One after another, people arrived, crowding the foyer to pay their respects to the dying Earl of Lincolnshire. Men sighed and women cried, young and old alike sharing their memories, expressing their affection, declaring their sorrow.
And over and over, most touching of all, proclaiming their utter desire to see him leave the world a man content.
"We would do anything for you, my lord."
"Anything."
"Anything to make your last days easier."
"Anything to please you."
"Anything at all…"
CORINNA WAS dancing with a thoroughly boring man—the latest in a string that proved Griffin hadn't the slightest idea what she was hoping for in a husband—when she noticed her old neighbor Lord Lincolnshire enter the ballroom.
Well, try to enter, she mentally amended. He was making excruciatingly slow progress, surrounded as he was by adoring people, all of whom seemed to be clamoring to capture his attention at once.
Propped up in a cane-backed wheelchair, he looked happier than she'd imagined a dying man could possibly be. The sight warmed her inside. If anyone in the world deserved happiness, it was Lord Lincolnshire. Watching him glance up and back, she smiled when she saw him aim an elated grin at whoever was pushing the chair. Her gaze followed his, focusing on the man behind him.
And her heart stuttered.
That crisp, overlong black hair. Those emerald eyes. That angular, sculpted face.
Her Greek god.
She'd never finished the drawing of him she'd begun in the Elgin Gallery. He'd left too soon. She'd actually tried painting him today—she'd decided she wanted him in her portrait—but she'd found herself unable to recall enough detail. Eventually she'd concluded she'd have to choose 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.
Who was her Greek god? She hadn't expected to ever see him again. He'd certainly never appeared at a society event before this. What was he doing here? How had he come to be with Lord Lincolnshire, pushing the dear old earl in a wheelchair?
"Whom are you staring at?" her partner asked.
She'd forgotten the dratted man. Indeed, she was suddenly thankful her mother had forced dance lessons upon her those countless times when she'd protested she'd prefer to paint. All of that practice had allowed her to continue dancing by rote when she hadn't been paying attention. "I was watching Lord Lincolnshire. I'm so 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. John Hamilton never appears in public." The music came to an end, and the man bowed. "Thank you for the dance, Lady Corinna."
"My pleasure," she assured him, smiling distractedly.
Thinking Juliana knew everyone, after curtsying Corinna looked around and found her sister conversing with her mother-in-law, the new Lady Cavanaugh.
"Might either of you know that man accompanying Lord Lincolnshire?" she asked, barging right in.
Juliana glanced over and shook her head. "A handsome devil, though, isn't he?"
A vast understatement. Corinna wanted to rip his clothes off and see the godlike body underneath. "I met him the other day at the British Museum. When you and Alexandra went off, remember? Another man introduced him as John Hamilton."
"John Hamilton, the artist? You said you'd met him, but—"
"Yes, the artist. But then everything became very confusing, because this man claimed he wasn't John Hamilton, but the other man 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. Everyone knows that."
Corinna hadn't. But if John Hamilton was Lord Lincolnshire's nephew, that explained why the two men were together. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. His protests in the museum notwithstanding, her Greek god had to be the elusive John Hamilton. Being a recluse, he must have claimed otherwise in order to retain 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.
A man who could help her dreams come true.
She had only to renew their acquaintance in order to set her future plans in motion. "Come along," she told her sister, grabbing her hand. She motioned to Lady Cavanaugh. "I'll introduce you both."
TEN
LORD LINCOLNSHIRE held up a hand, interrupting an effusive outpouring of affection from yet another of Lady Partridge's guests. "Nephew."
"Yes? Do you need something, Uncle?" Concerned, Sean moved around the front of the wheelchair, wedging himself between two hovering matrons. "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.
"No laudanum. I'd as soon not dull my senses." The earl smoothed the lap robe that covered his legs, looking amused. "That pretty young lady is calling you."
"What pretty young lady?"
"That one." Lincolnshire motioned with his head. "The lovely Lady Corinna."
