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‘‘Better than one might expect, thanks to my nephew.’’ He smiled at Sean, apparently waiting to catch his breath before continuing. ‘‘I’ve been thinking, nephew’’—pause—‘‘that I’d like to meet your wife.’’
Sean exchanged a panicked look with Corinna. ‘‘I left my wife in the countryside, sir, as I told you. She prefers the quiet life.’’
Lord Lincolnshire looked disappointed, but apparently he accepted the state of affairs, since his response was, ‘‘Very well.’’ But then he added, ‘‘As I was saying when Lady Corinna arrived—’’
‘‘Shall I continue reading?’’ Sean interrupted.
‘‘Not now, nephew. We have a lovely . . . young lady visiting. And as I . . . was saying—’’
‘‘Would you care for another sweet, Uncle?’’
‘‘I’ve not finished this one.’’ Pause. ‘‘I’ve been—’’
‘‘Have you need of another pillow?’’
‘‘No.’’ The poor man was already leaning against at least five of them. ‘‘I’ve—’’
‘‘Are you certain—’’
‘‘Will you let the man speak?’’ Corinna cut in. In the awkward silence that followed, she tore her gaze from one of the Rembrandts and turned to the earl. ‘‘What did you want to say, Lord Lincolnshire?’’
‘‘I wanted to say . . . that I’ve been thinking I’d like Sean . . . to paint a portrait of me. One last portrait . . . before I depart this fine world.’’
Sean glared at her. Apparently he’d known this was coming. But how was she supposed to have known?
‘‘I don’t think he can do that, Lord Lincolnshire,’’ she said carefully. ‘‘Mr. Hamilton paints only landscapes.’’
‘‘Surely he can paint . . . one portrait.’’
Sean shook his head. ‘‘I’ve never painted a portrait.’’
Truer words were never spoken, Corinna thought.
‘‘You’re a skilled artist, nephew. One of the very best . . . in the land.’’ Lord Lincolnshire gasped and waited a moment—a moment during which Corinna racked her brain for a way to help Sean, as she’d promised. ‘‘Surely—’’
‘‘May
I
paint you, Lord Lincolnshire?’’ she interrupted. ‘‘Please? I’d be honored if you’d allow me. I’ve been dying to paint a portrait to submit to the Royal Academy for the Summer Exhibition. If it turns out well, perhaps it will be selected. A subject of your stature could absolutely make my career.’’
‘‘Me?’’ Lord Lincolnshire wheezed. ‘‘In the Summer Exhibition?’’
‘‘Possibly,’’ she reiterated. ‘‘None of my portraits have turned out stellar so far, since I’ve not had any anatomy lessons. But lately I’ve been sketching the Elgin Marbles for practice, and I shall try my best—’’
‘‘I’m certain,’’ Lord Lincolnshire interrupted, ‘‘it will turn out brilliant.’’ He smiled at her as though she’d brought the sun. ‘‘But my days are . . . numbered. Tomorrow being Sunday, I’m hoping . . . my dear nephew . . . will take me to church. May we begin Monday?’’
‘‘I think we should start now.’’ Her painting was due to the Royal Academy a scant sixteen days hence, and she hoped to show it at Lady A’s reception five days before that. ‘‘If you’ve some paper, I can begin sketching you immediately.’’
‘‘Excellent.’’ Lord Lincolnshire lifted a silver bell from a table beside him. ‘‘I shall have a footman . . . fetch paper . . . posthaste.’’
While he rang the bell, Corinna glanced rather triumphantly to Sean.
His expression took her aback. A page from
Children of the Abbey
flashed into her mind, where Amanda had looked at Lord Mortimer and thought
seducing sweetness dwelt in his smile
.
A matching sweetness seemed to melt in Corinna’s middle, making her remember she wanted another kiss.
In fact, she’d planned to let Sean kiss her again just as soon as he stopped pretending he wasn’t John Hamilton, hadn’t she? But instead, he’d convinced her he’d been telling the truth. That was equivalent, wasn’t it? Either way, the truth had come out Thursday, and today was Saturday, which meant they’d had two whole days of truthfulness between them . . . and still she hadn’t been kissed.
