Read Online The Art of Sinning by Sabrina Jeffries - Free Book Online Page A

its colorful qualities.”
    â€œI’ll be pleased to do whatever your ladyship wishes,” Damber said in the King’s own English, though the gleam in his eye and the tip of his hat were anything but gentlemanly.
    She laughed as Damber walked off with Tom, cocky as ever. “He’s a bit of a rogueling, isn’t he? Clearly, you taught him well.”
    â€œTrust me, he was born knowing how to turn a woman up sweet. And what he wasn’t born knowing, he learned in the stews.”
    Her smile faltered. “Is that where you met him?”
    â€œGod, no. I stumbled across him in Hyde Park, where the lad was sketching people for money.”
    â€œLad?” she echoed.
    â€œThat hulking brute is only fifteen, believe it or not. If you’d seen him when I first met him, too scrawny for his frame, you’d have thought him younger still.”
    She searched his face. “You feed him well, I gather.”
    â€œHe feeds himself well,” Jeremy grumbled. “He’s been eating me out of house and home ever since I hired him to be my painter’s apprentice.”
    â€œSo why did you?” She watched him with a veiled look. “Few people would take on a street urchin for a post.”
    â€œI regret the decision daily, every time I’m forced to wrestle with the lad over speech and manners. But . . .” He smiled, remembering the drawing of Damber’s that had arrested him. “Then he’ll show me one of his sketches, and I’m reminded of why I did it. Because he has a good eye and an amazing talent. That’s rarer than you might think.”
    â€œYet not many would try to nurture it.”
    Her eyes warmed, and he was once again struck by their lovely color. What a shame he wouldn’t be able to capture those cat eyes sparkling from beneath dusky lashes. In his masterpiece they would be looking upward, only one of them visible, and that in profile.
    Then again, there was the portrait. He’d get to paint her eyes for that. It was some solace for being forced to do the sort of work he detested. He could use the cobalt blue, tempered with Indian yellowand a trace of umber to get that emerald hue. But how would he capture the emotion within?
    She had kind eyes, the sort a man could lose himself in, drowning in their soft sweetness while he—
    Damn, there he went again. “Where’s your brother?” he asked sharply as he realized they were entirely alone.
    â€œEdwin had urgent business to attend to with our steward. But he will join us for dinner. In the meantime, I thought we could tour the house.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “It will give us a chance to pick which room will suit your purposes for your secret work.”
    â€œAh, yes,” he said, surprised by the conspiratorial glee in her voice. She was apparently enjoying their subterfuge. “Lead on, madam.”
    As she walked inside and began to take him around, he found himself memorizing her movements: the turn of her head when she glanced back at him, the abbreviated wave she gave when indicating something he should notice, the lift of her imperious brow when he made some wry comment.
    He should be focusing on the succession of rich rooms they passed through, but he’d rather study her . After all, he was to paint her.
    That was the only reason he watched her obsessively. It wasn’t because she fired his blood—oh no. He wasn’t that foolish.
    Right. Of course he was that foolish. He was a man, after all, faced with a lovely and remarkable young woman. He’d have to be carved of granite not to notice her attractions as she mounted the stairs ahead of him.
    He wished she were already wearing that flimsy Grecian costume. Back in his wife’s day, gowns had clung to a woman, showing every curve, but they’d grown stuffed of late—with petticoats and drawers and what all. It was hard to see the female figure