for him. He has a luncheon appointment he can’t break.”

  “‘Meet a client’?” she repeated. As far as she knew, all clients appeared at the studio for sittings.

  “He’s some eccentric old earl or something,” Bradley said dismissively. “Doesn’t like to leave his apartments. Sir Thomas has painted him before.”

  “He won’t be angry if a substitute appears?”

  “It’s your task to convince him of your skill. Don’t be late.”

  She looked down at the paper as Bradley left the studio. John, Lord Hogarty. The name didn’t sound familiar, but at least it would break the routine she’d fallen into. And the address was in Mayfair, so it wasn’t likely to be anything nefarious. It wouldn’t be, anyway; if nothing else, her employer had immediately inspired her trust and confidence. Gathering her box of paints and newly cleaned brushes, she went to the office and knocked. “Sir Thomas?”

  The painter looked up from his desk. “Caroline. Did Bradley give you that address?”

  “Yes. Is there anything I should know?”

  “Hogarty could be a good contact for you. He’s a bit gimpy, but he knows his art. I’ve already sent over a note explaining your presence.” He smiled. “Just do your usual fine work, and you’ll have a client for life. Lord knows I could use some assistance.”

  “Thank you, Sir Thomas.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d sent one of his less-high-profile clients in her direction. And it wasn’t the first time she had imagined opening a studio of her own. Sir Thomas was correct that he could use some help; once a painter became as well known as he was, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to paint every client who wanted his skills.

  Outside she hailed a hack and gave the directions written on the note. As they crossed into Mayfair she couldn’t help gazing out the coach’s window, as she always did when, on rare occasion, she ventured into this part of town. She had no idea whether Zachary was even in London, but she had to look. It would hurt not to. Almost as much as it hurt not seeing him every day except as a painting on her wall.

  Twenty minutes later the hack pulled to the side of the street and the driver banged on the roof. “Here you are, miss. Five shillings.”

  That was steep, but she wasn’t about to stand in the street and haggle with him. She handed up the change and turned to face the house as he pulled back into the afternoon traffic.

  “Goodness.” She stood in front of a block of closely spaced town houses, each one containing two or three private apartments. It was a grand version of where she herself had been living, but far more elegant, even from the outside.

  She found the address and ascended the steps to the front door. As soon as she swung the knocker, the door opened. “Yes, miss?” a large man in black livery asked.

  “I’m here to see Lord Hogarty,” she said. “Sir Thomas Lawrence sent me.”

  The butler nodded, stepping back from the entrance. “You are expected. This way, miss.”

  In a sense, what she had told Zachary about life as a married woman had been correct. As a Society lady she would never have been allowed to walk, unescorted by a maid, into a stranger’s home. Those circles were for the most part unavailable to her socially, but individually the ton’s desire to be painted and kept in perpetuity outweighed their group snobbery. But being right didn’t make her feel any better. Not any longer.

  “In here, miss,” the butler said, opening the door to what looked like the morning room. It was still quite well lit, even this late in the afternoon. “You may set out your canvas and paints. Lord Hogarty will be along shortly.”

  “Thank you,” she said, noting that someone had already provided a tripod for her canvas.

  She liked the room. It seemed a bit underdecorated, but from Bradley and Sir Thomas’s description of Lord Hogarty, she wasn’t all that surprised. He did have a few tasteful Greek vases sitting on the mantel. Setting down and arranging her things, she went closer to examine them.

  Thanks to her father’s interest in Greek ruins, faux and actual, she’d done a great deal of research on Greek art. Unless she was very much mistaken, the three vases were all black-ink genuine works, well preserved and priceless. Zachary would know. He had a keen insight into art—probably even more than he realized.

  The door opened behind her. Moving away from the mantel, she turned to face her new client. And froze.

  Zachary Griffin stood in the doorway gazing at her. Her heart stopped. Everything stopped. “What—What are you doing here?” she squeaked.

  “I’m John Hogarty,” he said, his low drawl making her tremble.

  “No, you’re not. What’s going on?”

  “This is my apartment.”

  She shook her head, backing toward her box of paints. “No. Sir Thomas said he’d painted Lord Hogarty, and that he could be a good client. None of this—”

  “I asked him to say that.”

  “So my employer thinks I’ve gone on some sordid…rendezvous with a single man? How could you?”

  “He thinks no such thing. I told him your family was here in London and that they wanted to surprise you.”

  “Well, thank goodness you haven’t completely ruined me.” Bending down, she picked up her paints and tucked them under her arm. Oh, she needed to get out before her heart caught up to her mind. “Please stand aside. I am leaving.”

