Art of Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 3)

by Royal, Lauren

  He wanted her. He just didn't want her now. And he seemed so distressed, so troubled. The way he was looking at her broke her heart.

  "You are much better than that," she said quietly. "That's why I want you so much, but I understand." And then, because she couldn't help herself: "But I wish you wanted me now."

  "Of course I want you now," he burst out, sounding exasperated, sounding like he couldn't believe he had to explain it. "You obviously don't understand. I want you now, and a minute ago, and a minute from now. All I ever think about is wanting you. I want you more than I want to breathe, but I want what's best for you even more than that."

  And when those words came out of his mouth, that was when Sean knew.

  He loved her.

  Yes, she made his blood sing; yes, she'd crawled under his skin; yes, he admired her drive and ambition. But it was more than that, much more. When a man put a woman's interests before his own, when he denied what he wanted most because it wouldn't be best for her…well, if that wasn't the definition of love, he didn't know what was.

  He loved her. He was going to ask her to marry him.

  Not now, not until all of this was over. Not until he'd seen everything through, eased Lincolnshire to his rest, settled things between Hamilton and Deirdre. Not until he'd reclaimed his life and had something to offer Corinna besides subterfuge and lies. Not until he could approach her brother with his head held high.

  Even then, the marquess was likely to refuse him. But he was going to ask.

  And though he was a busy man who rarely stopped to pray anymore, right now he was praying harder than he ever had that the answer would be yes.

  He kissed her, because he'd already done that and there was no going back. It was a gentle kiss, slow and heartfelt, a kiss he hoped told her without words what he wasn't ready to say.

  Then he rose and reached for his shirt. "I'm thinking it's a good idea for us to stop now, as you said. We'll do this again tomorrow afternoon."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THE NEXT DAY, Lincolnshire perked up.

  When Lord Stafford made his usual early morning call, he was pleased to see his patient more comfortable. "He's more awake than he's been for days," he reported when he came out of the earl's bedroom following his examination. "And he can speak whole sentences—entire paragraphs—without pausing for breaths between words."

  Sean had suspected the man might be getting better. "Do you expect all the sleep has revived him?"

  "Perhaps, but only temporarily," the doctor reminded him. A gentle warning. "This sort of disease tends to progress and regress in uneven waves, but he's not recovering by any means." His brown eyes met Sean's with sympathy. "You'd best enjoy your uncle's alertness while you can."

  Lincolnshire wasn't his uncle, but Sean nodded and thanked Stafford and saw him out. Only to find another man coming in.

  This man carried a leather valise. A quite official-looking one. "I'm Mr. Lawrence Lawless," he said by way of introduction. "Lord Lincolnshire's solicitor. Here to consult with him at his request."

  Lawless was a tall and very sober sort of gent—not a man Sean normally would greet with a grin. But he couldn't squelch a smile at meeting a lawyer named Lawless. He turned away to hide it, allowing Quincy to escort the man upstairs.

  It was the last time Sean smiled that day.

  The solicitor spent a full hour closeted in Lincolnshire's bedroom, and no sooner had he left than the earl summoned his nephew. On her way out to go to Raleigh, Deirdre turned back and went upstairs with Sean.

  "Good day to you, Lord Lincolnshire," she said softly as they entered his room.

  "Good day to you, my dear," the earl wheezed. Sean was amused to hear Deirdre's Irish phrasing echoed rather than good morning in the English way. And very happy that, wheezing or not, Lincolnshire had indeed rattled off that whole sentence without pausing for breath.

  But when the earl added, "I'm getting my affairs in order," any smile that might have sprung to Sean's lips died before it could emerge.

  That sounded so dire. So final. Despite the doctor's warning, despite his need to get on with his own life, Sean must have been harboring some small hope that Lincolnshire might recover after all, because his heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

  "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

  "For what?" The older man coughed. "Sit…both of you."

  Sean and his sister exchanged a glance. Playacting, or perhaps sensing Sean's distress, Deirdre took his hand as they slowly lowered themselves in unison.

