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She felt divine, but he couldn’t take her now. Not even if he’d wanted to. The shame and regret had stolen his desire.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he murmured. ‘‘
Cuisle mo chroí,
I’m so sorry.’’
‘‘I feel like I’ve been waiting forever.’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’ She was going to be waiting forever. He was never going to take her. He wasn’t going to be able to do that, ever, because they had no future together.
But he couldn’t tell her, not now, not until her painting was finished.
More shame and regret overwhelmed him, tightening his throat, making it difficult to breathe as he watched her eyes slowly clear, watched her come to her senses.
‘‘Oh, God,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Oh, Sean. I cannot believe what happened. It was more wonderful than I can possibly describe. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but it was heaven.’’
‘‘It was, yes,’’ he said, meaning it. He’d been in a terrible state physically, but feeling her tremble in his arms had been the sweetest moment he’d ever known. He would never feel such sweetness again, but to feel it even once was a gift beyond measure.
‘‘Next time—’’
‘‘Hush,’’ he said, and kissed her, a short kiss, because his throat was so tight he feared he couldn’t breathe. There wouldn’t be a next time, but he couldn’t tell her that until her painting was finished.
He feared he might never be able to breathe again.
And he still had to help her fix the painting. She hadn’t sketched yet, and she needed to sketch. He couldn’t marry her, he would never have her, but he could still do what he’d come here to do. Three days from now, when he gave her the facts, when he devastated her, at least she would have her art. She’d have fixed her painting, and when it was accepted for the Summer Exhibition, she would still have her dreams, and they would help console her.
That thought in mind, he rose from the sofa and pulled her up, too. Ignoring her startled face, he tugged her bodice back up. Fortunately, the rest of her dress fell into place all by itself.
‘‘Go sit in the chair, Corinna.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘It’s time to sketch now.’’ He started unbuttoning the left side of the falls on his trousers.
‘‘You’ve got to be jesting. I couldn’t possibly sit and sketch now.’’
‘‘We came here so you can sketch,’’ he said, unbuttoning the right side. ‘‘Go sit down.’’
She did, watching him shuck off his trousers. Her eyes widened. Thank God he’d lost his desire, he thought, sweeping a used sketchbook off the table.
‘‘Sketch, Corinna.’’ He sat, holding the book as the earl had in her picture, arranging himself in a similar pose. ‘‘I want you to sketch.’’
Her gaze wandered over him. Wandered everywhere. A melting softness came into her eyes.
She devastated him.
But he hadn’t the luxury of being devastated, not anymore. ‘‘Start sketching.’’
‘‘I cannot possibly concentrate after what just happened. We’ll have to do this again tomorrow.’’
‘‘We’re not doing this again, Corinna. I’m not leaving here until you’ve sketched enough anatomy to fix Lincolnshire’s portrait. And I’m not touching you again; that I promise. I’m not kissing you or touching you . . . so sketch.’’

 

Chapter Thirty-six
Corinna had never painted so fast in her life.
As she swept her brush along the canvas, she remembered all the hours she’d spent sketching earlier tonight. Intense hours. She hadn’t thought she’d be able to concentrate, but she’d found herself focusing, fascinated, simply sinking into the experience. After sketching a full hour and realizing that wasn’t nearly enough, she’d sent home a note with a contrived excuse, and Sean had lit candles, and she’d kept sketching.
Still caught in the lush aftermath of Sean’s lovemaking, she’d captured him, all of him, head to bare toe. Captured his essence, she was sure of it. Her painting instructors had spoken of this, but studying a real, live man had made the difference. Finally, after months and years of trying, it had all clicked into place. She’d come home with page after page of sketches that would help her fix Lincolnshire’s body beneath his clothes.
She wouldn’t see Sean again until the portrait was finished. He’d made it clear, very clear, that he expected her to spend the entire weekend painting. Knowing she needed that time, she hadn’t argued. As much as she would miss seeing him, she had but two days left to paint.