Actually, she suddenly realized, he hadn’t even tried. Whatever could that mean? He couldn’t have
meant
it when he said he’d never kiss her again, could he?
Holy Hannah, she hoped not.
A footman handed her a pencil and some paper. She blinked and looked back to Lord Lincolnshire. ‘‘What would you like to be doing?’’
‘‘Doing?’’
‘‘In your portrait. I don’t care for portraits where the subject simply stands there and stares at the viewer. I would prefer for you to be doing something.’’
‘‘Well, I cannot . . . simply stand there . . . in any case.’’ With a faint but good-natured smile, Lord Lincolnshire gestured to his covered legs. ‘‘I shall . . . have to be sitting.’’ His expression turned contemplative. ‘‘I’ve always . . . enjoyed a good book. Perhaps I can be . . . reading a book.’’
While she’d been hoping for something a bit more active, she decided that would have to do. If the man had always loved to read, it was suitable, after all. Thinking Sean had pleased the earl by reading aloud, she glanced back to him.
He was still smiling at her with seducing sweetness.
Oh, very well, maybe it wasn’t seducing sweetness; maybe it was only gratitude that she’d saved him from having to paint Lord Lincolnshire. But either way, he was smiling. He was happy with her.
She’d get him to kiss her one way or another.
She returned his smile. ‘‘Would you care to read while I sketch, Mr. Hamilton?’’
He nodded and opened the book.
Letting his melodic voice wash over her, she settled back and put pencil to paper. And even though Sean wasn’t reading a romantic novel, she kept smiling as she listened and sketched.

 

Chapter Eighteen
‘‘Thank you,’’ Sean said simply as he walked Corinna toward the door later. ‘‘You saved my skin by offering to paint him.’’
‘‘I told you that you could count on me. May I look in here?’’ she asked, indicating another drawing room. Lincolnshire House seemed to have a surplus of drawing rooms. ‘‘I’d like to see if there are any more Rembrandts.’’
‘‘I can’t think why not.’’ He walked in with her. ‘‘What color is this room?’’
‘‘Mostly green. The walls are lined with bright green silk damask, and the draperies are green silk trimmed with black velvet. The furniture is all covered in golden and dark red brocade. It’s beautiful. I’m sorry you cannot see it.’’
‘‘I can see it,’’ he told her. ‘‘It just looks different to me. The color I can see best is blue. All the rooms in my house are blue, except for Deirdre’s.’’
‘‘Where is your house?’’
‘‘In Hampstead. Who painted that landscape you’re staring at?’’
‘‘John Hamilton.’’ She laughed, a joyful, unselfconscious sound. ‘‘All the paintings in this room are Hamiltons. It seems Lord Lincolnshire truly is quite proud of his nephew.’’
‘‘Figures,’’ Sean muttered in disgust. ‘‘It’s good to know that, though. I imagine I’d make a holy show of myself if he took me in here and I didn’t recognize my own paintings.’’
‘‘A holy show?’’
‘‘A great fool of myself,’’ he translated. ‘‘A massive embarrassment.’’ Apparently he hadn’t ridden himself of the Irish as much as he’d thought. ‘‘Thank you again. I really do appreciate all your help.’’
‘‘I’m glad to hear that,’’ she said, moving to a fine Kent fireplace. She leaned against the mantel flirtatiously.
Well, not precisely flirtatiously, because she wasn’t a flirtatious woman. She was much more straightforward than that. But seductively.
And effectively.
‘‘I think you owe me a kiss,’’ she said softly.
He laughed. What else could he do? ‘‘I’m not John Hamilton, remember? I’m no longer a trophy. Why should you want to kiss me again?’’
‘‘Maybe I liked it the first time,’’ she said blithely.
Except she didn’t look blithe. She looked seductive again.
Bloody hell.
It was her eyes, Sean decided. Those blue, blue eyes. They made a man grateful for being color-blind. And her voice. Something in her voice appealed to him. So low and sweet. He was amused to hear sarcastic words come out of her mouth, and when she wasn’t being sarcastic and he wasn’t being amused, well, then . . .
Well, then he wanted to kiss her.
‘‘I told my sisters your secret,’’ she said, interrupting his tangled thoughts.
