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‘‘Thank you,’’ Rachael said, her eyes sparkling even more. ‘‘I’m looking for your sister, Lady Avonleigh. Do you know where she might have gone off to?’’
‘‘I’m afraid she went home, dear.’’
‘‘Oh, no. Is she unwell?’’
‘‘Not at all. But my sisters are older and don’t stay out as late as they used to, especially since they began helping my son run his New Hope Institute. I expect she’s sound asleep by now.’’ Lady C put a hand on Rachael’s arm. ‘‘What did you want with her? Is it something I can help you with?’’
‘‘No. I . . . well, I just need to talk to her. Do you think she’d mind my paying a call on her tomorrow?’’
‘‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind at all,’’ Lady C said, looking curious but obviously much too polite to press. She pulled her reticule off her wrist and opened it, fishing out a scrap of paper and a pencil. ‘‘She lives just off Oxford Street. I’ll write down her direction for you.’’
‘‘I know where she lives. I was at her house for my cousin Corinna’s art reception.’’
‘‘How could I have forgotten that?’’ With a little laugh, Lady C dropped the items back into her fancy little purse. ‘‘I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you again.’’
‘‘Thank you so much,’’ Rachael said, and waited patiently while Lady C walked off. Or at least, she
looked
patient. No sooner had the older woman got out of ear-shot than she whirled to Griffin. ‘‘Lady Cavanaugh is my aunt—can you believe it? She’s such a nice lady. The wait is going to kill me. Can we visit Lady Avonleigh first thing tomorrow? You’ll come with me, won’t you?’’
‘‘I need to take Corinna to Lady Hartley’s breakfast.’’
‘‘That doesn’t start until half past one. The best people won’t get there until three o’clock. It isn’t fashionable to arrive at parties on time.’’
He’d never understand why a garden party that started after one o’clock was called a breakfast. He ate breakfast every morning at eight. And why the devil was it ‘‘fashionable’’ to arrive late? But maybe Corinna would be more cooperative if he allowed her to paint until three. ‘‘Very well, then. We’ll go see Lady Avonleigh right after church.’’
‘‘How about before church?’’
‘‘You can’t wake up an old lady to give her this news, Rachael. Or interrupt her toilette. And then no doubt
she’ll
be in church, and then she’ll want luncheon.’’ Lady A was the one who liked to eat, after all, and Lady Hartley wouldn’t be serving ‘‘breakfast’’ until the fashionable people arrived. ‘‘I’ll pick you up at one o’clock.’’
‘‘Then we won’t get to Lady A’s until half past one. What if she’s left for Lady Hartley’s house already?’’
‘‘You just told me people won’t arrive until three. Half past noon, then. That ought to be safe.’’
‘‘I cannot wait that long.’’
‘‘You’ve already waited twenty-four years, remember? I expect you’ll survive.’’
‘‘All right,’’ Rachael muttered, sounding more than disgruntled. But her eyes were still sparkling. She looked better than she had in months, as though she were blossoming, as though a weight had lifted off her shoulders. Not that she’d looked bad before . . .
She licked her lips.
Good God, he would really be in trouble now.
 
‘‘How is it going?’’ Griffin asked.
Startled, Corinna jumped, then quickly stepped from behind her easel, struggling out of the fog she’d worked in all day.
‘‘All right,’’ she said, although the painting was going brilliantly. It was faced away from him, but she raised her palette before it like a shield.
She couldn’t risk Griffin’s seeing it before she’d changed Sean’s hair and eyes—she didn’t want him to know Sean was her model unless he had to know. Unless she decided she had no choice but to tell him. With any luck, Griffin might decide she could marry Sean without ever learning he had posed nude.
‘‘I don’t want you to see it until it’s finished.’’
He only shrugged, in any case. He’d never cared overmuch about her art. ‘‘I’m glad to hear it’s going well. I want you to attend Lady Hartley’s breakfast tomorrow.’’
‘‘I’m not going, Griffin. I already told you that. How was the Teddington ball?’’