Three hours ago, in the darkness, Sean had walked her to her doorstep, graced her with a single, heart-stoppingkiss, and sent her inside to fix the portrait. Instead, without conscious thought, she’d grabbed a blank canvas. In the quiet house, while Griffin and his staff slumbered upstairs, she’d surrounded it with lanterns.
And started another portrait, more vivid than any she’d ever imagined.
Now, in the middle of the night, the picture was simply pouring out of her, the brush an extension of her body, its movements seemingly undirected. Hour by hour, stroke by stroke, the portrait was taking form, coming to life.
Unlike the vast majority of the portraits she’d ever seen, this portrait wasn’t posed, it wasn’t contrived, it wasn’t meant to convey the importance of the man it portrayed. The gentleman’s clothes were not carefully chosen to imply his level of status or wealth. He wasn’t meticulously groomed, nor did he hold objects imbued with significance. His gaze did not issue a challenge. It didn’t say,
Look at me; I’m superior and distinguished.
Rather the man reclined half-clothed, sprawled with casual abandon on a sofa upholstered with sumptuous fabric. He held nothing, one strong arm relaxed along the back edge of the furniture, the other on a bent knee. His shirt had been removed and draped negligently on the sofa, revealing a splendid toned chest that gleamed in the candlelight. His feet were bare, his lower body concealed by only trousers tight as a hug. His gaze was focused off-canvas, lost in contemplation. It didn’t say anything direct at all, allowing the viewer to draw his own conclusions.
It was Sean, of course. Sean in a richer version of the garret studio, Sean in Corinna’s mind’s eye. Warm, golden skin and firm, rippling muscles. Raven hair curling at the neck. Eyes of deepest emerald edging toward black, a shadowed hint of shaven stubble on cheeks and chin. All she’d touched, all she’d experienced, all her emotions, all she still yearned for . . .
Exposed for all to see.
As she created, snatches of lines tumbled through her mind.
...
a passion, which virtue cannot sanction or reason justify . . .
. . . the soul-soothing certainty of being beloved by him . . .
. . . life, without him, would lose far more than half of its charms . . .
She painted without thinking, only feeling. Flesh tones, candlelight and shade, crisp white linen, velvet-dark fabric. The sofa, ruby red and decadent. Richly paneled walls behind, an exotic carpet underfoot.
Her brush followed the ridge of a ropy thigh, the slope of a brawny shoulder. The angle of jaw, the curve of cheek, the line of flexed and bended knee. She was melting inside. Hot and melting and deliciously languid, melting right onto the canvas.
She wanted him. She wanted him again, wanted more of him next time. Twice he’d shown her heaven—she couldn’t believe the things he had done—but she wanted more.
She wanted all of him.
The wanting was a ball of heat gathering in her middle, a sweet, yearning ache growing down lower. He was going to be hers. The words remained unspoken between them, but she was going to marry him. She had a plan now, a solution, something to guarantee Griffin’s cooperation.
This painting.
An hour ago, well into painting it, she’d suddenly realized that proof Sean had posed nude for her was all she needed to make sure Griffin would allow them to wed. In fact, if Griffin saw this portrait, he’d
insist
she and Sean wed.
He’d insisted Tristan marry Alexandra after they were caught together in a bed, even though they’d both sworn nothing had happened that night. The mere sight of this portrait would make Griffin suspect she and Sean had shared a bed, too.
She
wished
they had shared a bed. She wanted Sean, and remembering how it had felt almost having him, remembering how he had made her feel with his hands and his mouth and his tongue, sent a stunning thrill rippling through her.
Her knees threatening to buckle, she stepped back and examined her work.
It was marvelous. The portrait looked breathtaking in the lanternlight. Though it was still quite unfinished, she had no doubt it would be her most inspired painting ever. Sensual and scandalous and altogether brilliant.