‘‘What?’’
He was appalled. Any thought of kissing her fled his mind.
‘‘I had to share it with someone,’’ she said. ‘‘I had to. I feared I’d done wrong encouraging you to keep it up, and—’’
‘‘What did they say?’’
‘‘They heartily approved. They assured me I’d done exactly the right thing. I’m not at all sorry I told them.’’
‘‘Do not tell anyone else.’’
‘‘But—’’
‘‘Do
not
.’’
She hesitated, then nodded. ‘‘I won’t.’’
‘‘I want your promise.’’
‘‘I promise. And a Chase promise is never given lightly,’’ she added solemnly.
And seductively.
Bloody hell.
It was that voice, those eyes.
Bloody hell.
‘‘All right, then.’’ It seemed disaster had been averted. But that didn’t stop him from sighing. He just wished he could decide what he was sighing about. ‘‘You’ll be back Monday to start the actual painting? Early, I hope?’’
‘‘First thing in the morning.’’
‘‘Excellent.’’ Maybe he could finally escape and get something done. ‘‘I—’’
‘‘Of course, ‘morning’ for me starts at noon.’’
‘‘Noon?’’
‘‘At the earliest. I like to paint through the wee hours, so I sleep late.’’ She straightened away from the fireplace and walked closer. Right up to him. So close he could see her blue irises were rimmed in a darker, midnight shade. So close he could smell her floral fragrance and the faint scent of paint underneath it.
Thoughts of kissing her flooded back.
‘‘Do you know what else my sisters said?’’
‘‘How could I? But I’m sure you’ll tell me.’’
‘‘Juliana said it doesn’t signify that you’re not a peer, because you’re connected to the right people. And she was impressed that you own property.’’
‘‘She doesn’t know how much I own,’’ he pointed out. ‘‘And neither do you.’’
‘‘Houses in Hampstead are very expensive,’’ she said dismissively. ‘‘And Alexandra reminded me that our brother, Griffin, is named for an ancestor. Aidan Griffin, Baron Kilcullen from Ballygriffin, Ireland.’’
‘‘And the significance of all that is . . . ?’’
‘‘They think it’s all right for you to kiss me.’’ She stepped even closer. ‘‘Are you certain you don’t want to? I might get up earlier in the morning for a kiss.’’
What was a man supposed to do when a woman made such an offer? A woman who looked like an angel and tasted like sin? A woman who’d just brushed off every reason he’d considered her off-limits?
Besides, he really did need to attend to his work.
‘‘How much earlier?’’ he asked.
‘‘Ten o’clock.’’
‘‘Eight.’’
‘‘Nine.’’
He yanked her against his body and fastened his lips on hers.
For a brief moment he cursed his own weakness, but then he lost himself in the immense pleasure of kissing such a warm, willing woman. She pressed closer. Sweet Jesus, he could feel every curve of her through his clothes. Her hands drifted up and fisted in his hair. He felt his heart beating against hers and the seductive heat of her mouth. He’d never wanted anyone with such a fever, with such a hunger. She wasn’t for him, but she’d crawled into him, held him in her grip.
When she stepped back, she had a dazed smile on her face that he was certain reflected his own.
‘‘I’ll see you Monday at nine,’’ she said softly, and quit the room.
He heard her footsteps cross the stone floor in the entrance hall, the door open, Quincy bid her a polite farewell. By the time the door closed, he’d gathered his wits.
Somewhat.
Another man would head straight to the bottle, down a stiff drink for fortification. He’d never taken up the habit, but if anything could drive him to it, it was this damned charade.
Well, maybe he could leave now, get a little work done. He went back to the other drawing room, where Lincolnshire was dozing in the chair. He touched the man gently on the shoulder and smiled when his eyes fluttered open. ‘‘Would you like me to see you to bed, Uncle? I think you could use the rest. And I could use a few hours to paint.’’
‘‘Very well,’’ Lincolnshire said. ‘‘But I really do . . . wish to meet your wife.’’
Sean mentally winced. He’d thought they’d dispensed with this subject. ‘‘ ’Tis truly sorry I am, but as I told you, she’s in the countryside.’’

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