An Invitation to Sin (12 page)

"No doubt." She chuckled. "At times I retire for the night with my ears ringing, and I grew up with them."

"I have three siblings myself, and a six-year-old niece. Until a month ago, we all lived under the same roof."

"Until your sister married."

"Yes."

"But why do you all share a household? Surely the Griffins have several houses in London."

"Shay—Charlemagne—and I actually do have our own apartments in Mayfair. Melbourne bribed us, though, to move back into Griffin House. I think he feels better with more people to order about." He shrugged, unwilling to go into the details of his eldest brother's struggle to move past his wife's death. That was Griffin business; Griffins didn't gossip, and certainly not about one another. "The house is large enough to accommodate all of us."

"I can imagine. I've always longed to go to London."

"You aren't yet eighteen; perhaps you could convince your parents."

She shook her head. "I doubt that. They declared Grace and Violet and me all out at the same time. With no presentations to be made at court, I think my mother simply decided it would be easier that way. So I won't have a Season." Anne looked up at him. "But I don't mind. In a sense, my Season has come here to me, hasn't it?"

"What do y—"

"Mama and Papa certainly would never have agreed to hold a ball if you and Lady Gladys hadn't come, and I'm sure once everyone in the shire attends our soiree they'll all wish to hold their own to avoid looking shabby and cheap-minded. So
you've
given me my Season."

"I'm pleased to offer my presence, then."

"The purpose of a Season for a young lady, though, is to find a husband, is it not?"

Zachary's cravat began to feel too tight, and he sternly resisted the urge to loosen it. He'd made a shambles of re-tying it earlier, anyway. "So I hear."

"How is it that you are four-and-twenty and from such a family as the Griffins, and still unmarried, my lord?"

"I'm not in any hurry to don leg shackles. Before I do that I still have things I wish to do. I'm going to join the army as soon as I return to London, and from there journey to the Peninsula."

"The regiment stationed outside Trowbridge has been expecting their orders for six months now," she returned smoothly. "Apparently Wellington feels he has things well in hand without them."

What a difference between her reaction and that of her sisters. Either she'd already heard his plans, or she subscribed to the theory that his family name would overcome any resistance on her father's part. Either way, it didn't bode well for him.

"I don't want to wait to be called," he said. "I intend to take action."

"That's very admirable, Lord Zachary. I'm not one to sit about and wait for someone else to take action, myself."

Well, that was easy to interpret. And it was time to get off the defensive and attack before she guided him to some parson she had hidden in the undergrowth. "So who here in Trowbridge have you been considering for this action? It doesn't sound like a plan you only devised when I appeared."

"No, it isn't. But plans change."

He lifted an eyebrow, thankful that he had a fair amount of experience with ambitious young ladies. "You're direct, aren't you?"

She smiled, gesturing west. "This way. You aren't accustomed to direct women?"

Actually he wasn't accustomed to personal conversations with strangers, simply because most strangers didn't dare. And as for his family, by this point in the conversation he would have been called a blockhead or a halfwit a dozen times already. That was the difference with Caroline and now with Anne, he realized. They assumed he had intelligence and the ability to express himself, and their only preconceived notions were about wealthy gentlemen in general. It was refreshing. "I suppose not. Shall I be direct also?"

"Please."

"I didn't come here to find a wife, Miss Anne. I came here to fulfill an obligation to my aunt, and to do a favor for my brother."

"And yet here you are, having a picnic with me."

"Are you certain you're only seventeen? I have this disturbing sensation that I'm being lured into a trap."

She laughed. "I beg your pardon, then. I'm not attempting to trap you. Just the opposite. I'm making my intentions very clear."

And somehow that was even more off-putting. Christ. He'd been set to take on a handful of silly, tittering chits, not a forthright mankiller. Lord knew he'd met his share of those in London—women who wouldn't blink at intentionally compromising themselves in order to net a husband. He avoided them with a passion. Perhaps, though, that was where he could help Anne Witfeld.

"Do you fish?" he asked, pulling a blanket from the top of the basket when she indicated that they should stop.

