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

by Royal, Lauren

  But although she'd known Sean was right and there was no way they could be together, some small part of her must have been holding out hope, because somehow she'd managed to get through those two days without completely falling apart.

  She'd buried herself in her art, locked herself in her room and fixed Lord Lincolnshire's portrait. That had kept her from thinking too much and from facing her brother or anyone else. The picture was finished, and she'd brought it over this morning while Griffin was away at the funeral.

  Lord Lincolnshire's house steward, Mr. Higginbotham, had praised the portrait mightily and promised to find somewhere to hang it immediately. Unaware at the time of the trouble brewing in Westminster Abbey, he'd also praised "Mr. Hamilton," telling her each of the staff had received letters that morning with details of their new assignments, to begin Monday.

  After she'd left, Mr. Higginbotham had hung the portrait in the yellow drawing room, on the wall behind the armchair where Lord Lincolnshire had been sitting when Corinna first offered to paint it. She gazed at it now, thinking it seemed the right place for it. Above the chair like that, it almost seemed as though the dear earl were still sitting there.

  The portrait was mounted beside a Rembrandt, and it should have been a thrill to see one of her own paintings next to an old master. But she hadn't the capacity to feel thrilled when everything else had gone so very wrong.

  Even Mr. Higginbotham was scandalized now. A few minutes earlier, when she'd asked him where to find the painting, he'd been sputtering with indignation. From this day forward, Sean would be shunned by society, and that meant she could never see him again without ruining her family. That seemed the only thing that mattered. She didn't know yet whether her picture had been accepted for the Summer Exhibition, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

  "Corinna?"

  Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see Griffin enter the room, holding a glass of liquor the color of raw sienna pigment.

  "What are you doing in here all alone?" He came to a stop before her, his gaze drifting up to the painting over her head. "Isn't that the portrait you did of Lord Lincolnshire?" When she didn't answer, he looked back down to her. "I thought you submitted it for the Summer Exhibition."

  "Obviously I didn't. I submitted something else."

  "Really?" Sipping, he looked curious. "What?"

  A picture of the man she loved, the man she'd lost. That thought brought a flood of pain. As she couldn't tell her brother she loved Sean, instead she lashed out at him. "Why should you care what I submitted? All you're concerned with is getting me married off!"

  "That's not true, Corinna. All I'm concerned with is your happiness. I want to see you happy."

  He looked hurt, and that made her hurt even more. "Well, you have an odd way of showing it," she cried, tears flooding her eyes.

  She couldn't take this anymore. Not any of it.

  Pushing past him, she ran from the room and out into the entrance hall. The grand, pillared area was crowded with people dressed in black—people gossiping—people drinking up the contents of Lord Lincolnshire's liquor cabinet while vilifying the man she loved.

  Their faces blurred as she headed for the front door, her brother at her heels.

  "GRIFFIN!" RACHAEL said as he shoved a glass at her. "Where are you going?"

  "After my sister!" Having passed Rachael already, he wove through the mass of guests. "I'm going home," he called back.

  Rachael watched him follow Corinna at a run, then just stood there for a moment, feeling a bit dazed. She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip, hoping whatever was in it would be bracing.

  Brandy. It burned a path down her throat and felt warm in her stomach.

  She sipped again.

  Juliana walked up. "Where did Griffin go off to?"

  "He went after Corinna. I believe he was concerned for her well-being. He seems more responsible than I remember."

  Her cousin smiled. "You seem to like him much more than you used to."

  Rachael shrugged a shoulder—casually, she hoped. "I guess he's changed over the years."

  "Yes, he has. He'd make an excellent husband now, don't you think?"

  "For someone else," Rachael said warily.

  "For you. I think you two would rub along wonderfully together."

  "He's my cousin. You know I won't marry a cousin."

  "Rachael…"

  Juliana glanced away, her gaze sweeping the thronged entrance hall. Her husband was talking to Alexandra and Tristan, and Rachael's sisters and Noah were in the salon. Apparently satisfied that no one important was watching, she took Rachael's arm and drew her into the room Griffin and Corinna had vacated.