‘‘It went well. I lined up three men there for you to meet tomorrow. You should go up to bed now, so you’ll be fresh.’’
She glanced toward the clock on the drawing room’s mantel. ‘‘It’s but one in the morning, and you know I rarely stop painting before three. And I don’t need to be fresh tomorrow, because I’m not going to the breakfast.’’
‘‘How about if we compromise and you paint until three o’clock tomorrow afternoon? That sounds fair, doesn’t it? It’s the event of the Season.’’
‘‘The Summer Exhibition is the event of my
life
.’’ He was such a brother. She decided to change the subject. ‘‘Have you asked Mr. Delaney’s advice yet regarding property management?’’
‘‘I’ve been too busy. And why do you care?’’ His eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘‘Juliana asked me about that, too. You’re not interested in Mr. Delaney, are you?’’
She wondered whether he would consider that a good thing or a bad one. ‘‘Interested in what way?’’
‘‘As a suitor. A potential husband.’’
She still couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Better to play it safe, she decided; better he should get to know Sean before she admitted anything. ‘‘Of course not. I just remembered you’d said you wanted to talk to him, and I wondered if you had yet, that’s all.’’ She hoped that when he
did
talk to Sean he’d be impressed, which would save her from having to tell him who had posed for her portrait. ‘‘Now leave me alone, Griffin. I need to paint. And I’m not going to Lady Hartley’s breakfast.’’
‘‘I’ll send our regrets,’’ he gritted out, and then, as he walked off, Corinna heard him mutter, ‘‘Why do women always seem to get the best of me?’’
Fog-free for the first time all day, she turned back to appraise her picture. It really was coming along brilliantly, she thought, smiling. Just brilliantly.
But, oh, my.
This was one extremely sensual painting.
Maybe no one besides the committee should see it before it was hung in the Summer Exhibition. It was her best work ever, but someone might express shock and talk her out of submitting it. Griffin especially—even though he wouldn’t be able to tell it was Sean, he might not be entirely thrilled that his sister had painted such a portrait. After all was said and done, after she’d been honored by its selection, it would be a different story. He’d be proud of her then, surely. But before then . . .
Thank heavens Lady A had offered to go with her to deliver it. She’d have to cover it up so the dear woman wouldn’t be able to examine it in the carriage. Then somehow get through the submission process without her ever seeing it.
How she’d manage that, she couldn’t imagine, but she’d worry about that later. After the painting was finished, after she’d changed Sean’s hair and eyes.
Until then, she wanted him just as he looked now, she thought, raising her brush to the canvas and letting the fog close in again.

 

Chapter Thirty-nine
‘‘Did you not sleep well?’’ Deirdre asked solicitously when Sean slammed into the breakfast room again Sunday morning.
‘‘I didn’t sleep at all.’’ He’d spent the entire night alternating between worrying about his company and arguing with himself over whether to devastate Corinna now or allow her to paint in peace.
There was nothing he could do about the former that he wasn’t already doing. He knew that. As for the latter, he also knew what was best for Corinna. But it didn’t feel best for him.
The gravel had torn his insides to a pulp.
Still deliberating and ignoring Deirdre, he gulped down coffee and little else, then stomped upstairs to play nephew to Lincolnshire.
Coming to a halt in the earl’s doorway, he listened to the man’s ragged snores for a long minute, calming down somewhat. ‘‘How is he doing?’’ he finally asked Mrs. Skeffington quietly.
Sadness etched on her kind, plain face, the nurse shook her head.
The ragged snores ceased, making them both turn. ‘‘Cainewood?’’ Lincolnshire croaked.
‘‘I’m here, Uncle.’’ Sean walked closer and touched the man’s hand, wincing when his fingers left indentations in the swollen flesh. ‘‘It’s Sean.’’
Lincolnshire slitted his eyes, but just for a bare moment. ‘‘Cainewood?’’
‘‘He’s not here, Uncle. But I am.’’
‘‘Wake me . . . when . . . Cainewood . . . arrives,’’ he wheezed again, and drifted off.