  He stood aside. “I apologize. I wanted to see you again, and I didn’t think you would agree to it.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have,” she lied. He was here. And he wanted to see her. Her heart pounded.

  Zachary nodded. “Your father wrote me and said you were doing well.”

  “Yes. He said the same thing about you.”

  As he stood there by the door, willing her not to leave, willing himself n
ot to move to stop her, all Zachary could do was watch her pick up her blank canvas and march toward him. Damnation. Two minutes wasn’t enough with her. A lifetime wasn’t enough, but if she didn’t want to be there, he wasn’t going to stop her from leaving. He needed to make her want to stay.

  “My family’s leaving for Devonshire in a week or so,” he said, his voice a little unsteady.

  “Good.”

  All right. So logic and gentle persuasion and gentlemanly conversation weren’t going to work. With a hard breath Zachary slammed the door just as she reached it. “I’m trying to be proper about this,” he growled, “to respect your wishes.”

  “Then let me g—”

  “And then it occurred to me that you haven’t done much to respect mine.”

  “Your wishes? And what, pray tell, are those?”

  “These are my wishes.”

  Striding forward, he grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her up against his chest, and lowered his mouth over hers. He could feel the surprise in her soft mouth, and then the greedy lust that matched his own. Her box of paints hit the floor and broke open, reds and yellows and greens going everywhere.

  “Oh!”

  “Shh,” he urged, taking the canvas from her and dropping it to the floor amid the paints. He teased her mouth open with his lips, running his tongue along her teeth, running his hands along her body and keeping her hard against him.

  He kissed her until neither of them could breathe, and then backed away an inch. “Now tell me you want to leave,” he dared her.

  “L-logically, this simply won’t—”

  “Hang bloody logic. You’ve studied art all your life, Caroline. What does art have to do with logic? What does logic have to do with finding the right color or the right pose or the right expression? Art moves, it changes, it grows, it lives. Just like love.”

  “Zachary, p—”

  “Do you want to leave?”

  She looked into his eyes for a long moment. “No.”

  He sank to the floor with her as she tugged the coat from his shoulders. His cravat followed as he unbuttoned what seemed like a thousand fastenings along the front of her pelisse. He needed to touch her, he needed to be inside her, or none of this would be real.

  “I missed you,” he breathed, kissing her again as he pulled the pelisse off her shoulders and went to work on the back of her gown.

  “I missed you,” she returned, tugging his shirt loose from his trousers and running her hands along his bare chest.

  Once he had her dress off, he yanked off his boots, opened his trousers, and shoved them down to his feet so he could kick out of them. As he shifted, Zachary put one hand flat into the spattered red paint. “Damn.”

  “That’ll never come off,” she said shakily.

  “Really?” He lay his palm on her thigh, curling his fingers around as he pulled her toward him, branding her with his red palm print. “Good.”

  Slowly he dragged her legs around his hips, watching her expression as his cock entered her. Putting his other hand in yellow paint, he closed his palm over her right breast, and the red over her left, marking her fair skin with perfect man-sized handprints.

  “Zach—Oh,” she moaned as he leaned forward, shifting to rise over her. Planting his hands on either side of her shoulders, he began pumping his hips, closing his eyes at the exquisite, tight slide of his body inside hers.

  “Zachary,” she panted, and he opened his eyes to look down at her again as she put a shaking hand into the blue paint, then planted it squarely on his chest.

  He pressed closer against her in response, mixing his blue with her red and yellow as he thrust into her. She gripped his body against hers, planting more colors onto his back and buttocks. After that it seemed only fair to scoot her forward, still encasing him, until they were both smeared with mingled colors, front and back.

  As she drew tighter and then shattered, pulsating, around him, he sped his own release and with a grunt collapsed on top of her. Before he could crush her with his weight he turned them so that he lay beneath, more paint smearing along his back.

  If he looked anything close to what she did, they were both a glorious, multicolored mess. “You’re more lovely than the Mona Lisa,” he said, when he could speak in a fairly normal voice again.

  “I think we’ve used more colors than da Vinci, at any rate.” She sat up, straddling his hips. “I was serious, Zachary. This will be the devil to take off.”

  “You certainly can’t go home looking like this,” he agreed, drawing light green circles around her breasts with his fingertips.

  “I will certainly have to,” she countered, gathering herself to rise.

  He held onto her thighs, keeping her impaled across his hips. “I don’t want you to stop painting, you know. I never intended to ask you to give that up.”

