The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  She was the second person to tell him that today, which served to remind him of the first, and then the rest of what Lincolnshire had revealed. He tried to shove it all from his mind. He couldn’t stand to think of it right now, of losing her, of—

  He took a more generous sip of wine.

  Her blue, blue eyes locked on his, she opened the sketchbook. “You can undress now. I’m ready.”

  He wasn’t ready—he didn’t think he’d ever be ready—but there was nothing for it. He’d offered to pose for her, and he wanted her painting to be a success. He took another swallow of wine and put his glass down carefully, then stood and tugged off his boots and stockings, his cravat, his coat, his waistcoat. Feeling her gaze on him, he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off over his head.

  Like last night, his hands moved to the buttons on his trousers. But this time she didn’t stop him.

  He stopped himself instead.

  Gulping air, he wished it were wine. So he reached for his glass and took one more sip.

  “Sean?” she whispered, then bit her lip. She looked as tense as he felt. And as full of…well, to be perfectly honest, lust. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and dreamy…

  The sight devastated him.

  Their gazes were locked together, and it could be only a matter of time before they were locked together, too. The pull between them was uncanny. Overwhelming. Even preposterous…he almost wanted to laugh. He couldn’t cope with these feelings—was there any human who could? It was extraordinary. It was a nightmare. He was breaking apart at the seams.

  But somehow they had to keep it together. Or was it that they needed to stay apart? He couldn’t seem to think straight. (How much wine had he drunk?) Maybe he should just tell her the truth right now. Tell her they had no future together. Cut this off before he completely lost his head.

  No, he couldn’t tell her, not until she’d finished the portrait. Telling her wouldn’t just cut this off; it would devastate her. He was devastated already, so he knew exactly how she would feel. Completely, utterly devastated.

  And she wouldn’t be able to paint…

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Corinna couldn’t sketch.

  She could only stare. At Sean. It was taking everything she had to stop herself from leaping across the space between them.

  It seemed the wine was going to her head instead of his. She gnawed her bottom lip, feeling a bit woozy. He’d said he wouldn’t kiss her, but she wouldn’t settle for that. What if this was the last time they were ever alone together? This could be their last chance to kiss. Ever.

  How could she get him to kiss her?

  Again, this was Juliana’s sphere. Juliana was the beguiling sister. What would she do?

  As soon as Corinna asked the question, she knew the answer.

  Juliana would use the look.

  Yuck. Corinna cringed just thinking about it. The look was a sort of choreographed flirtation that Juliana swore by. She said it would make men fall at one’s feet. And Corinna had seen it work, more than once. But still, she’d never imagined trying it herself. She’d always found it too laughably contrived.

  Maybe it was the Dutch courage or the desperation—or both—but suddenly she didn’t care.

  Remembering her sister’s instructions, she glanced down, letting her lashes flutter, and then swept her gaze up, looking Sean dead in the eye as she curved her lips very slowly in a seductive smile. At least she hoped it was seductive…

  His pupils dilated, and he sucked in his breath.

  Huh. Perhaps she could be beguiling, after all.

  Or perhaps it was just Sean. He was so beguiling himself that any girl would feel beguiling around him. Every word he said in that lyrical Irish voice seeped right into her, melting her insides. She hadn’t even touched him yet, nor had he touched her, but her body was already humming.

  Soft light slanted through the north-facing windows, highlighting his sculpted cheek, his crisp hair, the faint dark stubble on his chin. She wondered what the stubble felt like.

  She breathed slowly in and out, watching Sean’s face. He was watching her too, watching her with the most impassioned look, just like Lord Mortimer in Children of the Abbey.

  It was a look more potent than any wine…

  Sean stood riveted, transfixed, waiting for Corinna to do something. To start sketching or try to kiss him, so he could tell her to stop. Because he had to tell her to stop.

  He couldn’t kiss her. Kissing her would be wrong.