Corinna. Though London was surely home to more than one woman with the name, when Sean looked to where Lincolnshire had indicated, he already knew what he would see.
Shining dark hair, beckoning blue eyes. That air of sensuality that made his fists bunch at his sides to keep from reaching to touch.
Bloody hell, he had met another member of the ton.
"Mr. Hamilton!" she gushed as she approached, making him realize she'd already called out, "Mr. Hamilton," several times. Sweet Jesus, he'd known he would forget to answer to his brother-in-law's name. "What a pleasure it is to see you again!"
"Again?" Lincolnshire asked.
"I met your nephew in the British Museum," she explained enthusiastically. "But when I went to introduce him to my sisters, he was gone." She turned to two other women who had followed her. "Here he is at last, the talented and reclusive John Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton, this is my sister, Lady Stafford, and her mother-in-law, Lady Cavanaugh."
Both women curtsied. Lady Cavanaugh looked kind and motherly. Lady Stafford was pretty like her sister, but not nearly as voluptuous. The petite and sprightly type.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not Mr. Hamilton." Sean turned to Lord Lincolnshire. "Tell them, Uncle."
The earl's eyes danced; clearly he was enjoying this bit of subterfuge. "Of course you're Mr. Hamilton." His papery lips curved into a smile as he focused on the three women, making Sean imagine he must have been a bit of a flirt back in the day. "But he's Sean Hamilton," he told the ladies. "Sean, not John. My other nephew."
Never in his life had Sean heard anyone sound less convincing.
Lady Cavanaugh leaned down to give Lincolnshire's shoulder a sympathetic pat. "I know you're not feeling yourself these days, my lord, but you've only one nephew."
"I may have lost the use of my legs, but I assure you, dear lady, I haven't lost my mind along with them." An unapologetic grin spreading on his face, he turned to Sean. "I'm afraid our ruse didn't work."
"I knew it!" Corinna exclaimed loudly enough to wake the dead. Heads snapped around as other guests looked to see what was up. "You are John Hamilton!"
Sean didn't know whether he wanted to kiss her or strangle her. Both, he decided as whispers ricocheted around the room.
"John Hamilton?"
"The John Hamilton?"
The whispers became a buzz. "John Hamilton!"
"It's John Hamilton!"
Moving behind Lincolnshire to prevent the earl from seeing him, Sean shook his head wildly in an attempt to wordlessly inf
orm Corinna she was wrong. But she only frowned in confusion, and he was too late in any case. A matron was already waddling near, pulling an obviously shy, marriage-aged daughter by the hand.
"Lord Lincolnshire, may I beg an introduction to your illustrious nephew?"
Another lady seemed to appear from nowhere. "Is this your heir, Lord Lincolnshire?"
A third lady shoved in front of her. "Mr. Hamilton, my Matilda is a diamond of the first water."
Lincolnshire puffed up like a peacock, albeit a seated one. "Our secret is out." Pride was evident in his tone. "I'm pleased to have you all meet the next Lord Lincolnshire. My nephew, Mr. John Hamilton."
Sean cringed as matchmaking mamas came out of the woodwork, their eligible daughters in tow. Corinna disappeared, or maybe she was pushed away by the expanding crowd. He spent the next few minutes at Lincolnshire's side, pondering how to escape this coil while he made small talk with an unceasing parade of all-but-identical insipid misses.
"Sean."
Feeling a tug on his tailcoat, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Uncle, you must be exhausted. Shall we leave? I'll take you home."
"Balderdash. I haven't felt so energetic in weeks. I wish to see you dance with one of these lovelies."
The not-so-lovely mamas started shoving their charges Sean's way.
"I couldn't choose," he protested amiably. But he wasn't feeling amiable at all. What he felt instead was a rising pressure in his chest.
The last thing he wanted to do was dance.
His mother had dragged him to many a village ceili. A vicar's family should be social, he heard her sweet voice in his memory. But he'd never been a man who enjoyed dancing. Even more to the point, Irish dance parties featured jigs and reels. No ceili band ever played a waltz.
