The Sinner Who Seduced Me Page 7

  She grasped his upper arms to steady herself and looked up into his eyes. “And now here we are, thanks to a spoiled young woman’s flights of fancy, thrown together despite everything.”

  “Clarissa,” he pleaded in a low husky tone, finishing with the wrap. He forcefully removed her hands from his arms, his darkened gaze fixed on hers. “There is no point in dredging up the past.”

  She closed her eyes, swaying with relief at being able to draw deep, unfettered breaths with the wrap removed. James caught her and held her against him, his hands settling at her bare waist. Clarissa set her own hands on his. “I assumed that you wanted all of me too. How could I have been so wrong?”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him, catching her breath at the depth of emotion that played over his face. He felt the pain too, deep down in his heart, where she couldn’t have known it was hiding.

  And then he kissed her hard, his lips bruising hers as he demanded more. His tongue forced her mouth open, plunging with a possessiveness that both terrified and excited Clarissa. He picked her up, the strength of his arms wrapped around her, crushing her bare breasts against his chest. She laced her hands behind his neck as he walked toward the bed, her tongue meeting his with matching ardor.

  Then he tossed her in the air and she landed, sprawling on the soft, overstuffed bed.

  “Good night, Clarissa,” he uttered in a barely measured tone, his breathing labored.

  Her head was spinning and she closed her eyes, certain she’d misheard him. But when she looked again, he was gone. She was alone in the beautifully decorated blue room.

  For Clarissa, sketching was seeing without being seen. Touching the truth of her subject with a few quick strokes of charcoal in those moments of revelation before they retreated and hid their souls away. Beauty, in its truest form, was often stark and sometimes profane in both clarity and cut, from the local fishmonger plying his odorous trade to prostitutes hawking their wares on filthy street corners. Whether the scene was the neighborhood tabby sunning itself in the street or exhausted nannies in the park with their screaming charges—each slice of life revealed itself with flashes of insight to the artist within Clarissa.

  She loved the act of creating. But even more, she craved this intimate view of others afforded through her work. Perhaps she yearned for the contact because she herself found it nearly impossible to withhold or conceal herself from others. Her own emotions bubbled up, surfacing with the slightest of provocations. Restraining her natural openness was as foreign to her as living as an elephant in India would be. And so the curiosity, to discover, to understand, deepened her passion and drove her to examine life through her art time and again.

  The subject currently under her discerning eye, Mr. Bennett’s daughter, Iris, was quite beautiful, that was obvious enough, Clarissa thought. But what would their time together reveal? She took up her charcoal and bent to the work, the precise curve of Iris’s cheekbones proving elusive. What lay beneath the exquisite bone structure? Clarissa studied the girl’s eyes, a deep blue that held … boredom, if Clarissa was correct. And perhaps some impatience, further revealed by the pursing of her heart-shaped mouth. The girl turned at the far-off, muted sound of a dog barking and Clarissa huffed. Iris murmured “Pardon” in a more than passable French accent. Yes, Clarissa reflected, Iris was what those in Clarissa’s set—when she was part of such a thing—would have called a diamond of the first water.

  Clarissa smudged her thumb along the pencil line defining Iris’s right cheekbone, the black charcoal stark against pale drawing paper. “Parfait,” she declared aloud in a satisfied murmur, tilting her head to admire her sketch. Clarissa herself had been too tall, too flatchested, and far too unpredictable to have been considered the matrimonial catch of her own London Season. But it had hardly mattered to her. The frothy dresses, delicious shoes, glittering jewels—oh, Clarissa could hardly think on it without crying. It had all been for her. Not to please a man, but to please herself. And it had. She’d never understood those women who’d fought the “restraints” of womanhood. To her way of thinking, anything that accentuated her figure or face only gave people more reason to want to know her. And once they knew her, they couldn’t help but appreciate her for everything that she was—unconventional beauty and intelligence.