And all at once she knew: She wanted to submit it for the Summer Exhibition.
No.
Blinking, she took another step back.
She couldn’t.
Should it be selected, it would be hung for all to see. Sean would be mortified when people saw him half-naked. And her heart was laid bare on the canvas— anyone looking at the portrait would be convinced, unequivocally, that the artist was in love with her subject. It would be like announcing to the world that she and Sean were lovers.
But wait . . .
Maybe she could change Sean’s hair color, his eyes. Then no one would recognize him. There might be whispered speculation about the artist’s lover, but she could laugh it off, because no one would find a man who looked like him anywhere.
That was a plan.
And she was a rebel, wasn’t she?
She was going to forget Lincolnshire’s portrait. Forget her landscapes and still lifes.
This
would be the painting she submitted for the Summer Exhibition.
The one she wanted to be known for, the one that would launch her career.
Sean was in a beastly mood when he joined Deirdre for breakfast the next morning. A cup of coffee was waiting on the table, strong and black the way he liked it, and she pushed it toward him after he slammed into his chair.
‘‘You look upset,’’ she observed, sipping her own tea.
Upset
didn’t begin to describe the depths of his self-loathing. It didn’t so much as scratch the surface. He’d allowed drink and lust to overcome him last night, all but ruining the woman he loved. And keeping the truth from Corinna was tearing him up inside, like coarse gravel tumbling around in his gut.
He’d been fooling himself all along. There’d never been a chance he’d end up with Corinna. And Deirdre wasn’t going to get her divorce, either. Hamilton was going to be furious Sean had appeared in public pretending to be the earl’s heir; the moment Sean had agreed to that, he’d sealed his sister’s fate. All that was left was seeing Lincolnshire through his last days— nothing else was going to work out.
But he wasn’t going to tell Deirdre any of that.
‘‘Lincolnshire’s sliding downhill,’’ he said, taking a gulp of the hot, bracing brew. ‘‘He’s too weak to come down and join us.’’
‘‘Someone to see you, Mr. Hamilton.’’ A footman appeared in the doorway. ‘‘Your assistant, Mr. Sykes.’’
‘‘Mr. Sykes? Send him in. At once. Please,’’ he added as an afterthought.
‘‘By all means,’’ the man said, and left.
‘‘Just what I need,’’ Sean muttered.
Deirdre frowned. ‘‘What could he want?’’
‘‘I haven’t a clue.’’ But it couldn’t be good. ‘‘It’s Saturday. Sykes doesn’t work on Saturday.’’
‘‘Maybe it’s nothing bad.’’
‘‘Maybe it isn’t.’’
And maybe the sun would fail to rise tomorrow. Maybe it wouldn’t rain for the whole of the summer. Maybe London’s poor would stop drowning their sorrows in gin.
‘‘Shut the door,’’ he instructed when Sykes walked in, then waited until the man had. ‘‘I don’t remember summoning you today to play my art assistant.’’
‘‘I apologize for the interruption.’’
‘‘Sit down. I’m certain you’ve a fine reason.’’
After pulling out a chair, Sykes wasted no time coming to the point. ‘‘All of your concerns are being investigated. Inquiries are being made.’’ He pushed up on his round spectacles. ‘‘Not only at your main offices, but at your factories, your shipyards, your—’’
‘‘I get the picture,’’ Sean interrupted.
It was horrendous timing, but he wasn’t altogether surprised.
It was those
people who knew
, probably someone he’d dealt with. Perhaps someone whose failed endeavor he’d acquired for pennies on the pound and turned into a high-producing concern. Or someone whose property he’d bought and improved and made profitable. Or someone whose employees he’d hired and paid better, or . . .
The possibilities were endless.
He liked to think he was a pleasant fellow, if perhaps a bit driven. He’d never forced anyone to do anything. He believed every man had the right to his own property and the right to make his own choices regarding it, so long as he respected others’ rights in the process.

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