Sean looked to Mrs. Skeffington. ‘‘He thought I was Cainewood. Is he delirious, then?’’
‘‘Not delirious, but very tired. He was up quite late last night, closeted with his solicitor. And I fear . . .’’ She sighed and shook her head again. ‘‘I cannot say it.’’
Sean also feared the earl’s end was near. ‘‘I cannot say it, either,’’ he muttered, wondering why that should be so depressing. Life would be much easier when this was over. Maybe not happier, but surely easier. ‘‘Why would he want to see Cainewood?’’
She shrugged. ‘‘Lord Lincolnshire asked for the marquess last night. Instructed Mr. Lawless to summon him first thing in the morning. I expect he wants to say good-bye. They’ve been neighbors for thirty years, after all, since the marquess was born.’’ She forced a smile and patted Sean’s hand with her own sturdy one. ‘‘I’ll watch your uncle, Mr. Hamilton. You go paint. There’s nothing you can do for him now.’’
‘‘I cannot . . . Well, perhaps I will.’’ The earl didn’t seem to want or need him right at the moment. He wouldn’t paint, of course, but perhaps he would leave for a while. Go talk to Corinna or return to his offices. See if any reports had come in yet from outside London. ‘‘Please ask my wife to send for me if my uncle has need of me. She’ll know where to find me.’’
He went downstairs and asked a footman to see that his curricle was brought around. As he headed for the door, the knocker banged, and Quincy opened it to reveal Corinna’s brother.
Cainewood stood stiffly, his arms folded behind him. He looked impatient, or maybe furious. Sean didn’t know him well enough to be sure which, but he was exhausted out of his mind—and he knew he’d taken liberties with the man’s sister.
For one delusional moment, he imagined Cainewood was hiding a pistol behind his back.
‘‘It won’t happen again,’’ he promised quickly. Stupidly.
Once had been more than enough.
Cainewood frowned and raised both his hands. Empty hands. ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’
Sean blew out a breath, remembering Lincolnshire. ‘‘The earl has been asking for you.’’
‘‘Yes, his solicitor summoned me. I know not why. But I’ve another appointment this morning, so I’m hoping this won’t take long.’’
‘‘I think he just wants to say good-bye,’’ Sean assured him, moving past him.
On the street, waiting for his curricle, he found his gaze drifting to the town house with the blue door on the west side of the square. As though drawn by unseen cords, he walked toward it, stopping on the pavement in front of the large window that fronted the drawing room.
Corinna wasn’t in the drawing room, of course. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and she slept until noon unless someone offered her a kiss for getting up early. Her easel was visible, though, so he walked closer to have a look at how Lincolnshire’s portrait was coming along. But it sat sideways, and the painting was covered by a crisp white sheet.
And it wasn’t finished. He knew that. She’d use every minute she had left before it was due. It wouldn’t be finished before tomorrow, which meant he couldn’t devastate her until then. He couldn’t wake her—that wouldn’t be fair.
He needed to see this thing through the right way, he lectured himself, heading back to where his curricle waited. He’d known that all along. There had been no use losing sleep over a decision so obvious.
Lady Avonleigh’s town house was near all of Oxford Street’s many shops. As Griffin banged the knocker, Rachael couldn’t help hoping that Lady A might invite her to visit often. They could go shopping and get to know each other. It would be such fun. She’d never had any living grandparents to spend time with—at least not any she’d known of.
The butler who answered the door looked as old as Lady A and Lady B put together. ‘‘Yes?’’ he croaked.
‘‘I’ve come to call on Lady Avonleigh,’’ Rachael said.
He cleared his throat. ‘‘She’s not here. She’s left for Lady Hartley’s breakfast.’’
‘‘But it’s not even one o’clock.’’
He shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘‘She doesn’t like to be late for anything, my lady.’’
Her heart sinking, she swiveled to Griffin. ‘‘I told you we should have come first thing in the morning.’’
He shrugged, too, but his shoulders were much wider. ‘‘I don’t mind waiting.’’
‘‘Lady Hartley’s breakfast will probably last until midnight! It’s the event of the Season.’’

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