by Darcy Burke
“I don’t know.” Irritated, she set down her palette. “It depends upon how this goes.”
Griffin walked closer. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Yet.” All she’d done was layer the pale gray ground that she used as the undertint for her paintings, with a rough white oval in the upper middle.
“What is it going to be?”
“I’m not sure,” she hedged.
But she knew what she wanted it to be: a portrait. That was why she’d laid the white oval where she planned to paint the face. Flesh tones would appear brighter over white than gray, and she wanted the face to be luminous.
And she wanted it to be a good portrait. That was why she’d sketched the Elgin Marbles.
“I want you to get a good night’s sleep,” Griffin pressed. “I’ve several men I want you to meet at Lady Partridge’s ball tomorrow evening.”
Not that again. Your turn will come next, she remembered Juliana saying. All she wanted was to concentrate on her art, but everyone wanted to marry her off.
Like paint swiped with turpentine, her creative haze had dissipated. “Well, then, I shall certainly need my beauty rest,” she said tartly.
She may as well go to bed, though. She hadn’t decided whom to paint anyway.
“I’m glad you agree,” Griffin said, apparently missing her tone. “By the way, I need to leave Sunday morning, and I probably won’t be back until Thursday. I won’t be able to take you to Almack’s on Wednesday night.”
“What a terrible pity.” Day after day of painting without interruptions, while he was off dealing with some problem at Cainewood or whatever?
What more could a girl like Corinna ask for?
Though she vaguely wondered what he was going to do, she didn’t want to prolong this discussion. “That’s really too bad, Griffin,” she said with a straight face. “Good night.”
Looking forward to the week ahead, she hummed as she cleaned up and put everything away. Then she went upstairs to her room, lit a candle from the fireplace, and ducked into her dressing room to grab a nightgown.
And there she stopped short, pulling a face.
In the corner were dozens of paintings stacked leaning against the wall. Her paintings. Portrait after portrait, none of them quite right.
They taunted her.
She’d spent nearly a decade learning to paint still lifes and landscapes. Practicing, persevering, perfecting. Eventually she’d begun putting people into her scenes, figures strolling or laboring or simply lounging in the background. But that hadn’t been enough to satisfy her.
She’d always wanted to paint real portraits, detailed studies of people. She all but burned to paint portraits, and last year she’d put all other sorts of subjects behind her.
She walked closer and flipped canvases, bringing the candle near to scrutinize the year’s many efforts. Her maid. Alexandra and Juliana. Alexandra and baby Harry. Juliana alone, her shoulders bare, her skirts hiked up to show one scandalous, exposed knee.
Juliana, the dear, had obligingly posed for Corinna in the nude. Rigidly, self-consciously nude. Unfortunately, Corinna had been unable to paint her sister nude, as the sight of such a work of art would make poor Griffin’s head explode.
And still, none of the paintings were good enough.
Sighing, she leaned them back against the wall. She knew she had it in her to produce a fine portrait. She’d long since mastered all the things she could easily study—the face, the hair, the clothing, the hands—and she’d been told she portrayed her subjects’ expressions well.
But when it came to the body, she found herself frustrated every time. The people looked stiff and unnatural, not altogether surprising, given they’d looked stiff and unnatural when they’d posed. Corinna’s maid and sisters could never seem to sit still for long, and sketching them had never proved as helpful as she’d hoped.
Not to mention her maid and sisters were all female. Men were formed differently, and since half the world’s population was male, Corinna wanted to paint them, too. But barring her spectacularly unwilling brother—yes, she’d asked him—where on earth was a gently bred girl supposed to find a male model?
Well, perhaps sketching the Elgin Marbles had done the trick, she reminded herself, lifting her chin. At least they knew how to hold still.
Squaring her shoulders, she returned to her room and summoned her maid to help ready her for bed. But then she found she couldn’t retire. She rarely rose before noon, because she stayed up late as a habit. Although painting by candlelight rather than sunlight could sometimes prove challenging, the night hours were quiet, almost mystical, the very best time for creativity.