  The earl swiped the back of a swollen hand across his face, clearing his mouth of a bit of froth he'd coughed up. When his hand dropped, his lips were curved in a half smile of his own. "I'm pleased to see the two of you holding hands. I cannot imagine why rumors of infidelity persist, when I've seen for myself you've a wonderful marriage. Devoted, close…understanding."

  Sean's guilt spiked to record levels. He'd have dropped Deirdre's hand like a hot coal, except she sensed that and gripped his tightly.

  "Give her a kiss," Lincolnshire coaxed.

  There was nothing for it. Suppressing a sigh, Sean turned to his sister and gave her a wee peck on the cheek.

  Lincolnshire nodded, still smiling. "Discreet in public, as usual. But I'd wager that behind closed doors—"

  "Uncle," Sean cut in. He couldn't take hearing more about his wonderful marriage to Deirdre. Not without losing his breakfast. "Was there something else you wished to tell me?"

  "Indeed. I wanted you to know that I'm pleased—or shall I say overjoyed—at the success you've had finding new positions for all of my staff."

  "It was nothing," Sean muttered.

  "It was everything," Lincolnshire disagreed. "My heart sings to know all my holdings will be going to such a worthy man. My nephew—my blood." Tears sprang to the older man's eyes: not tears of pain, but tears of regret for devotion discovered much too late. "I'm so sorry I never came to know you before this. That your undeserved reputation and my unresolved feelings about my brother kept me from seeking you out earlier—"

  "There's nothing to be sorry for," Sean interrupted, having had enough of this guilt-inducing affection. "My life has also been enriched by our time together. But your brother…this is the first you've mentioned these 'unresolved feelings' concerning him."

  Lincolnshire shrugged. "I loved him, of course. He was my twin—"

  "Your twin?" This was the first Sean had heard that.

  "Surely you've noticed your father and I look identical?"

  "I hadn't…thought about it." Now he was the one pausing between words. "My, uh…father…died years ago. He never mentioned you were twins. What happened between you? What made you banish your brother to the wilds of Ireland?"

  "Banish him?" Lincolnshire snorted. "He should have been down on his knees kissing my feet. I saved the ungrateful bastard." He cocked his head, measuring Sean for a long, silent moment. "He never told you what happened?"

  "Never." And if Sean could judge by Hamilton's attitude, Lincolnshire's brother hadn't given his real son the facts, either. "What happened?"

  "You honestly don't know?"

  Sean shook his head.

  "When we were young men," Lincolnshire said, settling back against his pillows, "our father died, leaving me the earl. Your father was less than happy I inherited everything and he nothing. He was furious, as a matter of fact. A mere five minutes' difference in our births made me the heir and him the second son."

  "It's understandable he might feel that way," Deirdre said, no doubt remembering her father-in-law's underlying anger.

  "I agree. But that's the way our world works. I assured him I'd take care of him, support him and his new child and his young wife—a wife he'd been forced to wed after getting her in the family way, I might add."

  "Like father, like son," Sean whispered beneath his breath.

  "Why do you say that?" the earl asked, proving his hearing wasn't affected by the dropsy. "My father's marriage was a love match. No o
ne forced him to wed our mother."

  "No, of course not," Sean assured him, thinking back. Hamilton's parents' marriage hadn't been a happy one. He'd always figured that was a result of their displeasure at being stuck in Ireland, but maybe it had been more than that. "Just a slip of the tongue, a commonplace expression. Pray, go on."

  "Well, promising to support my brother and his family wasn't enough. He wanted more than just a generous allowance. Shortly after I inherited, I went off to Ireland, to Kilburton, to see my steward, meet my villagers and tenants. I returned to a scandal of unimaginable proportions."

  "What?" Deirdre breathed.

  "In my absence, William had decided to take some of what he considered his due. He'd pretended to be me, and we looked so much alike that people had believed him. He'd lived in this house, worn my clothes, gone to my club. He'd attended dinners and card parties and breakfasts and balls and soirees. He'd even paid my respects to King George at court, and while doing all of this, he'd run up debts that amounted to thousands. The biggest gaming debt in all of London, in my name. He couldn't pay it, of course. And a man's vowels, a debt of honor, is expected to be paid before any other."