  "I know your secret," she said in a low voice.

  Feeling blindsided, Rachael struggled to look normal while she sipped more brandy. "What secret?"

  "I know John Chase wasn't your father," Juliana said gently. "And I know you're Lady A's granddaughter."

  Rachael relaxed a little, and not just due to the brandy. Apparently her cousin didn't know her real father had committed treason, or surely she would have mentioned that, too—because if there was one thing Juliana loved, it was a juicy secret like that.

  And she supposed it wasn't all that dreadful for people to know the rest. Her mother had been married when Rachael was conceived, after all—it wasn't as though Georgiana had been carrying a bastard child when she married the Earl of Greystone. And while not being John Chase's blood daughter was a disappointment, being Lady A's granddaughter was a joy.

  Still and all, it had been a secret. "Who told you?" she asked.

  "It doesn't signify. It was an accident, not intentional, and the person I learned it from wished you no harm. But, Rachael, I…well, I realize you wanted it kept secret, but I thought it best to reveal I know, because there's something you apparently don't know. Or haven't realized yet."

  Juliana paused for effect, or maybe to give Rachael a moment to absorb what she'd already said. Because what she said next seemed somewhat confusing.

  "You're not Griffin's cousin."

  Rachael hadn't thought much about that, but it was true, of course. "I know we're not blood related, since I'm not really a Chase, but…"

  "But what?"

  "He's still family. Griffin is Griffin. My cousin. We grew up together."

  "Why should that matter? There would be no risk of you two conceiving a damaged child like your cousin Edmund, and that was your issue, wasn't it? You wouldn't have to worry about having a child like that with Griffin."

  She'd never thought about that, either. Two years ago, when Griffin had first come home from the cavalry, she'd found herself stunned by how much he had changed. Handsome as sin personified, she recalled thinking. The reckless, gangly youth she'd remembered had grown tall, dark, and sleekly muscled, and she'd been shaken by the sudden force of attraction she'd felt. But she'd told herself he was her cousin—not knowing any different at the time—and that had been that.

  That wasn't that, though, was it?

  "Oh, damn," she finally said softly. "I've been such a bloody idiot."

  "We all are sometimes," Juliana soothed.

  But Rachael wasn't listening. She'd shoved the glass at Juliana, her black skirts rustling as she ran from the room.

  FIFTY-TWO

  "CAN I NOT just be sad over the loss of Lord Lincolnshire?"

  "Not this sad. You've been hiding in this room since Tuesday." Griffin gazed down at his sister lying on her bed, her back to him. Her knees were hugged to her chest. He couldn't see her face, but she didn't strike him as sad.

  More like devastated.

  "I'll miss the old man, too," he added, "but it has to be more than that."

  She heaved a sigh so pathetic it broke his heart. "All right, it's more than that," she admitted, tears in her voice. "The Summer Exhibition committee did the judging on Tuesday, and my painting wasn't accepted."

  "Have you received a letter saying so?"

  "
No. Not yet. The Exhibition won't open until the first Monday in June, and until the Hanging Committee has finished arranging all the selections on the walls, a few pieces may be in question. So I wouldn't expect a letter yet."

  "That's good news, then," he told her, trying to cheer her. "Acceptance must at least be a possibility. Surely they'd have sent a letter by now if the answer were a definite no."

  "You don't know that. And I've heard that Mr. Hamilton—I mean, Lord Lincolnshire"—this pronounced with a plethora of disgust—"didn't vote for any portraits."

  "He's not the only man on the committee."

  "No, there are eight others, two of whom abhor female painters. Another three didn't like my portrait of Lord Lincolnshire, and two more gave me no opinion at all."

  "So you'll try again next year." Griffin sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her back. "Maybe you should sign a man's name next time."

  She rolled over, and the glare she gave him convinced him it had been a poor time to jest.

  "I'm sorry," he muttered quickly.

