The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  And they looked more than a little familiar.

  Juliana resembled Caithren, sharing her ancestor’s warm hazel eyes and straight, streaky blond hair. Griffin had inherited Jason’s dark hair, square jaw, and deep green eyes.

  But they weren’t as startling a green as the eyes Corinna really wanted to paint.

  She groaned and turned her back on the portrait. It was infuriating, the way Mr. Hamilton kept lying to her—and even more so the way he kept popping into her head at odd moments. Lately, whenever she picked up a Minerva Press novel, she pictured him as the hero. No matter if the author described the hero as having fair hair and blue eyes; in her head his hair was dark, his eyes that startling green. Whenever the dark-haired, green-eyed hero touched the heroine, she felt a tiny shiver. And whenever the hero and heroine kissed, she imagined Mr. Hamilton kissing her, and her lips tingled.

  But in real life, she was about as likely to kiss him as she was to paint him—which was to say, very unlikely. He’d already twice refused to sit for her.

  She could have had a Summer Exhibition portrait that revealed, for the first time ever, the elusive face of a famed artistic genius and future peer of the realm. Now, that would have been noteworthy.

  But, noooo. That face was far too busy and self-important to sit for even one measly little sketch.

  She sighed—out loud, not mentally—knowing it was hopeless. His cachet was more important to him than her ambitions, and honestly, who could blame him for it? They barely knew each other, after all.

  But she didn’t want to spend her career updating the family portrait collection. She couldn’t keep painting her poor, patient sisters over and over. She’d been doing that for nearly a year, and none of her pictures had turned out good enough to add to the collection, anyway. She needed new experiences, new challenges, if she hoped to improve and grow as an artist.

  She collected her art supplies and summoned two footmen to accompany her into the square. Until she found a subject, she’d continue working on her setting. Carrying her box of paints, she followed the servants out the door and across the street.

  Or at least she tried to cross the street. Rounding the curve from Lincolnshire House, a curricle drew to a halt in her path. The driver looked down from his high perch.

  “I’m not Hamilton,” he said coldly.

  She shrugged blithely, to cover her agitation. Apparently he hated her. And since he wasn’t going to let her sketch him—let alone paint him—she wished he’d just leave her alone. If he’d cease popping into her life, perhaps she’d be able to concentrate on finding someone else to kiss.

  To paint, she mentally amended. She didn’t want to kiss him; she only wanted to paint him.

  Holy Hannah, she was a liar.

  And was there anything worse than lying to oneself?

  “Fine,” she snapped. “You’re not Hamilton. Now will you please drive on so I can get back to work?”

  A bark of laughter burst from his throat. Or maybe it was a noise of derision. Whichever, he flicked his reins and drove off, leaving her to her painting and her thoughts.

  But mostly her thoughts.

  At this rate, she’d be lucky to finish a new portrait before next year’s Summer Exhibition.

  TWELVE

  “Nephew?”

  “Hmm?”

  Sean looked up from reading the Morning Chronicle at the breakfast table, thinking it was way too late for breakfast.

  By this hour on a normal morning, he’d have already risen, eaten, and driven into town. On a normal morning, he’d have already gone through the day’s mail, taken several meetings, and directed his staff. On a normal morning, he’d be elbow-deep in work by now, expanding his operation and increasing his fortune. On a normal morning…

  This wasn’t a normal morning.

  No morning had been normal since he’d agreed to this blasted scheme. Lincolnshire had trouble falling asleep and consequently stayed abed late. And then he wanted his dear nephew to keep him company at breakfast. He ate very little and very slowly and it all took a very long time.

  Now the old man gave him a sunny smile. “I wish to see your studio today.”

  Sean folded and set aside the newspaper. “My studio is private,” he said carefully.

  “From me?” The earl looked hurt. “I’m your uncle. You’re my heir.”