  But he couldn’t stop it until it started, and the waiting was excruciating. The waiting and the wondering and the wanting. With an effort he tore his gaze away and turned to squint into the afternoon sun, as if perhaps he could burn the image of her off his retinas.

  It didn’t work. All he could see was that devastating look in her eyes.

  “Sean,” she said finally, her voice coming out a little hoarse. She rose, and he heard the sketchbook slide from her lap to the floor. She stepped over it and right up to him, so close he could feel the heat shimmering off her skin. Lifting a hand to his cheek, she turned his head to face her. “Are you all right, Sean?”

  He wasn’t all right, no. His heart hurt. He was devastated.

  “Sean,” she whispered, brushing her fingers on his face so gently he wondered that he could feel it. But he did feel it, so strongly the feeling seemed to spread all through him. She leaned closer. “Sean, will you kiss me? Please?”

  Saints preserve us.

  It was so forthright, so Corinna. It reminded him of everything he loved about her. He saw fathomless blue, and he smelled paint, and he heard her low, sweet voice, which right now was hoarse with emotion and need. How could he push her away when she needed him so much?

  But he couldn’t kiss her. Kissing her would be wrong.

  He kissed her.

  It was a defensive move, because he couldn’t look into her eyes a moment longer without the devastation ripping him apart. But the instant his lips touched hers, he lost his head completely.

  Somehow they made it down to the sofa, and she was pushing him back and crawling over him. Time slowed, or maybe it sped, or maybe it ceased to have any meaning at all. His world was reduced to the softness of her mouth, and the sensation of her fingers on his bare skin, and the warmth of her body pressing him into the sofa.

  And though none of it felt wrong, he was devastated.

  But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t let go of her. He knew that once he let go, he’d never touch her again. They kissed their lips raw, and when they couldn’t kiss anymore, they just lay together on the sofa, her head on his chest, his hands in her hair, saying nothing, scarcely moving.

  They stayed like that for a long time. When Sean opened his eyes, the sun was beginning to dip.

  “Are you awake, críona?”

  She nodded without lifting her cheek from his chest.

  “I’m sorry.” He wrapped his arms around her, still not ready to let her go, and pressed his sore lips to the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured against her hair.

  “I’m not sorry,” she said. “I know you think this is wrong, but I don’t. I think it’s exactly right. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you forever.”

  Hearing her say those words, he discovered he still had a wee shred of clarity. The wispiest shred, the barest fog, but just enough to bring him back to the real world. The world where he couldn’t be with her, not forever, not for a moment, not at all.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, and sat up, moving her off him. His throat felt tight, making it difficult to breathe.

  He was devastated.

  They had no future together.

  But he couldn’t tell her, not now, not until her painting was finished.

  And he still had to help her fix the painting. She hadn’t sketched yet, and she needed to sketch. He couldn’t marry her, he would never be with her, but he could still do what he’d come here to do. Three days from now, when he told her the tr
uth, when he devastated her, at least she would have her art. She’d have fixed her painting, and when it was accepted for the Summer Exhibition, she would still have her dreams, and they would help console her.

  That thought in mind, he rose from the sofa and pulled her up, too. He gripped her shoulders and turned her around. “Go sit in the chair, Corinna.”

  She looked back at him. ”What?”

  “It’s time to sketch now.” He started unbuttoning the left side of the falls on his trousers.

  “I feel hazy now.” She turned to face him. “I think we should do this tomorrow.”

  “We came here so you can sketch,” he said, unbuttoning the right side. “This is a business meeting, remember? Go sit down.”

  She backed up, watching him shuck his trousers. When her legs hit the chair, she dropped onto it, her eyes as wide as he’d ever seen them. Thank goodness he’d remembered to wear short drawers, he thought, because like many a fellow, he often went without. Tucking one’s shirt tails under and over was generally much more comfortable.

  “This is all I’m taking off,” he said, grabbing a used sketchbook off the table. “I trust it will be enough. Sketch, Corinna.” He sat, holding the book as the earl had in her picture, arranging himself in a similar pose. “I want you to sketch.”