  Now that he could see it, her tear-streaked face made him feel like a complete failure as a brother. He'd known her art was important to her, but he honestly hadn't known it meant so much that she'd be so crushed by a temporary setback. He couldn't remember her ever being this distressed before, not even the two times he'd taken short leaves to come home when their parents had died.

  "I know this is important to you," he said carefully, "and I'm sorry if you've felt I've discounted your art while trying to find you a husband. That wasn't my intention. I've just been a little…focused. Apparently too focused. I promise not to do that from now on, all right? I won't push suitors on you. When you see a man you're interested in, just let me know, and—"

  "Leave me alone, Griffin," she growled.

  "But—"

  "Now."

  "Very well." He rose and backed away, his hands held up defensively. "I'm sorry, Corinna, truly I am. But I wish you would believe me when I say I want to see you happy."

  Rolling to face away from him again, she said, "I know that," in a wan little voice.

  He supposed it was the best he could expect for now.

  He'd done all he could, he told himself as he left, softly closing the door between them. Too bad it wasn't good enough. Turning to face the door, he banged his forehead against the polished wood, pressing hard.

  He would never understand women, never figure out what made them tick. Never be able to decipher their moods. He felt bad that he'd made light of Corinna's art, and he would pay more attention in the future. Make more of an effort to show her he cared and help advance her career, if he could find a way to do that. But he was also certain that finding her a husband to love would improve her disposition.

  Or at the very least, make someone else responsible for dealing with it.

  He banged his head against the wood again.

  "Griffin," he heard nearby. "Are you all right?"

  A low, sultry voice that was all too familiar.

  He straightened and turned to see its owner, finding her standing there in a black dress that should have made her look drab, or at least less alluring than usual. But it didn't. It had a wide neckline, revealing a good deal of her shoulders, and it rustled as she moved closer, the bodice hugging her seductive curves. Her hair had been done up formally for the reception at Lincolnshire House, leaving just a few loose chestnut tendrils that fell in soft waves around her face.

  He swallowed hard and took an uneasy step back, bumping against Corinna's door.

  "May I have a word with you?" Rachael glanced around the corridor. "In private?"

  He nodded shortly and led the way to his study, aware all the while of her come-hither scent following behind him. Would this torture never end? He'd found her grandmother, hadn't he? He'd tracked her mysterious origins, discovered what had become of her father. What more did she want from him? Why wasn't she with Lady Avonleigh over at Lincolnshire House, together with her happy new family?

  After ushering her into the study, he shut the door and turned to her. "What do you want, Rachael?"

  She blinked, no doubt taken aback by his unintended harshness. But she recovered her composure quickly. And when she answered him, it was in a tone that made a ball of heat smack him in the gut and spread down.

  "I want you to kiss me."

  His pulse hammering, he hesitated…until she licked her lips.

  "CORINNA?”

  A knock sounded on her closed door.

  "Are you all right?" Juliana called.

  Corinna might have ignored anyone else, but there was no putting off Juliana. "I'll live," she muttered, rolling over and levering herself to sit on the edge of the bed. Realizing she was clutching the claddagh necklace, she shoved it under her pillow, and, with the back of a hand, mopped the last of her tears off her face. "Come on in."

  Juliana did, holding up a piece of heavy cream-colored paper with a large, broken red seal. "A letter came for you."

  Just what she needed now, the news of her rejection. Well, at least the suspense would be over. "From the Royal Academy?"

  "From the former Lord Lincolnshire's solicitor. Addressed to 'The Marquess of Cainewood.' And then inside it says, 'My Lord Marquess and Lady Corinna Chase.'"

  "What does the solicitor want?" Not that Corinna really cared.

  "You're requested to attend the reading of the late earl's will at Mr. Lawless's Queen Street offices on Monday at noon."

  Corinna shrugged. "Lord Lincolnshire probably left us a trinket. One of his four hundred Ming vases or some such. For being kind through his last few days."