"Fish? No, though I've seen it done."

"You know the basics of the sport, then." Offering a hand, he helped her sit and then set the basket and himself down beside her. Mindful of her forceful philosophy, he sent a glance at the maid to make certain she was well within sight and hearing.

"Yes, I suppose."

Zachary accepted a sandwich. "So if you were to go fishing, you wouldn't charge into the water brandishing a club and begin thwacking at the water."

"That would be counterproductive. Peach?"

"Yes, thank you. And that's my point."

"Peaches?"

"No. That you'd catch more fish with a hook and a worm than you would with a club."

She looked at him for a long moment, chewing with a thoughtful expression on her face. "I have a good deal of competition, even here under my own roof."

"It's only competition if you're all pursuing the same man." He drew a breath. "For instance, I couldn't marry all seven of you even if I wished to."

"So we should draw straws?"

If that happened he would have to put a bullet in his head, because his family would never let him live it down. "So you should focus on landing a trout who firstly wants to be caught, and secondly who wants to be caught by you."

Anne smiled a little. "You're not what I expected."

"I hope that's a compliment."

"It is. I read the Society pages, and they're forever filled with tales about your family, and about you. Wagers and horse races and boxing matches. But Caro said you enjoy and are knowledgeable about art. And you seem to have a great deal of common sense."

Knowledgeable
? Caroline had said he was knowledgeable about art? It was quite possibly the most… pleasing compliment he'd ever received. He shook himself. "The newspapers report things that will sell more newspapers. I don't think my softer side, as it were, is terribly exciting."

With the timing of an actor Harold surged out of the bushes and pounced.

"What the devil—"

Zachary managed to toss his sandwich back into the basket before the dog got hold of it. Grabbing Harold's collar to keep the pup from going after Anne's luncheon, he rolled to his feet.

"Reed!"

The valet crashed toward them through the shrubbery.

"I'm so sorry, my lord!" he panted as he emerged. "I was only trying to rescue one of your boots, and the fiend dashed between my legs and out the door."

Zachary looked down at the wagging, wriggling dog. "By God, he
is
half foxhound, if he tracked me here."

"You or our sandwiches," Anne put in with a chuckle. "Caro did say you're an abysmal trainer."

For a bare second Zachary froze, then handed the dog back to his weed-covered valet. "Take him back to the house. I'll let him out for some exercise this afternoon."

"Very good, my lord."

So Caroline had seen him working with Harold yesterday. She hadn't mentioned it this morning, though she'd obviously told Anne her opinion of the proceedings. He took a breath, seating himself again. What did he care what she thought? Simply because with one breath she complimented his knowledge of art and with the next insulted his ability to work with an animal, he didn't—

"Zachary?" Anne said, interrupting his thoughts, "you've given me a great deal to consider." For the first time she sounded like a young lady who wouldn't even have been out if the Witfelds had lived in London.

He shook himself. "So tell me who I should expect to meet at the soiree."

They spent the next hour in very pleasant and unexpectedly witty conversation. As he'd suspected, the Witfeld girls had a great deal of enthusiasm and some odd theories about men, with no chance or opportunity to put them into practice. According to the Zachary Howard Griffin plan of battle, all of this would change by the end of the last dance at the Witfeld soiree. These girls wanted men, and he was going to whip them into the shape necessary to get them.

His mood over the structuring of his schedule, though,soured a little. So he hadn't trained Harold in one day. That didn't mean he'd given up. It just hadn't been quite as simple as he'd expected. And the next session was going to take place somewhere out of sight of the conservatory windows. Finding the time for training, though, was another matter entirely.

Directly after luncheon with Anne, he went for yet another walk around the estate, this one with Joanna, then picked flowers for an hour with Grace. Thankfully for his sore feet Violet wanted to play cards.

In response to his questions, all of the girls had admitted to him that some local gentleman or other had caught their eye. Anne, Joanna, and Grace had declined to name their potential beaux, but he didn't doubt he'd discover their identities at the assembly. His largest task would be convincing Mrs. Witfeld to invite half the single males in the community to compete with him at the Witfeld Manor soiree. If she had any sense, though, she wouldn't object to having more men about. As he'd told Anne, he couldn't marry all of the sisters even if he wanted to.