  Her gaze wandered over him. Wandered everywhere. That dreamy look returned to her eyes.

  She devastated him.

  But he hadn’t the luxury of being devastated, not now. “Start sketching.”

  “I really don’t think I can concentrate. I drank too much wine. We’ll have to do this again tomorrow.”

  “We’re not doing this again, Corinna. I’m not leaving here until you’ve sketched enough anatomy to fix Lincolnshire’s portrait. And I’m not kissing you again, that I promise…so sketch.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Corinna had never painted so fast in her life.

  As she swept her brush along the canvas, she remembered all the hours she’d spent sketching earlier tonight. Intense hours. She hadn’t thought she’d be able to concentrate, but she’d found herself focusing, fascinated, sinking into the experience. After sketching a full hour and realizing that wasn’t nearly enough, she’d sent home a note, and Sean had lit candles, and she’d kept sketching.

  She’d captured him, all of him, head to bare toe. Captured his essence, she was sure of it. Her painting instructors had spoken of this, but studying a real, live man had made the difference. Finally, after months and years of trying, it had all clicked into place. She’d come home with page after page of sketches that she knew would help her fix Lincolnshire’s body beneath his clothes.

  She wouldn’t see Sean again until the portrait was finished. He’d made it clear, very clear, that he expected her to spend the entire weekend painting. Knowing she needed that time, she hadn’t argued. Much as she would miss seeing him, she had but two days left to paint.

  Three hours ago, in the darkness, Sean had walked her to her doorstep, kissed her forehead, and sent her inside to fix the portrait. Instead, without conscious thought, she’d grabbed a blank canvas. In the quiet house, while Griffin and his staff slumbered upstairs, she’d surrounded it with lanterns.

  And started another portrait, more vivid than any she’d ever painted before.

  Now, in the middle of the night, the picture was pouring out of her, the brush flying over the canvas. Hour by hour, stroke by stroke, the portrait was taking form, coming to life.

  Unlike most of the portraits she’d ever seen, this portrait wasn’t posed; it wasn’t contrived; it wasn’t meant to convey the importance of its subject. The gentleman’s clothing wasn’t carefully chosen to indicate his level of status or wealth. He wasn’t meticulously groomed, nor did he hold objects imbued with significance. His gaze didn’t issue a challenge. It didn’t say: Look at me. I’m superior and distinguished.

  Instead, the subject reclined half-clothed, sprawled with casual abandon on a sofa upholstered in sumptuous velvet. He held nothing, one arm relaxed along the back edge of the furniture, the other on a bent knee. His shirt had been removed and draped negligently on the sofa, revealing a toned chest and smooth skin that gleamed in the candlelight. His feet were bare, his legs clad in form-fitting trousers. His gaze was focused off-canvas, lost in contemplation. It didn’t say anything direct at all, allowing the viewer to draw his own conclusions.

  It was Sean, of course. Sean in a richer version of the garret studio, Sean in Corinna’s mind’s eye. Young, taut golden skin. Crisp black hair. Eyes of the deepest emerald green edging toward black, a shadowed hint of stubble on his chin. All she’d touched, all she’d experienced, all her emotions, all she wanted…

  Exposed for all to see.

  As she created, snatches of prose tumbled through her mind.

  …a passion which virtue cannot sanction or reason justify…

  …the soul-soothing certainty of being beloved by him…

  …life, without him, would lose far more than half of its charms…

  She painted without thinking, only feeling. Flesh tones, candlelight and shade, starched white linen, velvet-dark fabric. The sofa, ruby red and decadent. Richly paneled walls in the background, an exotic carpet underfoot.

  Her brush followed the ridge of a thigh, the slope of a shoulder. The jaw, the cheek, the flexed and bended knee. Her insides were melting again. Melting right onto the canvas.

  She was going to marry him.

  She had a plan now, a solution, something to guarantee Griffin’s cooperation.