  "They must have been livid," Deirdre said. "All those men to whom he owed money."

  "Oh, they were livid, all right. All the gentlemen and the ladies, too. But not because of the debt. I paid that immediately upon my return."

  "Why then?" Sean asked. "Why should they remain livid after having been paid?"

  "Because he'd tricked them," the earl said. "Made fools of them, one and all. He'd made them believe he was me, and for that they would never forgive him. Society has a long memory, and they hold a grudge even longer." Lincolnshire's sigh was one of heartache, of sorrow and deepest regret. "Only the gravest misdeeds will warrant the cut direct, but my brother had crossed that line."

  "He had to leave," Deirdre concluded. "He couldn't live any longer in London."

  "Indeed, he couldn't. Many wanted him banished to the countryside, to live in poverty and anonymity, or even better, they'd have preferred to have seen him shipped off to America. He hadn't the option of entering the clergy, and I couldn't buy him a commission in the military—the peerage is too well connected to both for him to have held posts in either. So I did what I could. I sent him to Ireland, where no one knew him. Where he could hold up his head and play the lord in Kilburton. Live in the drafty old castle—"

  "He built an enormous new manor house."

  "I know that, my dear." Lincolnshire smiled sadly at Deirdre. "He wanted a fancy new house, and I wanted him to be happy. Or at least as happy as possible. He was my brother, you see, my twin. If I never fully forgave him, it wasn't because of what he did, but because I lost him as a result."

  "He never forgave you, either," Deirdre said.

  "I know that, too. But I also know I did my best." He looked to Sean, who hadn't said anything for quite a while. "I hope you don't blame me for your father's disgrace. Under the circumstances—"

  "No," Sean said in a dead tone. It was the only tone he could manage, because he felt dead inside. "I don't blame you."

  "You understand, then?" Lincolnshire pressed.

  Sean nodded. He understood perfectly.

  He understood that the aristocracy wouldn't countenance being duped. He understood they held grudges forever. He understood that, having impersonated Hamilton, Lincolnshire's nephew and heir, he'd earned the cut direct from society himself.

  Once the people of Mayfair learned the truth, none of them would speak to him ever again. They'd look right through him as though he weren't there. And should he marry Corinna, she and all of her family would be rejected along with him.

  How had he not realized this? How had he convinced himself that he, an Irish vicar's son, could ever dream of wedding the daughter of an English marquess? The two of them had been doomed from the first. If not by his background, then by Hamilton's games. Damn the rotter.

  Damn him to hell and beyond.

  The fact that Sean would never have met Corinna if not for Hamilton was entirely inconsequential. He'd been happy before he met her, or if not happy, at least content.

  Now he'd never be either again.

  And how was he going to explain all of this to her? Although they'd never discussed marriage, he wasn't a knothead. He knew she was thinking in that direction. Sweet Jesus, she'd offered herself to him. And she had but three days to fix Lincolnshire's portrait before she had to submit it.

  After Sean posed for her this afternoon, she'd have only two days left to paint. The truth would devastate her, break her concentration, destroy any chance she had of achieving her lifelong dream. How could he tell her now?

  He couldn't.

  He couldn't tell her for three long days, until after the painting was finished. He was going to have to lie again, for her sake. He hated lying. And lying to the woman he loved seemed the worst lie ever.

  It felt like a knife had sliced his heart, and his gut felt heavy. Like an anvil was lodged in it.

  "Nephew… Sean." The earl was tiring. And clearly struggling to make amends. His eyes were pleading. "I wish I'd…known you all these years. I'm so…sorry—"

  "Please, Uncle," Sean ordered himself to respond. "It's all water under the bridge, isn't it? We've come to know each other now, haven't we? And nothing makes me happier than seeing how very gratified we both are at the outcome."

  "Gratified? I am…euphoric. You came running when I asked…you've cared for me like a son. You've found positions…for my servants…seen all my concerns…are alleviated."