  "I don't think he'd leave you and Griffin one vase. Two, maybe." Juliana smiled, a transparent effort to raise Corinna's spirits. "I'm famished. The reception at Lincolnshire House is winding down, so I walked over here to ask the staff to serve a family dinner before the rest of us go home. Will you come down and join us? And where's Griffin?"

  "How should I know?" Corinna paused. "And how did you come to read a letter addressed to Griffin if you haven't seen him?"

  "Well, obviously," Juliana said airily, "I opened it."

  FIFTY-THREE

  GRIFFIN HAD kissed Rachael in his study. He'd kissed her across his study. He'd kissed her as he'd eased her down to a long leather sofa, and now, a good thirty minutes later, he was lying half on top of her, still kissing her.

  She'd been kissed before, but not by anyone who kissed anything like Griffin. He put his entire heart and soul into a kiss. When Griffin was kissing her, she was wholly convinced his mind was on nothing but that. On nothing but her. Which made it difficult to think about anything but him, either.

  In fact, he made it difficult to think at all.

  His kisses went from sweet to warm to burning and back again. From gentle to deep, from rushed to unhurried to frantic. Her senses were reeling, and her mouth seemed filled with the taste of him—hot male and brandy. Her blood seemed filled with him, too, coursing through her veins and beating a seductive rhythm in her ears.

  When he finally drew away, when he struggled to his elbows and gazed down at her, she still found it hard to think. His eyes were so very intense, his dazed smile a little crooked, looking delicious. Placing a hand behind his neck, she pulled his mouth back down to hers and kissed him again.

  A long while later he drew away once more, and her head finally cleared.

  A little.

  "You're not my cousin," she murmured.

  "I know."

  "That means we can marry."

  He was off of her like a shot. "Oh, no."

  "Oh, no?" Shoving herself to a sitting position, she decided she'd probably shocked herself as much as him by saying that. But it was true.

  She wanted to marry Griffin.

  She loved him.

  She wasn't sure when she'd fallen in love, because she'd never admitted that to herself before—she hadn't been able to, having never overcome thinking of him as a cousin. But she knew s
he could lean on Griffin; she knew she could depend on him. He'd always be there for her—he'd shown her that, hadn't he? And wasn't that the most important quality for a husband?

  And it didn't hurt that he was so handsome he made her breath catch. So tall and lean, so virile and masculine, so well built. His eyes such a pure leaf green, his jaw so strong and square, that slightly crooked smile so engaging.

  "Oh, yes," she said, "I want to marry you."

  "You don't want to marry me," he returned flatly, a hint of panic in those green eyes. "You think I'm an irresponsible scapegrace."

  "Not anymore." Or not exactly. Yes, he said stupid things, and he did stupid things sometimes, too. He had his flaws. But what man didn't? At least she knew Griffin's flaws—she knew what she was getting into with him.

  And she'd never felt that powerful force of attraction with any man but Griffin.

  She loved him just as he was, flaws and all.

  "I do want to marry you," she disagreed, "and, really, how can you refuse me? You've been kissing me for half an hour."

  He shifted on his feet, glancing away from her. "They were only kisses, Rachael. And you invited them. You cannot expect a man to turn down an offer like that."

  He hadn't kissed her only because she'd invited him. She might be a bloody idiot for not realizing there was no reason she couldn't marry him, but she wasn't so bird-witted she didn't know when a man wanted her.

  Griffin had been wanting her for two years, at the very least. A man didn't look at a woman the way he looked at her—or kiss her the way he just had—unless he wanted her. And he loved her, too. She was sure of it. Look at all the trouble he'd gone to in order to find her family. A man didn't go to such trouble for a woman he didn't love.

  She couldn't let him get away with saying the time they'd just spent in each other's arms had been only kisses. "Are you telling me all those kisses meant nothing?"

  He looked back to her. "That's what I just said, isn't it?"

  Oh, that had come too easily. She'd asked the wrong question. "You didn't enjoy them, then? Not at all?"