  “I have work to do—”

  “I know. Work that makes me mighty proud, work that rivals the very best.” He gestured to all the old masters on his dining room walls. “I want to see where you work. I shall sit and watch quietly; I promise. It’s not as though I could move around much even if I wanted to,” he added with his usual good humor.

  But Sean’s smile was regretful, not amused. “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to concentrate—”

  “You won’t even know I’m there.”

  Sean shook his head. He did want to make the sainted fellow happy. Lincolnshire’s condition was worsening by the day, and he was a nice man who deserved a happy ending. Sean hated to see him disappointed.

  But he couldn’t allow the earl into his “studio.”

  At least, not in its current state.

  No more than an hour after leaving the British Museum, Hamilton had fetched a few paintings and stuck them in an empty garret in one of Sean’s buildings. He’d even included a half-finished canvas and propped it on an easel, so it would appear as though Sean were in the middle of a project.

  But after that, he’d run off to Wales. Immediately and without a backward glance. Other than the pictures and a few well-used sketchbooks, he’d provided nothing.

  No paint. No brushes. No…whatever else it was that painters needed.

  The earl would expect to find more than art, wouldn’t he? He’d expect to find art supplies.

  So Sean was forced to twist the truth once again.

  “Unfortunately,” he improvised, “I find it impossible to paint with anyone watching over my shoulder. And I’m in the middle of something I fear I’m quite anxious to finish today. Will tomorrow be soon enough? I should be done then, and I’ll be happy to bring you to the studio. Not to watch me paint, mind you, but to see the space. And to view the latest Hamilton canvases.”

  He hated lying. This whole business was mentally exhausting. For the umpteenth time, he silently cursed himself for allowing the weasel to drag him into it.

  “Very well,” Lincolnshire finally conceded. “I shall look forward to visiting tomorrow.”

  Sean thanked him and finished breakfast, then went off to work. Or rather—abandoning his own responsibilities once again—he went off to purchase art supplies.

  He wouldn’t have had a clue where to buy anything related to art, but he’d noticed Hamilton’s sketchbooks all had REEVES & SONS stamped on them. Recalling a tenant by that name in one of his buildings in the center of town, he drove straight there.

  It took him a good while to choose the supplies, particularly the colors. At a complete loss, he finally consulted one of the Reeveses—father or son, he knew not—who selected the proper pigments for him. Listening to the fellow rattle on about tone harmony, warmer and cooler variants, transparent as opposed to opaque, and the benefits versus the drawbacks of a broad palette compared to a more limited one—this particular “palette” apparently referring to a list of colors, not a thing one put the colors on—Sean was again tempted to stick his fingers in his ears.

  When at long last he came out of the shop (a “colorman’s shop,” he’d learned it was called) more than half his day had slipped away.

  He was in a hurry. So much so that, on his way back to his curricle, he glanced twice at a girl in the bookshop next door before realizing she was Corinna.

  A footman in Chase livery stood outside the shop, looking bored. Corinna stood on the other side of the window, her nose buried in a book. A bell on the door jangled when Sean opened it, but she didn’t look up at the noise. Nodding at the bookseller’s muted, “Good afternoon,” Sean walk
ed past the front desk and right up to her. She didn’t acknowledge him.

  “I’m not Hamilton,” he said.

  She jumped. Then slammed the book shut and fixed him with a seething look. “I don’t believe you.”

  “So you keep saying. But I’m no artist.”

  Her blue, blue eyes focused on the bulky package in his hands. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, it had REEVES & SONS stamped on it in smudged black ink.

  She smirked. “Then what did you buy at the colorman’s shop?”

  He had no answer to that. The truth would only dig him in deeper. But he was tired of lying. He’d been fighting to correct a lie. He didn’t want to try to fabricate some elaborate cover story.

  So instead he said, “What are you reading?”

  Her reaction was peculiar. She blushed and stuttered and quickly shoved the book onto the nearest shelf. When he bent to see the title, she grabbed his upper arm and maneuvered him down a row of bookcases. And around a corner and down a second row. She didn’t stop until she’d backed him into a dead end.