  She looked again at Iris, impressed by the girl’s ability to keep her back ramrod straight despite the time that she’d been required to sit and pose. Iris wanted it all—the portrait that would lend her distinction, the husband that would declare her ton-worthy, the distance that England would afford between herself and her Canadian family.

  Yes, Iris wanted, perhaps yearned. But Clarissa felt sure, as she watched the girl’s foot tap out a staccato beat on the oaken floor, that Iris hardly knew herself well enough to make such choices. She was young—well trained, but inexperienced. She desired, but she couldn’t know why.

  Clarissa had not been so very unlike Iris at her age. She’d felt sure of her future simply because there was no reason to question it. She would marry, become a mother, perform the duties required of her station, and so on and so forth. And then she’d met James. He was so wrong for her … yet so right. He wasn’t bothered by her moodiness—quite the opposite, actually. Their quarrels almost always led to the most meaningful of conversations, and the most passionate of encounters. He encouraged her to challenge him, something no other man had done before, nor since.

  Iris had so much still to learn. Clarissa felt sympathetic toward the girl—and angry. If not for Iris and her need to catch an English aristocrat, Clarissa would be safely at home, with her mother by her side. She looked up to examine Iris’s brow line and the girl’s sharp gaze met hers.

  Drat. Clarissa’s fingers tightened on the charcoal with a viselike grip and she forced herself to continue. If she was being completely honest, she could not blame Iris, she thought. Nor the girl’s parents. After spending time—and drinking the dreadful brandy—the previous evening with James and Mr. Bennett, she had to conclude the Canadian knew nothing of Les Moines’s involvement in this scheme. Either that or Mr. Bennett was quite a good actor. Clarissa herself was rather gifted in the dramatic arts and would wager her jar of gold leaf that the man had been telling the truth rather than putting on a performance.

  And so that left Les Moines to blame—and by association, James.

  “Monsieur St. Michelle,” Iris said brightly while keeping her head perfectly still. “Where is Monsieur Rougier? Should he not be assisting you in some way?”

  Clarissa rubbed at her jawline in a masculine fashion and wondered for a moment if the girl had the ability to read minds, dismissing the fanciful notion almost at once. “I gave him the afternoon off. There’s little the man can do while I’m sketching.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. James had woken Clarissa just before dawn. After forcing her to drink a truly vile concoction that he’d assured her she desperately needed, he’d told her he would be unavailable for most of the day. She’d poked and prodded but he’d refused to cooperate, giving her little information other than that his plans involved other business.

  “He seems a rather interesting chap,” Iris continued, sighing with relief and slumping for a moment when Clarissa gestured for her to relax.

  Iris’s purposeful use of the common English term was charming, but Clarissa felt uneasy at her line of questioning. “Peut-être,” she answered vaguely, setting the length of charcoal on her drawing table. “Hardly the sort that you hope to attract though, non?”

  Iris rose from the richly upholstered settee and walked toward Clarissa, her countenance changing as she did so. She squared her shoulders and her chin tilted determinedly. “Monsieur St. Michelle, from what others have told me, you, of all people, would not judge a person for desiring a taste of what the world has to offer.”

  Ah, Clarissa thought to herself. Even her revealing sketch could not have unearthed this surprising turn. She was torn between admiration for the girl and utter shock. A
nd she couldn’t help but be a bit curious about just what tales of the real St. Michelle’s escapades had reached England—and whether they were even close to being true. She suspected not. “Really, mademoiselle, you cannot believe everything that you hear.”

  The girl laughed, a hint of wickedness in the sound that confirmed deeper layers yet to be revealed. “I believe your interest in which stories may have been bandied about rather than the state of my virtue proves my point.”

  “Touché.” Clarissa had to give the girl credit; there was more to her than a hopeless romantic in search of her titled prince—though Clarissa could hardly encourage her to set her sights on James. Their time in Hampstead would be difficult enough without such distraction. And that was the truth. In its entirety. Clarissa scrubbed roughly at the charcoal on her fingers with a damp length of linen. “Je suis désolé. I cannot allow a dalliance to distract Rougier from his duties.”