And Lady Partridge seemed partial to waltzes. Or perhaps the musicians she'd hired preferred playing them. Either way, the last dance had been a waltz, a waltz was playing now, and Sean would lay odds a waltz would come next.
He aimed a smile at Hamilton's uncle. "Besides, I should stay with you."
"I think not." One of the earl's grizzled brows went up. "I've a mind to see you settled before I die."
Settled? Posing as the man's nephew was bad enough—Sean would go only so far in an effort to placate the old fellow. And a wedding went rather beyond that boundary.
Miles beyond that boundary.
And then he remembered.
"I'm quite settled already. I'm married, if you've forgotten." The real Hamilton was married, after all. Had he not been married—to Deirdre—Sean wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place. "I've been married for ten long years."
Audible sighs could be heard from all the females.
"Ah, yes," Lincolnshire mused. "I'd forgotten about that. And I've never seen your wife in all that time."
The old man hadn't seen Hamilton in all that time, either, but Sean wouldn't be the one to remind him. "Deirdre is a wonderful lady."
The earl's forehead furrowed. "I seem to recall rumor has it you two don't rub along."
"To the contrary," Sean assured him. "The two of us rub along grandly."
Someone snorted, and a few other bystanders murmured, evidently recalling the same rumors. Or, more likely, rumors of the artist bedding countless women. Well, Sean supposed, it wasn't all that surprising to find Hamilton's reputation preceded him. Some of the man's bastards probably lived right here in London.
"Where is your wife?" Lincolnshire asked.
"In the countryside," Sean told him, not actually stretching the truth. Though Hampstead lay but four miles northwest of Charing Cross, many Londoners did consider it "way out in the countryside." Which was precisely why he'd bought his house there. While he needed to be close to the City, he had no wish to live in it. Having been brought up amid wide-open spaces, he preferred not to be hemmed in.
"In the countryside." Lincolnshire sighed, a protracted sound that was flush with disappointment. His gaze turned wistful, the soft, yearning gaze of a puppy dog. "I do understand. But since I can no longer dance myself, I was so hoping to see you in my stead."
The current waltz ended, and sudden silence pervaded the ballroom.
"Dance for him," a woman coaxed.
Her daughter smiled. "Make him happy."
The music—another waltz, naturally—restarted. "It's just a dance," someone else said.
The crowd seemed to press closer. "Lord Lincolnshire wants to see you dance."
"Humor him, will you?"
Although attempting a waltz was sure to prove humorous indeed, Sean felt his resolve disintegrating under the assault. The damn earl was making puppy-dog eyes. What the devil was a man supposed to do?
One of the identical insipid misses gazed up at him beseechingly. "Don't you want to make Lord Lincolnshire happy?"
"Oh, very well," he gritted out. "One dance."
Then he turned on a heel and headed straight for Corinna.
As he elbowed his way through the crowd, Corinna's startled gaze met his, and it seemed as though a fist grabbed him in the gut. Half of him wanted to wring her neck for interfering; the other half wanted to drag her into his arms.
He settled for snatching her hand and pulling her toward the dance floor.
He threaded them between other couples to the center, enduring bumps from various dancers along the way. It seemed a whirling obstacle course. But at least in the middle he wouldn't be on display.
He turned her to face him. "I hope you can lead."
She looked a little dazed, standing still with everyone moving around her. "I beg your pardon?"
"Thanks to you, I've been commanded to dance. And I've never waltzed in my life."
"Oh." She smiled, a rather sheepish smile that made the fist inside him twist. "I confess I've been accused of leading before. I fear it's one of my bad habits."
"It's glad I am to hear it."
Mimicking the other dancers, he wrapped an arm about her waist and grasped her gloved right hand. She began to move, keeping her body tense so that he moved with her.
Not very gracefully, but they moved.
"May I sketch you sometime?" she asked.