  What an odd girl she was. Pretty and stubborn and odd. He smiled down at her in bewilderment. She looked quite fetching with her cheeks flushed. And when she finally released him, he felt rather sorry for it.

  A small part of him still wondered what she’d been reading. A very small part of him. The rest of him was busy noticing that the two of them were alone, tucked away between the quiet bookshop’s tall, dusty shelves. There didn’t seem to be any other customers, the bookseller was miles away at the till, and Corinna’s footman was certainly still woolgathering outside.

  Sean set the package on a high, empty shelf.

  The shop smelled like paper and old leather, but Corinna smelled of flowers and paint. Silence seemed to blanket the store along with the dust, making her breathing sound loud by comparison. She bit her lip.

  Without thought, he leaned in to kiss her.

  He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself—or he didn’t want to help himself. He’d been imagining this kiss since the first time he’d seen her bite that full, pillowy lower lip, that day in the British Museum. He grasped her shoulders, half expecting her to pull back in protest.

  But she didn’t.

  She kissed him back.

  For one long, sublime moment, he let himself sink into her warmth. She was soft, boneless, embracing. Her lips were softest of all, even softer than he’d imagined.

  It took a massive effort to wrench himself back to earth.

  When they pulled apart, her cheeks were even more flushed than before. Her eyes looked twice as wide as usual. She spoke slowly, her voice a wee bit hoarse. ”Why did you do that?”

  He wasn’t sure why. “I suppose because I wanted to.”

  “But you hate me!”

  “Obviously, I don’t. Although I’ll admit to finding you somewhat exasperating.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why did you let me do it?”

  Her eyes went even wider. “Are you jesting? What girl—most especially if she’s an artist—wouldn’t let John Hamilton kiss her?”

  For once he didn’t protest that he wasn’t John Hamilton. He was too stunned. “So it was a trophy kiss?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You kiss artists? You thought to add me to your collection? A particularly shiny prize?”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve never kissed an artist before!”

  She had not, he noted, claimed she’d never kissed anyone before. Most intriguing.

  Although it hardly changed the fact that he had no business kissing her. He wasn’t John Hamilton. He wasn’t Lincolnshire’s nephew. He wasn’t an English lord, or a soon-to-be English lord, or remotely related to any English lord at all.

  He wasn’t even English.

  He was an Irish nobody with lots of money but little social status—and not a lick of sense. Aristocratic young misses like Corinna were off-limits to a fellow like him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  She was very blunt, he thought, not for the first time. “I won’t kiss you again.”

  “I hope you will.” She smiled. “I rather enjoyed kissing you.”

  “You may find you enjoyed it less than you think,” he informed her, “when you realize I’m not John Hamilton.”

  “Not that again.” Reaching up to the shelf, she shoved his package toward him. “Don’t forget your art supplies,” she called over her shoulder as she strutted away. “You’re going to need them the next time you paint.”

  He was still standing there when the bell jangled and the door shut behind her.

  THIRTEEN

  Corinna stood before her easel in Berkeley Square the next day, painting.

  Oh, very well, daydreaming.

  Or—since she was determined to stop lying to herself—reliving the kiss.

  For at least the hundredth time.

  She’d been kissed before, of course, but never like that. She could have sworn her legs had turned to water. Not only her lips, but her entire body had seemed to tingle. She was surprised her pounding heart hadn’t cracked a rib.

  She’d never expected to experience such a kiss—ever—though she’d certainly read enough of them in Minerva Press novels. In fact, just before Mr. Hamilton had entered the bookshop, as she’d flipped through Children of the Abbey, Lord Mortimer had clutched Amanda close and, straining her to his beating heart, he imprinted a kiss on her tremulous lips.

  Which was a fairly spot on description of what had happened to Corinna yesterday.

  Children of the Abbey had seemed an excellent novel, and she’d had every intention of buying it. Until Mr. Hamilton had imprinted a kiss on her lips and left her head spinning like a top. She’d forgotten herself completely, and forgotten all about buying the book.