  Iris’s brows lowered as she contemplated Clarissa’s words, the small vee created by the finely arched eyebrows smoothing away a moment later. “Oh, I see. Well,” she paused, looking at the sketch before reaching to gently smudge the edge of one eye with her fingertip. “Sometimes these things cannot be controlled.”

  She bowed politely and offered Clarissa a bright smile before turning and leaving the studio, silky golden ringlets bobbing gently about her head as she went.

  Clarissa took the sketch in hand and promptly tore it in two. “I should have told her James preferred men.”

  In the kitchen, James lingered at the scarred wooden table where the servants had just finished their midday meal. Though he was full, he reached for a loaf of bread and cut a second piece for himself. He slathered it with butter, drizzling honey over the top before taking a bite.

  The last of the maids and footmen scraped their chairs across the stone floor and hurried out of the warm kitchen, save one at the opposite end of the table. The man, nearly as tall as James but rail-thin, eyed the bread. Then he picked up his plate and walked the length of the table to take a seat next to James. He tore a generous portion from the fragrant loaf of bread and spread a thick layer of butter atop it.

  “You’ve got everything you need, then?” the man, introduced as simply Pettibone to James yesterday, mumbled around his first bite, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

  James suspected there were a number of Les Moines within the household, but this was his first encounter with one. The note left beneath his door last night had been simple and to the point. James would provide progress reports to his contact. The contact, already well entrenched within the household and with a network of men outside, would then pass along the information to Durand in Paris. Conversely, any news deemed necessary for James to receive would be passed through the route in reverse.

  James tore off a small bite of crunchy bread crust and chewed slowly. “Yes,” he replied, swallowing. “And the mother?”

  The clanging of pots at the long trestle tables across the kitchen signaled the beginning of dinner preparations. James knew he had little time before his absence would be noticed by more than just Clarissa.

  “Safe—for now. Of course, that could change, depending on how long it takes,” the footman answered in flawless English. He dropped his bread onto the pewter plate in front of him. “With the girl in England, there’s hardly a need to keep the mother alive for long.”

  “Durand understands what’s at stake if she comes to any harm.” James took another bite, not wanting to appear too eager. “And we are speaking of a portrait, after all. It will take some time to complete.”

  The man frowned slightly and brushed at his coat. “It’s not my job to know such things. She’s to hurry or there’ll be trouble. Tell her.” He placed the flat of both palms on the table and stood, shoving the chair back and out of his way. He stopped and pulled what appeared to be a missive from his breast pocket. “From the girl’s mother,” he offered in explanation, dropping the travel-stained paper on the table then walking from the room.

  James retrieved the letter just as a scullery maid approached and set to clearing the table.

  From the moment James had recognized Clarissa in St. Michelle’s studio, he’d known that timing would be everything. Successfully completing his mission and retrieving the money meant for Les Moines was equally as important as securing the safety of Clarissa and her mother. He felt sure his superior, Carmichael, would agree.

  But how could James secure the safety of two women in two different countries at precisely the same time?

  The scullery maid very nearly dropped a piece of crockery in his lap, huffing with disgust as she bent awkwardly to avoid him. James took the female servant’s silent suggestion that he leave and stood, giving her a friendly smile as he did so. She looked to refuse him the nicety then thought otherwise, her lips curving in a genuine, friendly smile before she turned her back and continued clearing the table.

  James strode from the room and turned down the hall toward the servants’ stairs, his thoughts once again occupied with Clarissa and the role they played. When he’d first accepted the Corinthian assignment, he’d known it would be challenging. And now? There was no point in telling Clarissa that her mother was in far more serious danger than she’d thought. The weight of such knowledge could only do her work harm—and her heart. The mother/daughter bond had obviously grown stronger over the last five years.