"Sketch me?" he echoed, amazed to find them actually swirling among the other couples. He stumbled, but managed to keep upright. "I think not."
"Never?"
"Ever," he reiterated, treading on her toes.
A wee "Eek!" escaped her tempting lips, but then she gave him another smile. An understanding one this time. Not that it had any less of an effect on him.
It was a wonder she didn't react to the naked desire he suspected was evident on his face, but it was probably best that she was oblivious to it.
"Very well," she said on a sigh. "I suppose you're too busy with your own art to sit for someone else."
She was exasperating. "You're ruining my life."
"How so?" she asked. "I've done you a favor, Mr. Hamilton. Society is all aflutter to finally meet Lord Lincolnshire's famous, mysterious nephew. They'll pay even more for your paintings."
He leaned improperly close, catching a whiff of a light, floral scent with something odd layered beneath it. Paint, maybe. "I'm not an artist," he hissed in her ear. "I'm Sean Delaney, not John Hamilton."
When she drew back, making them lurch, the look she gave him was uncomfortably close to a smirk. "I haven't heard you say that in front of Lord Lincolnshire."
"For his sake." Revealing the truth would doubtless destroy the kind old earl, not to mention infuriate Hamilton and jeopardize Deirdre's divorce. "I wish not to embarrass the poor man by disagreeing with him in the company of his friends."
"I understand you prefer the privacy that anonymity affords you, Mr. Hamilton. But as the real Mr. Delaney said in the museum, you are much too self-effacing. You'll grow accustomed to being famous, and it's long past time you met your adoring admirers."
He considered stepping on her feet on purpose. "They wouldn't adore me if they knew the truth."
&nbs
p; "Of course they would. You're a fortunate man, Mr. Hamilton. They all love Lord Lincolnshire and will transfer that affection to you. In fact, they already have. I was squeezed right out of the earl's circle by all the ladies who want to marry you."
So she hadn't heard he was married. Or rather, that Hamilton was married. Well, he wasn't going to inform her. That would only serve to reinforce her conviction that he was Hamilton.
"Lincolnshire is well loved," he muttered instead in disgust. Had the earl been the blackguard Hamilton had described, he wouldn't have been welcome at this ball. And Corinna would never have introduced Sean as his famous nephew. "Everyone seems absolutely devastated that he's dying."
"Of course we are," she said, pulling his hand back to keep him from ramming into someone. "Throughout his life, Lord Lincolnshire has given generously to charity and done countless good deeds for various members of the ton and their children."
"Everyone says they'll do anything for him."
"Anything but the one thing we cannot, which is to save his life," she said mournfully.
"Then why didn't you believe him?" When he stumbled again, her hand gripped his shoulder harder. "He told you I was Sean, not John, but you disagreed with him. Loudly."
The look she gave him said he was a complete idiot. "The dear man does enjoy his games. And Sean is the same name as John in Ireland anyway, isn't it? You sound like you come from Ireland."
That he couldn't deny. Not without appearing to be the idiot she already considered him. Luckily for him, the musicians stopped playing. The dance had come to an end. Corinna curtsied, thanked him politely, and walked off.
He'd survived his first waltz. But as her sweet, paint-tinged scent wafted away, he found himself wishing it had lasted longer.
And wasn't that absurd? He was lucky he had come out alive.
ELEVEN
SHORTLY AFTER noon on Monday, Sean paced outside the gate in front of Lincolnshire House, planning his day as he waited for his curricle to be brought around.
Thanks to a long breakfast with Lincolnshire, he was getting a very late start. He needed to stop by his main offices and make sure everything had gone well in his absence. Two contracts should be waiting for him to sign, he had three pending transactions to review, and he hoped to open negotiations for a factory he wished to sell. In addition, he expected barrels of wine he'd imported to arrive, he had a hotel to inspect in the center of London, and he wanted to talk to Deirdre—which meant a drive out to Hampstead and back.
Art of Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 3) Page 7