by Darcy Burke
“As a suitor. A potential husband.”
She still couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Better to play it safe, she decided; better he should get to know Sean before she admitted anything. “Of course not. I just remembered you’d said you wanted to talk to him, and I wondered if you had yet, that’s all.” She hoped that when he did talk to Sean he’d be impressed. “Now leave me alone, Griffin. I need to paint. And I’m not going to Lady Hartley’s breakfast.”
“I’ll send our regrets,” he gritted out, and then, as he walked off, Corinna heard him mutter, “Why do girls always seem to get the best of me?”
Fog-free for the first time all day, she returned to her easel to examine her progress. It really was coming along brilliantly, she thought, smiling. Just brilliantly.
But oh, my.
This was one extremely sensual painting.
It wasn’t due to the model’s state of undress—after all, artists had been depicting the human form for thousands of years, and besides, he was only uncovered from the waist up. No, what made the picture shocking wasn’t the bare skin…it was the emotions laid bare on the canvas.
It was obvious—in fact, the painting positively screamed—that the artist was in love with her subject. Wildly, passionately in love. The painting was a moony-eyed vision of the world.
She decided no one besides the committee should see it before it was hung. Yes, it was her best work ever, and yes, nudity in art was nothing new, but regardless, showing the portrait to her friends and family would be risky. Even though they were lovely, relatively broad-minded people, she felt certain they’d have trouble supporting her in this. Society was barely beginning to tolerate ladies painting regular, fully-clothed portraits, let alone sensual, half-nude ones! And even though he wouldn’t recognize Sean, she shuddered to think how Griffin would react…
But after all was said and done, after her work had been honored by the Selection Committee, it would be a different story. Surely he would be proud of her then.
Wouldn’t he?
Thanks heavens Lady A had offered to go with her to deliver it. She’d have to cover it up so the dear woman wouldn’t be able to inspect it in the carriage. Then somehow get through the submission process without her ever seeing it.
How she’d manage that, she couldn’t imagine, but she’d worry about that later. After the painting was finished, after she’d changed Sean’s hair and eyes.
Until then, she wanted him just as he looked now, she thought, raising her brush to the canvas and letting the fog close in again.
FORTY-ONE
“Did you not sleep well?” Deirdre asked when Sean slammed into the breakfast room again Sunday morning.
“I didn’t sleep at all.”
He’d spent the entire night alternating between worrying about Delaney & Company and arguing with himself over whether to devastate Corinna now or let her paint in peace.
There was nothing he could do about the former that he wasn’t already doing. He knew that. As for the latter, he also knew what was kinder to Corinna. But it didn’t feel kind to himself.
The gravel had torn his insides to a pulp.
Still deliberating, he gulped down coffee and little else, then stomped upstairs to play nephew to Lincolnshire.
Coming to a halt in the earl’s doorway, he listened to the man’s ragged snores for a long minute. “How is he doing?” he finally asked Mrs. Skeffington quietly.
Sadness etched on her face, the nurse shook her head.
The ragged snores ceased, making them both turn. “Cainewood?” Lincolnshire croaked.
“I’m here, Uncle.” Sean walked closer and touched the man’s hand, wincing when his fingers left indentations in the swollen flesh. “It’s Sean.”
Lincolnshire slitted his eyes, but just for a bare moment. “Cainewood?”
“He’s not here, Uncle. But I am.”
“Wake me…when…Cainewood…arrives,” he wheezed again, and drifted off.
Sean looked to Mrs. Skeffington. “He thought I was Cainewood. Is he delirious, then?”
“Not delirious, but very tired. He was up quite late last night, closeted with his solicitor. And I fear…” She sighed and shook her head again. “I cannot say it.”
Sean also feared the earl’s time was short. “I cannot say it, either,” he muttered. “Why would he want to see Cainewood?”