At half past three he was finished. He found Harold upstairs ripping apart a pillow. "You need a companion, I think," he told the dog. "Marriage is definitely an obsession for my other pupils."

"Zachary, my boy," he heard floating up to him from down below.

Moving out to the landing, Zachary looked down to find Mr. Witfeld standing by the bottommost step. "Edmund. Good afternoon."

"Might I trouble you to come out to the chicken coop? I've put in a prototype of the egg ramp, and I wanted your opinion."

"Of course." As he reached the ground floor, Zachary looked from Edmund to Harold. Obviously he couldn't take the dog out to the chicken coop, or the chickens would end up so frightened that they'd never lay again. After a hesitation he handed Harold's leash over to the butler. "I'll be back shortly," he informed Barling and tried unsuccessfully to convince Harold to sit.

As he left the house, he caught a glimpse of yellow skirts at the top of the stairs. Zachary frowned, then quickly wiped the expression from his face. What the devil did he care what Caroline thought of him and his ill-mannered dog? All he was to her was muscle and skin, anyway. All the same, though, Harold was going to learn some manners, as soon as he could find the time to teach the pup.

"How am I looking?" he asked from his seat halfway across the room.

"I don't know," she muttered, half to herself. "Something's wrong."

"With me, or with the sketch?"

A small laugh escaped her lips. "I'm sure I couldn't say."

"Well, that's enough of that." He stood and strolled over to her. "Let's take a look."

Her first instinct once again was to cover up her work,but she'd drawn him fully clothed. She tilted the pad a little toward him. "Well?"

Zachary leaned close over her shoulder. "I think it looks like me. I like the cravat." He indicated the pencilled knot with one finger.

"Thank you." Trying to ignore his close, large warmth and his breath on her cheek, Caroline darkened and blurred a crease in one of his sleeves. "I think it's the expression on your face. I'm not sure what it's telling me."

"What's it supposed to tell you?"

"Something. I drew it, after all."

"But it's my face. According to my brothers, most of what it would say would be nonsense. I could manage to glare more broodily, if you like, but I still don't see anything wrong."

"Your brothers can't possibly think as poorly of you as you maintain."

"And why not?"

She glanced up at his handsome face. "You are difficult to dislike."

His sensuous mouth curved into a smile. "Perhaps my charm is a natural outgrowth of my propensity for uselessness."

Caroline stood, having to step sideways to avoid smacking his cheek with her shoulder. Having him that close made her uncomfortable, mostly because, despite what she'd seen of his lack of either skill or resolve in training Harold and the way he claimed to be mad to join the army and yet sat chatting with his aunt in Wiltshire, she wanted him to kiss her again. "Please go sit down. I don't have much time left with you this morning."

"Hm." With a sideways look at her, he returned to the seat beneath the windows. "I notice you didn't disagree with me."

"I'm treating you as a client," she said breezily, "so I'm not being contradictory."

"But I like when you're contradictory."

Yes, he did, and that made finding the balance she needed to keep between them exceedingly difficult. "Can't we just chat instead? I've always found that to be a good way to relax a subject I'm sketching or painting."

"I'm not nervous, but please proceed." He gestured expansively at her.

"Very well." She erased the line of his left shoulder, lowering it a little. That wasn't it, though; his body was fine, exceptional. The problem was somewhere in his face. 'Tell me about your family. Where do you live?"

"The family lives at Melbourne Park in Devonshire, or at Griffin House when we're in London."

"Anne said you have your own house in London," she returned, gesturing him to lower his head a little. That made him look more… dangerous, but it didn't have the missing quality she was seeking.

"Both Shay and I have our own apartments in Town, but when Sebastian asked us to return to Griffin House, we did."

"You just abandoned your own home?"

"No. I stay there from time to time, and I keep a handful of servants on staff, but my main residence is at Griffin House."