It was too early to fall asleep.
She pulled out a small book tucked under her bed, the second volume of Celia in Search of a Husband by Medora Gordon Byron. Smiling, she cradled it in her hands. It was a Minerva Press novel, a torrid romance, bound as always in cheap marble-patterned paper.
Other than painting, Minerva Press novels were Corinna’s favorite, most secret escape.
She bought them in secret, too. Fortunately, a bookseller’s shop sat next door to the colorman’s shop where she purchased her art supplies. Her maid or a footman usually accompanied her on these errands, since no one in the family had the patience to wait for hours while she chose the perfect oils and tints. Which was a good thing, since that meant they never saw her go into the bookshop afterward, either.
The last thing she wanted was her family discovering she reveled in such unseemly literature. Her sisters would be properly scandalized—or else they would tease her mercilessly. And Griffin would probably be smug; he’d consider it proof that, deep down, she pined for love and a husband.
She could do without any of those reactions, thank you very much.
To make doubly sure there was no risk of discovery, after reading a Minerva Press novel she always donated it to the circulating library. That way other girls could enjoy them. She had no need to ever reread them herself, since she was afflicted—yes, afflicted—with the ability to remember everything she’d ever read, word for word. She could see the printed pages in her mind, and they had a tendency to pop into her head at the oddest, most inconvenient moments. It was rather a nuisance. Almost annoying enough to make her stop reading.
But only almost. She set the candle on her bedside table and opened Celia in Search of a Husband with a happy sigh.
Celia was quite amusing. Though the heroine proclaimed loudly and often that she wanted a husband, she discarded men left and right as though they were so many used handkerchiefs.
On page 183, Celia sighed, “mentally,” according to the author—Corinna often sighed mentally, too!—wondering, Am I rigid? What woman of real feeling would trust her peace to the keeping of a libertine? It may prove the vanity of love to believe that we could fix the heart hitherto unprincipled, but a trusting woman must meet, in the creature of her choice, either the idol of her hopes or certain disappointment in her connubial happiness—for here is no medium.
Exactly, Corinna thought with another sigh. A mental one, of course.
If a flawed fellow couldn’t be fixed—no matter how much one might love him—then what were her chances of finding marital happiness, anyway? Corinna would have to meet her “idol,” and how improbable was that?
Certain disappointment was a much more likely outcome, which was why she, a woman of real feeling, was far better off putting her faith in her art.
NINE
Lady Partridge lived in a small mansion at the edge of Mayfair. On Saturday night, the line of carriages stretched for blocks. Sean figured he could have negotiated two contracts and plowed through the entire mountain of paperwork on his desk in the time it took him and his “uncle” to make their way to the front.
Two footmen reached in for Lincolnshire, who had spent most of the wait dozing. As he emerged, supported by the two men, he eyed Sean. “You look a bit sober, eh?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?
I should think so.” Sean watched the footmen settle the earl in a curious vehicle. A typical dining room chair with a caned back and an upholstered seat, it had two huge wheels attached to its sides and a smaller wheel centered behind. “I’m not an inveterate drinker.”
To the contrary—and to Deirdre’s screaming amusement—Sean seemed the only Irishman alive who couldn’t hold his liquor.
“Downed a toddy myself before leaving,” the earl said as one of the men lifted his feet while the other unfolded a small, upholstered shelf for them to rest upon. “A swallow of spirits never hurt a man, should you ask me. But that wasn’t what I meant by sober. I plan to stick around long enough to get to know you, yet you appear to be dressed for a funeral. Not mine, I hope.”
“Certainly not yours, sir.” Sean shook out a blanket and settled it on the earl’s lap to hide his swollen legs. Though Lincolnshire was on the whole a slight fellow, his lower extremities would fit a man thrice his size. Earlier this evening, when Sean had seen them uncovered, he’d choked back a gasp. “But I fear that I haven’t spent much time at balls.” Actually, he’d never been to a ball. “Am I wearing the wrong thing?”