  Lincolnshire wheezed, then coughed, then placed a hand on his chest. His lids fluttered, then slowly shut. Before he drifted off to sleep, he uttered one last sentence in a ragged whisper.

  "You're the best man…I've ever met."

  But Sean felt like the worst man who'd ever lived.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ICED CAKES

  Mix sugar together with butter and rose-water. Mix this together with six eggs leaving out two whites and beat for a quarter of an hour. Put in your flour and mix them together well. Put them in your patty pans in an oven as hot as for manchet. Then make your icing. Put fine sugar in a mortar with rose-water and the white of an egg. When the cakes are cold put them on a tin then dip a feather in the icing and cover them well. Set the cakes back in the oven to harden.

  These are sweet as a newborn baby. Eat them for the baby's health.

  —Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1799

  "OH, AUNT Frances, she's beautiful." Balancing her own son on her hip, Alexandra leaned close to run a finger down Frances's daughter's tiny, downy cheek. "Is she a good baby?"

  "When she isn't crying." Frances cuddled Belinda closer. Reclining on a chaise longue that had been moved to her drawing room, she looked around at all the seated ladies who were visiting her and smiled a weary smile. "Which seems to be most of the time."

  "For her first three months, my youngest daughter cried all the time too," Lady A said. "She nearly drove me to Bedlam. Luckily she soon outgrew that and turned into a lovely child."

  "I'm certain Belinda will outgrow it, too," Claire said.

  Elizabeth nodded. "And besides, you do have the monthly nurse."

  Rachael took an iced cake from the plate Juliana offered. "I expect the nurse sees to the baby's needs?"

  "True," Frances said wryly. "The monthly nurse currently sees to her needs, and she's instructing the permanent day nurse and the night nurse. I'm only surprised Theodore hasn't hired a governess to start teaching Belinda her letters and numbers already. Nothing is too much for his daughter."

  "As it should be," Lady A said approvingly. "It was the same with mine."

  "But three nurses? When I'd as soon care for Belinda myself?"

  "Alexandra feels the same way." Juliana set down the platter. "I expect I may be that way, too. May I hold her?"

  "Of course." Frances held out the baby. "Support her head."

  "I know," Julia
na said, taking Belinda like an expert. "I learned that with little Harry."

  Watching her sister, Alexandra smiled and cuddled her son. "Does she make you want one of your own?"

  "I'm going to have one of my own," Juliana said quietly. "In the winter."

  A hush fell over the room while all of the ladies absorbed that information. Someone let loose an excited squeal. Then it seemed everyone was talking at once, exclaiming and congratulating and jumping from their seats to rush over and give Juliana hugs.

  Except for Corinna, who seemed riveted in place.

  While she was happy for her sister, suddenly she wanted a baby of her own more than she'd thought possible.

  Regardless of her protests the day Belinda was born, she'd never considered that she might not ever have a child. She'd always figured she'd marry eventually, after she made her mark on the art world. Though she'd never shared her brother's urgency, because her painting came first, now she was thinking there might have been another reason, too. It had been difficult to feel urgent when she'd never had any mental picture of the man who would father her children.

  But now she did.

  The man in the mental picture had dark hair and fathomless, deep green eyes. Square, masculine hands. A firm, defined chest. Rippling muscles, a disarming grin, a charming Irish accent.

  And Sean Delaney's face.

  She wanted Sean's baby. He was so honorable. He would make such a wonderful father.

  Of course, she'd have to marry him first, but she'd already been thinking about that, hadn't she? And she couldn't imagine having a child with anyone else. No one else had ever made her feel like Sean did, and she was certain no one else ever would.

  Marriage to him would be unbelievably exciting. He was going to pose for her again this afternoon, and now, as she imagined him disrobing, a shimmering heat seemed to shudder through her—

  "Are you all right?" Juliana asked, interrupting her reverie. She stood in front of Corinna, looking concerned. Sometime in all the commotion, she must have handed the baby back to Frances. "You don't look very excited."