She shrugged. “Lord Lincolnshire asked for the marquess last night. Instructed Mr. Lawless to summon him first thing in the morning. I expect he wants to say good-bye. They’ve been neighbors for twenty-six years, after all, since the marquess was born.” She forced a smile and patted Sean’s hand with her own sturdy one. “I’ll watch your uncle, Mr. Hamilton. You go paint. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Perhaps I will.” The earl didn’t seem to want or need him right at the moment. He wouldn’t paint, of course, but he might go talk to Corinna or return to his offices. See if any reports had come in yet from outside London. “Please ask my wife to send for me if my uncle has need of me. She’ll know where to find me.”
He went downstairs and asked a footman to see that his curricle was brought round. As he headed for the door, the knocker banged, and Quincy opened it to reveal Corinna’s brother.
Cainewood stood stiffly, his arms folded behind him. He looked impatient, or maybe furious. Sean didn’t know him well enough to be sure which, but he was worn down and muddled from sleeplessness and guilt—guilt over lying to (and sneaking around with) Cainewood’s sister. Had the marquess somehow found out?
For one wild moment, he expected Cainewood was hiding a pistol behind his back.
“It won’t happen again,” he blurted out.
As Cainewood raised his hands, Sean’s last thought was: She was worth it.
Until he saw that the hands were, of course, empty. Then he thought: I’m an idiot.
Cainewood frowned down at the watch fob he’d lifted in order to check the time. “I beg your pardon?” he said absently.
Sean blew out a breath, remembering Lincolnshire. “The earl has been asking for you.”
“Yes, his solicitor summoned me. I don’t know why. But I’ve another appointment this morning, so I’m hoping this won’t take long.”
“I think he just wants to say good-bye,” Sean assured him, moving past him.
On the street, waiting for his curricle, he found his gaze drifting to the town house with the blue door on the west side of the square. As though drawn by unseen cords, he walked toward it, stopping on the pavement in front of the large window that fronted the drawing room.
Corinna wasn’t in the drawing room, of course. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and she slept until noon unless someone offered her a kiss for getting up early. Her easel was visible, though, so he walked closer to have a look at how Lincolnshire’s portrait was coming along. But it sat sideways, and the painting was covered by a crisp white sheet.
And it wasn’t finished. He knew that. She’d use every minute she had left before it was due. It wouldn’t be finished before tomorrow, which meant he couldn’t devastate her until then. He couldn’t wake her—that wouldn’t be fair.
He needed to see this thing through the right way, he lectured himself, heading back to where his curricle waited. He’d known that all along. There had been no use losing sleep over a decision so obvious.
Lady Avonleigh’s town house was near all of Oxford Street’s many shops. As Griffin banged the knocker, Rachael couldn’t help hoping that Lady A might invite her to visit often. They could go shopping and get to know each other. It would be such fun. She’d never had any living grandparents to spend time with—at least, not any she’d known of.
The butler who answered the door looked as old as Lady A and Lady B put together. “Yes?” he croaked.
“I’ve come to call on Lady Avonleigh,” Rachael said.
He cleared his throat. “She’s not here. She’s left for Lady Hartley’s breakfa
st.”
“But it’s not even one o’clock.”
He shrugged his bony shoulders. “She doesn’t like to be late, my lady.”
Her heart sinking, she swiveled to Griffin. “I told you we should have come first thing in the morning.”
When he also shrugged, she couldn’t help noticing his shoulders were much wider than the butler’s. “I don’t mind waiting,” he said.
“Lady Hartley’s breakfast will probably last until midnight! It’s the event of the season.”
“We’ll change our clothes, then, and go to the breakfast.”
“I’ve already sent my regrets. And it’s in a garden, under a tent. There will be no place to talk privately.”
“We could walk with Lady Avonleigh in the garden.”
“Any number of people might be walking as well and overhear us.”
“Then we could take her into Lady Hartley’s house.”
“You cannot go into someone’s house during a garden party, Griffin. It’s not polite to go where you’re not invited.”