“Not wrong, no. Just a bit drab for a festive occasion.” Lincolnshire himself was decked out in peacock blue and gold. “Some color wouldn’t be amiss, my boy.”
“Ah, yes,” Sean said as he moved around to push the chair. “I usually prefer black and white.”
Actually, he always wore black and white. He’d learned early on that attempting anything more adventurous would inevitably lead to some hilarious mismatch (hilarious to everyone but Sean, that was). Since he had nothing but black and white in his wardrobe, he was relieved to find his choice suitable if not stylish.
As he wheeled the earl toward the door, a tall proper butler opened it. Sounds of music drifted out. “Your name, sir?”
“Lincolnshire,” Lincolnshire declared. “And my nephew, Mr. Hamilton.”
“My lord Lincolnshire, do please come in,” the butler said in reverent tones. “Lady Partridge left instructions to be notified the very moment you arrived. This way, if you will,” he added, motioning to Sean.
But Sean couldn’t push the chair along behind the butler. In fact, he couldn’t push it anywhere at all—because people had begun steaming into the foyer, forming a crush around the earl in his wheeled chair. Sean was trapped.
It seemed Lord Lincolnshire had declared his name a little too loudly.
“Lord Lincolnshire!” An aging matron took the old man’s hands. “It’s positively delightful to see you!”
“I’m delighted as well, Lady Fotherington. May I introduce my long-lost nephew, Mr. Sean Hamilton? He’s become like a son to me.”
Sean tensed, waiting to be called a fraud, but the woman focused on him only briefly. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said politely, displaying no interest in him at all. Or no more than was required by good manners, anyway.
Apparently his secret was safe. He didn’t know any members of the ton, he reminded himself, glancing around at the still-gathering crowd. And none of these people knew him.
There was absolutely nothing to worry about.
“Lord Lincolnshire, how are you feeling?” the woman asked.
“As well as can be expected. And how is your son?” Lincolnshire squeezed her hands. “Well as well, I hope?”
“Oh, he’s very well indeed, thanks in no small part to your assistance.”
“It was but a trifle, my lady, I assure you.”
A burly young man gave a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “You always say so, my lord, and it’s never yet been true.”
An older, taller gentleman sighed. “Who will bring toys this Christmas for the children at the Foundling Hospital?”
“We will,” said a commanding woman, apparently the man’s wife. “It’s the least we can do to honor you, Lord Lincolnshire.”
Someone else put in, “We’ll miss you, Lord Lincolnshire!”
“Yes, mightily!”
“However will we go on without you?”
As Sean watched them all clamoring to voice their sorrow and their gratitude, an icy feeling of horror was slowly creeping over him.
This was much worse than he’d thought.
“We would do anything for you, my lord!”
“Anything to make you more comfortable.”
“Anything at all…”
Lincolnshire wasn’t just a pleasant man. A nice man. A generous man.
“Too right, we would.” The commanding woman now had tear-tracks down her stern face. “Though it could hardly begin to repay all you’ve done for us. London shall never see your equal again.”
Sweet mercy.
The man was a blasted saint.
More people crowded in. It was a maelstrom of affection and tears and lamentations. Men and women, young and old alike, sharing their memories and paying their respects and, most of all, expressing their fervent hopes that the dying Earl of Lincolnshire would spend his last days in ease and contentment, in the company of those who loved him.
But he wouldn’t.
No, sir!
Instead, the sainted man would be spending his last days in a tangle of petty lies, in the company of some backwoods Irish nobody.
Sean was, without a doubt, the most despicable person on the face of the earth.
Corinna was dancing with a thoroughly boring young man—the latest in a string that proved Griffin hadn’t the slightest idea of her type—when she noticed her old neighbor Lord Lincolnshire enter the ballroom.