  This painting.

  An hour ago, well into painting it, she’d suddenly realized that all she needed to ensure Griffin’s blessing was to tell him the truth—and prove it. If he knew that Sean had posed for her half-naked in the garret, he’d have to agree to their marriage. If he saw this portrait, he’d insist on it.

  He’d insisted Tristan marry Alexandra after they were caught together in her chamber, even though they’d both sworn nothing had happened in her bed. The sight of this portrait would make Griffin think she and Sean had shared a bed, too.

  And if she didn’t correct that assumption, well, it would serve him right for jumping to conclusions.

  She stepped back and examined her work.

  It was spectacular. The portrait looked breathtaking in the lanternlight, like a window into another world. Though still quite unfinished, she had no doubt it would be the most inspired thing she’d ever painted. It was provocative and scandalous and altogether brilliant.

  It would be the talk of the Summer Exhibition.

  No!

  Blinking, she took another step back.

  She couldn’t.

  If it were selected, it would be hung for all to see. Sean would be mortified. And everyone—Griffin!—would know that he had posed for her half-undressed. It would be like announcing to the world that she and Sean were…

  Unless…

  Unless nobody knew it was Sean.

  What if she were to change the hair color, the eyes? Then no one would recognize him. There might be whispered speculation about the artist’s love interest, but she could laugh it off, because no one would find a young man who looked like him anywhere.

  That was an idea. She held her breath, thinking it over.

  Was she bold enough to actually go through with it?

  As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer. Or rather, she knew that she’d asked herself the wrong question.

  The right question was: Did she want to be an artist, or not?

  She was going to forget Lincolnshire’s portrait. Forget her landscapes and still lifes. This would be the painting she submitted for the Summer Exhibition.

  The one she wanted to be known for, the one that would launch her career.

  Sean was in a beastly mood when he joined Deirdre for breakfast the next morning. A cup of coffee was waiting on the table, strong and black the way he liked it, and she pushed it toward him after he slammed into his chair.
r />   “You look upset,” she said mildly, sipping her tea.

  Upset didn’t begin to describe his feelings. It didn’t so much as scratch the surface. Allowing wine and weakness to overcome him last night, he’d kissed Corinna again when he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. And keeping the truth from her was tearing him up inside, like coarse gravel tumbling around in his gut.

  He’d been fooling himself all along, of course. There’d never been a chance for him and Corinna. And Deirdre wasn’t going to get her divorce, either. The moment Sean had appeared as Hamilton in public, he’d sealed his sister’s fate. All that was left was seeing Lincolnshire through his last days. There was nothing else of worth he could do.

  But he wasn’t going to tell Deirdre any of that.

  “Lincolnshire’s sliding downhill again,” he said instead, taking a gulp of the hot, bracing coffee. “He’s too tired to come down and join us.”

  “Someone to see you, Mr. Hamilton.” A footman appeared in the doorway. “Your assistant, Mr. Sykes.”

  “Mr. Sykes? Send him in. At once. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

  “By all means,” the man said, and left.

  “Just what I need,” Sean muttered.

  Deirdre frowned. “What could he want?”

  “I haven’t a clue. But it’s Saturday. Sykes doesn’t work on Saturday. Which means whatever it is can’t be good.”

  “You can’t know that. It might not be bad.”

  “Maybe it isn’t.”

  And maybe the sun would fail to rise tomorrow. Maybe it wouldn’t rain in London for the whole of the summer. Maybe a marquess’s daughter would marry a backwoods Irish nobody.

  “Will you shut the door?” he requested when Sykes walked in.

  The secretary obliged. ”I apologize for the interruption.”

  “I’m certain you’ve a good reason. Do sit down.”

  After pulling out a chair, Sykes wasted no time coming to the point. “All of your concerns are being investigated. Inquiries are being made.” He pushed up on his round spectacles. “Not only at your main offices, but at your factories, your shipyards, your—”