  “Lady Corinna.” A familiar voice interrupted her musings.

  It sounded weaker and shorter of breath than she’d like. Lord Lincolnshire wasn’t doing well. Her heart sinking, Corinna turned to see him sitting in his wheelchair outside the fence that enclosed the park.

  Setting her palette down on a bench, she walked over to greet him, feeling a bit better as she got closer. He looked red and swollen…but happy. Happier than she’d seen him in ages.

  Mr. Hamilton stood behind him, his hands on the back of the chair. She remembered how yesterday those hands had gripped her shoulders and pulled her against him.

  “My nephew is taking me to his studio,” Lord Lincolnshire informed her brightly, snapping her attention back to him. “I’m going to see his newest paintings.”

  “We really must be on our way,” Mr. Hamilton said without meeting Corinna’s eyes. “I have much to do today after this.”

  Lord Lincolnshire smiled up at her. “Would you like to come along?”

  “No,” Mr. Hamilton shot out at the same time Corinna exclaimed, “Oh, yes!”

  “Thank you for the invitation,” she added. “I’d love to come along!”

  “No,” Mr. Hamilton repeated more forcefully, finally looking at her. “My workspace is private. There’s a reason I’m known as a recluse.”

  “Come now, nephew,” Lord Lincolnshire chided. “You’re about to be an earl. Your days as a recluse have come to an end.”

  “Uncle—”

  “Mr. Hamilton,” Corinna interrupted, never one to hold her tongue. “Your uncle would like me to accompany you. Will you disappoint such a kindly man?”

  Mr. Hamilton opened his mouth as if to argue, but then apparently had second thoughts, because he closed it. Into a very straight line. And he glared at her.

  She’d won.

  Remembering that sulky mouth imprinting a kiss on her lips, she couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll be but a moment. I’ll meet you gentlemen at the gate.”

  After dashing back to her easel and instructing the footman to take it home, she removed her apron, smoothed her pink dress, and joined the two Hamiltons outside the fence.<
br />
  It was a short walk to Piccadilly Street, where the studio was located. Mr. Hamilton remained grim and silent as they went. Lord Lincolnshire chattered breathlessly, talking about this and that, until he said…

  “I’ve been thinking, nephew, that I’d like to meet your wife.”

  Corinna nearly fell over her own feet.

  Mr. Hamilton had a wife?

  She’d kissed a married man?

  She was so shocked—and instantly guilty—she didn’t even hear whatever Mr. Hamilton said in response to Lord Lincolnshire’s request. While artists were supposed to be free spirits, living at the whim of their passions, Corinna had too much respect for marriage and sympathy for poor Mrs. Hamilton—whoever and wherever she was—to feel anything less than deep shame for her own actions.

  And yet…that didn’t change the fact that the kiss had been glorious. Breathtaking. The most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. Though she couldn’t let it happen again, she knew she wouldn’t be able to help reliving the experience over and over, as she’d been doing since it happened. And surely the kiss hadn’t been her fault.

  She’d simply been a victim of Mr. Hamilton’s unseemly advances.

  Hadn’t she?

  Still, she was ashamed to think she’d been so blind. Mr. Hamilton was obviously well practiced at charming young women. Very well practiced. Far more practiced, Corinna realized, than any honorable, respectful young man could hope to become. His very experience should have been a clue. She sighed, thinking that much as she’d never expected to be kissed like that kiss in the bookshop in real life, it was even more unlikely she’d ever be kissed like that again.

  Which seemed the greatest shame of all.

  “We’re here,” Mr. Hamilton said, jarring her out of her panic and back into the real world.

  She drew a deep breath and pushed those thoughts from her mind, suddenly impatient to see the studio, to see new Hamilton paintings before anyone else. To see exactly where the artist worked, and what sorts of supplies he used, and maybe, if she was lucky, a canvas or two that wasn’t finished yet, so she could study his technique.