“Juliana went into Lady Hartley’s house during last year’s breakfast,” he pointed out.
“And look what happened! It was the scandal of the season!” When it came to the social niceties, men didn’t know anything. She sighed. “We’ll come back tomorrow. In the morning.”
FORTY-TWO
As the clock on the mantel struck ten on Sunday night, Corinna dipped her smallest brush in coffee-colored paint and carefully covered the green irises on her canvas. Over the next quarter hour, she added black pupils, curvature, depth and highlights, and glints where the flame of a candle reflected.
Blowing out a breath, she stepped back.
Sean’s eyes were brown now, and the portrait was done.
She’d already changed his dark hair to a streaky blond, made it a little wavier and a little longer, made it positively glow in the candlelight. The rest of the picture remained the same—the informal pose; the sculpted, faintly stubbled face; the gorgeous body; the heart-stopping gaze—but she was sure no one would recognize Sean now.
The painting was going to be a sensation.
Blond or black-haired, brown-eyed or green, the portrait looked compelling. Captivating. Spellbinding. Seductive. Like Sean himself.
She’d never completed such a large painting in only two days before, and she could hardly believe she was finished. The hours had sped by in such a frenzy since late Friday night. But done was done, and there was no sense in fiddling with it any longer. She’d be as likely to ruin it as she was to improve it.
Although she couldn’t show it to Sean, of course—she wasn’t yet ready for anyone, including him, to learn he was her portrait’s inspiration—she couldn’t wait to tell him it was complete. He’d be so surprised to hear she’d finished half a day early. Bursting with happiness and excitement and energy, she hefted the canvas off her easel and started upstairs, holding it at arm’s length, where she could smile at it as she went.
She was hauling it down the corridor toward her bedroom when the door to Griffin’s study opened. Whirling to face him, she watched him raise his hands to grip the jamb on either side of his head. Such a casual pose, when she was feeling her heart pound in her throat.
“What are you doing, Corinna?”
“Bringing this to my room. I’m finished.”
“Are you?” He looked pleased. Probably because he could get back to shoving men at her now. “Let’s see it,” he said, moving into the corridor.
“No!” In reaction, she pulled the canvas closer to her body, nearly smearing paint against her apron. She’d have killed him if that had happened, just killed him. “Not yet. It isn’t varnished yet.”
Artists rarely varnished their paintings before submitting them to the Summer Exhibition. There was a tradition called Varnishing Day, after the selected pictures were hung but before the Exhibition opened, when all the artists came to make last minute changes and coat their works in varnish.
“I don’t want anyone to see it until after it’s varnished,” she added. “If it’s accepted, you can see it in the Exhibition.”
“Well, that’s just silly.”
She shrugged. “I’m an artist, temperamental and all that.” She began backing down the corridor. “I’m going to put this in my room now, and you’d better not go looking at it.”
It was his turn to shrug, as though he couldn’t be bothered to walk that far to look at a silly painting. He backed into his study, and she backed into her room and closed the door behind her. After leaning the painting against a wall, facing in, she covered it with a sheet. Then she balanced a hairpin precariously on the top edge, where it would be knocked off if anyone disturbed it.
There, she thought with a grin.
Impatient to see Sean, she ripped off her apron, smoothed her dress, left her room, and poked her head into Griffin’s study. “I’m going to tell Lord Lincolnshire his portrait is finished,” she said, although, of course, it wasn’t.
Scribbling on some paperwork, Griffin didn’t look up. “Lincolnshire will be sleeping now, Corinna.”
“Maybe, but maybe not. I won’t wake him. If he’s sleeping, I’ll go back in the morning.”
“Take a footman with you. I won’t have you walking alone in Berkeley Square in the middle of the night.”
She rolled her eyes. ”I’m not the ninnyhammer you seem to think I am,” she informed him. “I won’t be long.” Then she all but ran down the stairs, pausing just long enough to request a footman before running all the way to Lincolnshire House. Leaving the footman panting at Lincolnshire’s gate, she lifted her skirts, raced up the portico steps, and banged the knocker.