Well, try to enter, anyway. He was making excruciatingly slow progress, surrounded as he was by adoring people, all vying for his attention at once.
Propped up in a cane-backed wheelchair, he looked happier than she’d ever imagined a dying man could be. The sight warmed her heart. If anyone in the world deserved happiness, it was Lord Lincolnshire. She smiled when she saw him turn to aim an elated grin at whoever was pushing the chair. She craned—rather gracelessly—to see who it was.
And she sucked in a breath.
Crisp black hair. Emerald eyes. Angular, sculpted face.
Holy Hannah, it was her Greek god!
She’d tried to paint him this very morning—she’d decided she wanted him in her portrait—but that day in the Elgin Gallery, he’d vanished before she had a chance to finish drawing him. With no sketch to work from, she’d found herself unable to recall enough detail. Eventually she’d resigned herself to choosing another subject and glumly painted over her efforts before dressing for tonight’s ball.
Her canvas once more had a plain white oval where there should be a face. And now her fingers itched for a pencil.
What was he doing here? She hadn’t expected to ever see him again. He’d certainly never appeared at a society event before this. How had he come to be with Lord Lincolnshire, pushing the dear old earl in a wheelchair?
“At whom are you staring?” her partner asked.
She snapped to attention, surprised to find she was still dancing. Her feet seemed to know what to do all by themselves. Perhaps she should have thanked Mama for all those dance lessons instead of throwing a fit every time she was dragged away from her easel.
Then again, maybe it was just that she was letting Lord Snooze-Basket lead, and repeating the same three steps over and over seemed to be all the excitement he could manage.
She shook her head. ”I was watching Lord Lincolnshire. I’m glad he managed to attend tonight. Might you know that gentleman with him? I’m wondering if he could be the artist John Hamilton.”
“I haven’t seen him before, but I seriously doubt he’s John Hamilton. The man never appears in public.” The music came to an end, and her partner bowed. “Thank you for the dance, Lady Corinna.”
“My pleasure,” she said with a straight face.
Thinking Juliana knew everyone, Corinna looked around and found her sister conversing with her mother-in-law, the new Lady Cavanaugh.
&nb
sp; “Might either of you know that young man accompanying Lord Lincolnshire?” she asked, barging right in.
Juliana shook her head. “Handsome though, isn’t he?”
A vast understatement. “I met him the other day at the British Museum. When you and Alexandra went off, remember? Another gentleman introduced him as John Hamilton.”
“John Hamilton, the artist? I remember you claimed you’d met him, but—”
“Yes, the artist. But then everything became very confusing, because this fellow claimed he wasn’t John Hamilton, but the other fellow was instead. And why would John Hamilton be with Lord Lincolnshire?”
“Lord Lincolnshire collects art,” Juliana reminded her. “Ming vases and paintings.”
“More to the point,” Lady Cavanaugh said, “John Hamilton is Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew. And his heir.”
Corinna hadn’t known that. But if John Hamilton was Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew, that explained why the two were together. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. The Greek god was the elusive John Hamilton! Being a recluse, he must have claimed otherwise in order to preserve his anonymity.
But Corinna knew the truth now.
Rising excitement fluttered in her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She’d actually met John Hamilton.
The John Hamilton, a member of the Summer Exhibition Selection Committee.
The John Hamilton who could help her dreams come true.
Now all she had to do was charm him.
Before she could think better of it, she grabbed her sister’s hand. “Come along,” she said, motioning to Lady Cavanaugh. “I’ll introduce you both.”
TEN
Lord Lincolnshire held up a hand, interrupting an outpouring of affection from yet another of Lady Partridge’s guests. “Nephew.”
“Do you need something, Uncle?” Concerned (and guilty), Sean moved around the front of the wheelchair, wedging himself between two older, portly gentlemen. “Are your limbs paining you? Would you care for some laudanum?” He reached into his pocket for the vial the nurse had pressed into his hands.