The Art of Sinning Read Online Free PDF Page A

on the ‘acidic.’ ”
    â€œIt does indeed,” he drawled. “I prefer to call it ‘real life.’ ”
    â€œThen it’s no surprise you’ve taken up with Edwin. He considers real life to be acidic, too.”
    â€œOh no, don’t drag me into this,” Edwin put in.
    Mr. Keane’s gaze searched her face. “And you, Lady Yvette? Do you consider real life acidic?”
    My, my. Quite the persistent fellow, wasn’t he? “It can be, I suppose. If one wants to dwell on that part. I’d rather dwell on happier aspects.”
    A sudden disappointment swept his handsome features. “So you prefer paintings of bucolic cows in a field.”
    â€œI suppose. Or market scenes. Or children.”
    The mention of children sparked something bleak in the depths of his eyes. “Art should challenge viewers, not soothe them.”
    â€œI’ll try to remember that when confronted at my breakfast table by a picture of vultures devouring a dead deer. That is one of yours, isn’t it?”
    Mr. Keane blinked, then burst into laughter. “Blakeborough, you forgot to tell me that your sister is a wit.”
    â€œIf I’d thought it would get you to agree to our transaction sooner,” Edwin said wearily, “I would have mentioned it.”
    â€œÂ â€˜Transaction’?” She stared at her brother. “What transaction?”
    Edwin turned wary. “I told you. Mr. Keane is going to paint your portrait. I figured that a well-done piece of art showing what a lovely woman you are . . . might . . . well . . .”
    â€œOh, Lord.” So that was his reasoning. A pox on Edwin. And a pox on Mr. Keane, too, for agreeing to her brother’s idiocy. Clearly, the artist had been coerced. Mr. Keane was well-known for not doing formal portraits. Ever.
    She fought to act nonchalant, though inside she was bleeding. Did Edwin really think her so unsightly that she needed a famous artist to make her look appealing?
    â€œForgive my brother, sir,” she told Mr. Keane with a bland smile. “He’s set on gaining me a husband, no matter what the cost. But I’ve read the interview where you said you’d rather cut off your hands than paint another portrait, and I’d hate to be the cause of such a loss to the world.”
    Mr. Keane gazed steadily at her. “I sometimes exaggerate when speaking with the press, madam. But this particular portrait is one I am more than willing to execute, I assure you.”
    â€œEager for the challenge, are you?” Such raw anger boiled up in her that it fairly choked her. “Eager to try your hand at painting me attractive enough to convince some hapless fellow in search of a wife to ignore the evidence of his eyes?”
    Belatedly, her brother seemed to realize how she’d taken his words. “Yvette, that’s not what I was saying.”
    She ignored him. “Or perhaps it’s the money that entices you. How much did my brother offer in order to gain your compliance in such an onerous task? It must have been a great deal.”
    â€œI didn’t offer him money,” Edwin protested. “You misunderstand what I—”
    â€œI want to paint you,” Mr. Keane snapped even as he glared Edwin into silence.
    With betrayal stinging her, she gathered the remnants of her dignity about her. “Thank you, but I am not yet so . . . so desperate as to require your services.”
    She turned to leave, but Mr. Keane caught her by the arm. When she scowled at him, he released her . . . only to offer her his hand. “May I have this dance, Lady Yvette?”
    That took her by surprise. Only then did she notice the strains of a waltz being struck. She had half a mind to stalk off in a huff, but that would be childish.
    Besides, other people had begun to notice their exchange, and she could not endure the idea of people