"So you…" She stopped herself, realizing that she'd been about to question how he'd been able to abandon a chance to be independent and make a life for himself just because he was amiable and unfocused and drifted whichever way the wind blew.
Be quiet and concentrate, Caroline
.

"So I what?" he asked after a moment.

"Nothing."

"I see."

Caroline looked at him again. His expression had hardened, grown cooler. In fact, he looked like she had imagined a Griffin would look before she'd ever met one: aloof, a little arrogant, and practically daring anyone to contradict them. So much for making her subject relax. "Zachary, I didn't say any—"

"Sebastian's wife, Charlotte, died. None of us expected it; she was fine, then just began getting tired and thin. A month later, she went to bed and didn't wake up." He cleared his throat. "We… Sebastian was devastated. If he hadn't had little Peep—Penelope—to look after, I don't know what he would have done. So when he asked us to come home, we did."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, keeping her gaze on the sketch rather than the man himself. It was easier that way. "I had no idea."

"No one but the family knows the details, and I would appreciate it if you kept it that way. But I didn't want you thinking that I had just wandered away from my house and forgotten where it was or something."

His humor did have a purpose. He used it to set the people around him at ease. "I won't speak a word about it to anyone."

Silently she eased the straight line of his mouth, curving it at the corner. There. That wasn't quite it, but it was closer to what she wanted.

He stood again, moving back to stand beside her chair. "I know you won't. Now tell me, what's wrong with my image?"

She blew out her breath, wishing she could explain it,even to herself. The pose was fine and the sketch accurate, but every bone in her body complained that she had gotten something wrong. Something was… lacking. He'd told her something intimate about himself, but she didn't see that depth in what she'd drawn. Caroline tilted her head at the drawing. "Would you look at it in the same way you studied the
Mona Lisa
?"

"The
Mona
— Well, I've seen myself in the mirror a thousand times. This looks very like the image I've seen of myself." He checked his pocket watch. "And my apologies, but I'm to go fishing with the twins in twenty minutes. If you'll excuse me, I need to go change my clothes. I have a suspicion I may end up soaked."

She looked up from the sketch. "Then why go?"

"Because they asked me. I have no intention of mucking about with the Witfeld schedule of events."

So he did know about Anne's schedule. She'd suspected for the past day or so, but in his favor he hadn't said anything about it until now. "That's very diplomatic of you."

"It wasn't my idea, Caroline."

But he hadn't fought against it, either. Even knowing that other people valued his time more than he did didn't seem to trouble him. "I only complimented your diplomacy. I know how much you enjoy fishing," she replied.

"Whether I'll enjoy being pitched into the stream or not, though, is another matter entirely." He stopped in the doorway. "Are you attending the ball tonight?"

Caroline shook from her mind the unexpected vision of a soaking wet Zachary Griffin, shirt and trousers clinging to his lean, well-muscled form. "I've been ordered to do so."

A sensuous smile curved his mouth once more. "I had to bribe the head violinist for a list of the dances to be played." Zachary pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

"This is the first time I've had to make myself a dance card."

Trying to remain focused, she erased a strand of hair that strayed across his forehead, then put it back. It looked good there, as it did on him in person. "Yes," she said, her gaze on the drawing. "I'm certain that even without my sisters you will be very much in demand."

He reached behind him for the door and slowly closed it again. "Are you jealous, Caroline?"

"Don't be ridiculous. And I have not given you leave to use my Christian name."

"Then do so."

"No." Pretending to return to her work and hoping her cheeks weren't flushed, she waved a hand at him. "Go fishing."

Silence answered her. When she looked up, he was directly in front of her, close enough to touch.

"If I hadn't felt your mouth on mine," he murmured, tilting her chin up, "or your fingers on my skin, I might believe you didn't care."

"I
don't
care. I told you, I need to paint your portrait.
You
kissed
me
, and as for the rest, I was viewing your musculature solely in order to aid me in becoming a better artist."

Deep gray eyes held her gaze. "Really," he finally said, otherwise unmoving. "So to you I'm not a man but an object."