  She looked down at him with something in her eyes that he wanted to describe as regret and longing. “You wouldn’t have had to ask. The wife of a Griffin—”

  “—could do as she damn well pleased,” he finished. “Who do you think would have the nerve to cut you in public?”

  “But—”

  “Work for Lawrence, or open your own studio. Open it here. I picked this room for today because of the light.” He sat up so they were at the same eye level. “Just think about it, Caroline. If you want to be with me, we will make it work. I won’t ask you to embroider my damned handkerchiefs, and you won’t—”

  She put a hand over his mouth. “I missed you,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him. When she straightened, she had blue across her mouth, as he likely did. “I understand now what you were talking about, about not being able to find a complete life in a flat painting.”

  “You do?” His heart, already hammering, began drumming like a regimental corps. “So if…if I asked you again to marry me, you might say yes?”

  She nodded, a tear running down her painted cheek.

  “Then will you marry me, Caroline? Will you be my wife?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I would very much like to marry you.”

  He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. Thank God. Thank God. “I’ve had so many things I’ve wanted to say, and not one damned person I know thinks I’m as amusing and clever as you seem to.”

  She snorted. “I’ve missed having a friend, as well.”

  “The—”

  The hard banging on his front door made him jump. “Hogarty will get it,” he said after a moment, kissing her softly again.

  “Hogarty?”

  “My servant. John Hogarty. I had to get a name from somewhere.”

  Hogarty scratched at the door. “My lord? The Duke of Melbourne is here to see—”

  “Christ. Tell him to wait in the foyer. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Caroline scrambled to her feet beside him. As he looked down at himself, he knew there was no way he could possibly be rendered presentable in the next five minutes—probably not in the next hour. “Oh, well,” he grumbled and pulled on his trousers.

  Sebastian had to know sooner or later. It might as well be now.

  For once in his life, Sebastian wasn’t entirely certain what he wanted to say or what he wanted to accomplish. But the fact that Zachary had spent most of two days back at his old residence didn’t bode well for any of them.

  With the drinking and aloof sadness Sebastian sensed in his brother, intervening was worth another fight, as far as he was concerned. This…sorrow would not continue. Restless and concerned, he stood rock still in his brother’s foyer and refused to pace.

  “What is it, Melbourne?” Zachary’s voice came from the morning room doorway.

  Relaxing an inch that his brother hadn’t refused to see him, Sebastian turned from perusing one of the framed paintings in the hallway. Zachary had a more refined taste than he’d expected. “I wanted to talk to…What the devil is wrong with you?”

  Zachary grinned, a dark bl
ue stain running from his chin up to one ear. “Not a thing. Why?”

  “But the…” Sebastian trailed off, taking in the red and blue and green smears across his brother’s bare chest and arms and hands. “You’re very…colorful.”

  “And your point is?”

  Sebastian gazed at his brother for a long moment. Something was definitely going on, and it was an odd and uncomfortable feeling not to know what it might be. He was used to being in control of not only himself but also everything around him. “I’m not entirely certain what my point is,” he said finally. “Are you planning on moving away from Griffin House again?”

  “I think it may be time.”

  It took a great deal of Sebastian’s famous self-control to keep from reacting to that, and to smother the sudden memory of the days after Charlotte had died, when he’d been alone in a large, empty house except for a small, crying, three-year-old girl. But this wasn’t about him. It was about Zachary. “You’ll still winter at Melbourne Park, I hope.”

  “That would be up to you, Seb.”

  “Up to—”

  The morning room door opened again, and Caroline Witfeld emerged. The puzzle pieces fell into place. Her mouth was the same blue, her hands and arms a myriad of blue and yellow streaks. She dipped a curtsy, her blue mouth quirked in what looked very much like amusement.

  “Miss Witfeld,” he said, automatically sketching a return bow.

  Zachary took her hand. “Caroline and I are marrying,” he said, his voice cool and confident and defiant.

  “Yesterday you weren’t speaking,” Sebastian noted.

  “We’ve resolved our differences.”

  “Colorfully, apparently.”

  Caroline blushed. Today hadn’t gone remotely as she’d expected, but she wasn’t about to complain about it. My goodness. When she’d set eyes on Zachary, time had simply stopped. And then he’d said all the right things, and more importantly, she’d seen the sincerity and the loneliness in his face. The loneliness that had mirrored her own. And now she would be able to wake up to him in the morning, and to see him when she went to sleep, and to chat and banter with him about anything she wished to during the day. It was too much.