  He mounted the narrow stairs, shaking his head with disbelief. Practically speaking, he knew Clarissa wanted to return to Paris as quickly as she could, but her artistic talent could get in the way of efforts to hurry. He’d never seen her accept anything less than the best from herself; James only hoped her skill was up to the challenge of producing quality under pressure.

  And that he would be as well.

  Pettibone watched the English bastard stride down the hall toward the stairs. Durand, his father and employer, had assured him when reassigning the job to Marlowe that the turncoat deserved the opportunity to prove himself more than Pettibone did. After all, the lying Englishman had deceived the Corinthians into believing he had perished—there was nowhere for the man to turn. The time was ripe for Marlowe’s testing. And so he’d bowed to his father’s wishes yet again, though something inside of him had snapped.

  Pettibone believed such business should be left to the French, not the English. Had he not perfected his crude English accent? Learned to act the British buffoon until it was second nature—a fact that ate at his heart until he couldn’t breathe. He’d done all that his father had asked of him and more. It had galled him to have the man reconfirm how little faith he had in his son’s abilities. But the fact that the agent was English? Pettibone tasted the bitterness of the blow yet again as he moved toward the stairs. He’d suffered long enough in meaningless roles such as his current one, relegated to waiting hand and foot, like a common slave, while agents with far less skill undertook the worthwhile assignments.

  “You’ll not get anywhere at that pace,” a cheery voice chided from behind. Pettibone turned to find Daphne, Miss Bennett’s maid, standing behind him, a warm apple turnover in her hand.

  He smiled at the woman. Not because he wanted to—God forbid. Much to his chagrin, she’d been pestering him for weeks. She tore a small bite from the pathetic pastry and popped it into her mouth.

  “I was waiting for you,” he replied charmingly, realizing as he watched the lazy cow chew her cud that she could be of some use.

  The woman’s eyes brightened and she swallowed quickly, wiping plump sticky fingers across her apron. “Is that so?”

  There were a number of Les Moines agents within the walls of Kenwood House, but Pettibone thought Daphne might be exactly what his plan needed.

  “It is. Walk with me,” he urged, offering her his arm. She looked about for somewhere to set the turnover, settling on her pocket before taking his arm.

  Pettibone sighed with disgust at the greasy print she’d already managed to leave on his immaculate sleev
e.

  It would not be easy nor without trouble, but he’d prove to his father once and for all that he was prepared to take his rightful place within the organization—even if it meant losing Bennett’s money.

  Clarissa had nearly completed the second sketch when James arrived. He knocked politely on the door just as a personal servant would and waited for her to admit him.

  “Entrez,” Clarissa said firmly, ignoring James’s amused look.

  He shut the door securely and walked to her, his gaze turning to the two sketches of Iris. “The first one not quite to your liking?”

  She picked up the ripped sheets and balled them in her hands. “Oh, the sketch was perfectly acceptable. It is the model that’s the problem.”

  “Come now,” James began, taking the ruined pages from her and setting them on the drawing table. “The girl is just that—a girl. What could she have possibly done to cause you problems?”

  Clarissa turned away, stalking to the window before halting abruptly, spinning on her heel to return. Her index finger pointed accusingly, hovering near his chest. “I’ll tell you what that girl did,” she began, poking James for emphasis. “That girl is taking this portrait no more seriously than tea with the local vicar. She all but called into question my artistic ability.”

  “Well, in her defense, the only reason you’re here … wait, let me correct myself. The only reason St. Michelle is here has everything to do with the transient nature of the ton’s likes and dislikes. Society tells her she must be painted by St. Michelle, and so her father secures you, despite the difficulties such a demand presents. The most ridiculous fact in all of this is that the painting will, in all likelihood, secure a more desirable connection. That’s hardly her fault.”

  Clarissa considered his words, knowing he spoke the truth. “That’s all well and good,” she replied, poking him again in the chest. “But what of my abilities as a painter? One does not secure the services of the most lauded artist of one’s time only to question the—”