He had begun that way, at least. She refused to look away. "Yes."

Zachary leaned in until she could feel his breath on her lips. Her body screamed at her to close the space, to drink in the warm masculinity she'd so briefly tasted before. Her mind, though, was shouting with equal strength the word
Vienna.
If she gave in to her senses, to her body, she would love it for a moment and regret it for a lifetime. Caroline lifted her hand and brushed his fingers from her face.

"I believe you have an appointment to go fishing," she said, hoping he couldn't hear the tremor in her voice.

He nodded, backing away. "So I do. But next time, Caroline,
you're
going to have to kiss
me
. I won't pursue where I'm not wanted."

"You're not wanted by me."

Zachary smiled darkly, the expression alone doing some odd things to her insides. "Liar."

Before she could conjure a reply, he slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind him. Caroline dropped her pad to her lap and concentrated on taking deep breaths. When that didn't banish either his image or his scent from her mind, she stood to pace. How could he do that, make her feel as if her feet were hovering an inch or two off the ground? Make her feel like she did when she was in the midst of painting—not quite part of the world, but at the same time touching every bit of it?

"Men," she snarled. He only claimed interest because he thought she must be playing hard to get or some such thing. It wasn't a game, though. How could she make him realize that?

Devil take it. If she'd been one of her overeager sisters, he would be running in the opposite direction as fast as his fit, fine legs would carry him. Caroline slowed her strides. Perhaps that was it. For as long as she needed him she would be… herself, telling him truthfully that she didn't want his attentions. That would certainly keep him nearby and interested.

Once she'd finished her work, however, all she needed to do was pretend to be Susan or Joanna or Julia for a half dozen minutes. He would think, as he did with her siblings,that he was being trapped—and then he would flee, thereby leaving her in peace until she heard from Vienna and had been accepted into Monsieur Tannberg's studio.

"Perfect." The only remaining problem—
problems
— was how to resist her attraction to him and figure out what was wrong with her sketch before she began painting. And if she could persuade him to strip out of his shirt again, well, she would consider it as a pleasant bonus to her artistic education.

Aunt Tremaine gave her coach over to the Witfelds. Even two vehicles, though, weren't enough to accommodate the entire household and their guests in all of their evening finery. Despite his best efforts, Zachary found himself in the lead coach with Mrs. Witfeld, Susan, and Grace.

"Oh, this is going to be so delightful," Sally Witfeld exclaimed, clasping one of Susan's hands and squeezing. "I only wish our own soiree might have come first. But no matter, we'll make such an impression tonight that everyone will be clamoring to attend the Witfeld ball."

Zachary tried to crane a glance out the window to see who was piling into the second vehicle, but their own coach lurched into motion before he could see more than a swirl of silks. "I'm sure you're right. The assembly will serve to whet your neighbors' appetites."

"Just so, my lord. And don't my girls look lovely? I told Susan to wear her new blue silk. Doesn't it bring out her eyes?"

"Yes, it does. All of your daughters are so lovely I can scarcely believe my own good fortune at being here."

Mrs. Witfeld batted her fan against his knee. "You are such a gentleman."

"My thanks, madame. Are you certain the second coach doesn't require an escort?"

"Oh, no. Joanna and Julia and Violet are seeing to your aunt."

He hid his frown. "What of the rest of your family?"
And Caroline in particular
?

"We have it all planned out, Zachary," Susan said, batting her eyes at him. "This carriage will return for Papa, Caro, and Anne. It doesn't signify if they're late, because Caro and Papa hardly ever dance, anyway."

Even so, he meant to save a dance for the eldest Witfeld daughter, just on principle. In the meantime, the look in Susan's eyes worried him, despite the subtle instruction he"d given over the past few days. He had no intention of letting either the girls or himself become a spectacle or a laughingstock. "You do look very fine, Miss Susan. You'll have all the young gentlemen failing over themselves to gain a spot on your dance card."

"Well, that's very nice, but what about me?" Grace smoothed the wrist of her white, elbow-length gloves.