Quincy answered. “Good evening.”
“I wish a word with Mr. Hamilton.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s not at home, milady.”
“He isn’t? Oh.” Disappointment was a sudden ache in her middle. How many hours must intervene ere she could press him to her throbbing heart, as the sweet partner of her future days? She gave her head a little shake to dispel Children of the Abbey. “I’ll return tomorrow then, I guess.”
She had just started to turn away when Deirdre came to the door. “Lady Corinna?”
Turning back, she dredged up a smile. “I was hoping to see your…your husband, Mrs. Hamilton. I have something exciting to tell him.”
“He’s been gone all day. A wee bit of trouble with his, ah…his latest painting.” Deirdre slanted a look at Quincy. “Would you care to come in?”
“Is Lord Lincolnshire awake?”
“I fear not.” Sean’s sister sighed. “He spent the morning closeted with his solicitor yet again. Then he complained of some pain—claimed the Regent was sitting on his chest again or some such thing. He passed out for a moment, then woke and fell asleep. He’s been sleeping ever since.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Corinna said, the ache of disappointment growing sharper. “I’ll return tomorrow, when I hope he’ll be better.”
Deirdre nodded and took a step back to allow Quincy to shut the door.
“Wait,” Corinna said, remembering something. “I’ve a question, if you wouldn’t mind. About a word or a phrase I’m thinking might be Irish.”
“Is that so?” Coming forward again, Deirdre looked curious. “What is it, then?”
“Cooshla-macree. Does that mean something? Or is it only a few syllables of nonsense?”
Sean’s sister frowned a moment before her expression cleared. “Cuisle mo chroí,” she repeated, the words sounding a bit different as they rolled off her tongue. “It means ‘pulse of my heart.’ Or ‘sweetheart,’ I suppose you might say.”
“Sweetheart,” Corinna breathed. “How about creena?”
“Críona, ‘my heart.’”
“Ahroon?”
“A rún, ‘my love.’” Sean’s sister cocked her pretty blond head. “I find myself wondering where you heard these words, I do confess.”
“I expect you know.�
� Bursting with happiness once more, Corinna gave a startled Deirdre an impulsive hug before she ran back home.
FORTY-THREE
Sean didn’t slam into the breakfast room Monday morning. He was much too drained, much too discouraged for so much emotion. At half past seven, he simply walked in and slowly sat down, feeling brittle, as though his bones might crack in the process.
Deirdre slid his cup of coffee toward him just as slowly. “No good news?”
“No news at all.” He reached for the cup but didn’t drink from it, just cradled its warmth between his palms. “No helpful news, at any rate. Maybe today.”
She sipped her tea, watching him. “Lady Corinna came by to see you last night before you returned. Late, but I hadn’t yet gone up to bed. She seemed rather…excited. Out of breath. She must have run all the way here from her house. She said she had something to tell you.”
“Her painting must be finished,” he said glumly. She’d completed it half a day early, which meant it must have gone well. But it also meant it was time to explain the facts.
“You don’t sound happy for her. It’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Sure, and it’s excellent.” Now he could devastate the love of his life.
They both glanced over as the door opened. “Mr. Hamilton?”
A maid entered. The one who’d shown Sean upstairs the first day he arrived, the little bird of a middle-aged woman who’d informed him Lincolnshire was the most wonderful man in all of England.
Today she looked like an old woman, her face drawn in tight lines. “Nurse Skeffington asked me to fetch you,” she said. “Your uncle is dying.”
In her family’s Lincoln’s Inn Fields town house, Rachael was going downstairs to have breakfast when her brother started up. “Oh, there you are,” Noah said. “I was coming to look for you.”
“You’re up and about early.” Pausing on the steps, she noted he was wearing shoes rather than boots, and a double-breasted tailcoat rather than a riding coat. “And isn’t it Monday morning, Noah?”