by Darcy Burke
“Of course.” Now she felt guilty on top of everything else. One might even say that, like the heroine of Pamela or Virtue and Reward, Corinna’s poor mind was all topsy-turv—
Oh, hang it! She shoved stupid Pamela from her mind. She simply couldn’t cope with that today.
Nor could she bring herself to face Sean’s crossness, so she turned to the earl instead. ”Good afternoon, Lord Lincolnshire. I brought you some gingerbread cakes. They’re supposed to raise one’s spirits.”
“Says who?” Sean asked, taking the basket.
“Says my family’s heirloom cookbook. Each lady in the family adds a recipe every year, and they all have legends attached. Not that I believe such nonsense,” she hastened to add. “My sister Juliana baked these. I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”
“I didn’t think any Mayfair ladies ever entered a kitchen.”
“The Chase ladies do,” Lord Lincolnshire said, pausing for a breath. “They’re famous for their sweets.”
“All except me,” Corinna said.
Sean handed Lord Lincolnshire a sweet and took one for himself. “Please, have a seat.”
Corinna looked around the room, which she’d never been in before. The butler, Quincy, had called it the “yellow drawing room” when he’d shown her in here. The walls were covered with yellow silk printed with pink roses, green leaves, and some blue flowers she couldn’t name. All the sofas, chairs, and footstools were upholstered in yellow brocade. Part of Lord Lincolnshire’s extensive Ming vase collection was in here, and there were several excellent paintings on the walls, including two Rembrandts.
She wished to study them, but Sean had asked her to sit. Ignoring his request might irritate him further, and that simply wouldn’t do.
Mostly because she’d decided she wanted another kiss.
Once she chose the seat with the best view of the Rembrandts, Sean reseated himself too. “This gingerbread is delicious,” he said.
“I’ll tell Juliana.” She turned to Lord Lincolnshire. He was covered to the waist with a heavy blanket, making her wonder what might be concealed underneath. His hands looked a little puffy, and he’d taken only a tiny bite of the cake. “How are you feeling today, my lord?”
“Better than one might expect, thanks to my nephew.” He smiled at Sean, apparently waiting to catch his breath before continuing. “I’m still thinking, nephew”—pause—“that I’d like to meet your wife.”
Sean exchanged a panicked look with Corinna. “I’m afraid my wife prefers to stay in the countryside, Uncle. She likes the quiet life.”
Lord Lincolnshire looked disappointed but seemed to accept 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 haven’t 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—”
“Would you let a man finish a sentence?” Corinna snapped. Tearing her gaze from one of the Rembrandts, she turned to the earl and spoke in a kindlier tone. ”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 realized 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. Corinna wracked her brain for a way to help Sean, as she’d promised she would. Chases always kept their promises. “Surely—”
“May I paint you, Lord Lincolnshire?” she cut him off. “Please? I’d be truly 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 make my career.”
“Me?” Lord Lincolnshire wheezed. “In the Summer Exhibition?”
“Possibly,” she reiterated. “None of my portraits have turned out great so far, since I haven’t 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 answering smile was far warmer than she’d expected. Warm enough to make her feel warm. She had to look away.
It seemed he’d forgiven her.
Well, good. Now when was he going to kiss her?
She frowned, suddenly realizing he hadn’t even tried to kiss her since that day in the bookshop. Not once. Whatever could that mean? Had he not enjoyed kissing her?
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’d 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 that same warm, dreamy smile.
Oh, very well, maybe it wasn’t dreamy; maybe it was only grateful that she’d managed to save his behind. But it was warm. And it was a smile. He was happy with her, at least for the moment.
She’d get him to kiss her one way or another.
She smiled back. “Would you care to read while I sketch, Mr. Hamilton?”
He nodded and opened the book.
Letting his harmonious 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.
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 gave a merry laugh. “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.” Somehow, being around her seemed to bring out his Irishness. “Thank you again. I really do appreciate your help.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. Moving to a fine Kent fireplace, she leaned against the mantel and glanced over her shoulder rather flirtatiously. Or not precisely flirtatiously, because she wasn’t a flirtatious girl. She seemed much more straightforward than that.
Was she meaning to flirt with him? On purpose?
His question was answered immediately, when she aimed another inviting look over her shoulder and said softly, “I think you owe me a kiss.”
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.” Her tone was casual, but Sean could tell it was an act to cover her embarrassment—her cheeks were reddening. Well, they were coloring, anyway, and he assumed the color was red. In any case, he felt sorry for laughing at her.
And he hoped she was telling the truth.
He peered into her blue, blue eyes, trying to figure out if she was indeed being truthful. Those eyes…they could make a fellow feel grateful for being color-blind. (What was he supposed to be figuring out, again…?) And then there was her voice. It was a low voice, sweet but not at all girlish. It had a tart edge when she was being cheeky, which was most of the time. He liked that, the way she said whatever she was thinking. He also liked watching her lips move when she talked. But he shouldn’t look at her lips, because whenever he did, it made him want to kiss her, which he couldn’t do because…
He looked at her lips.
“I told my sisters your secret,” said the lips. Full, beautiful, soft-looking—
Wait a second.
“You did what?” he roared, shaking his head to clear it. Thinking that this time, he really might strangle her.
He definitely wasn’t kissing her.
“I had to share it with someone,” she said defensively, pushing away from the mantle. “I had to. I feared I’d done wrong encouraging you to keep it up, and—”
“What did they say?”
“They heartily approved. They told me I’d done exactly the right thing. I’m not at all sorry I told them.”
“Don’t tell anyone else.”
“But—”
“Don’t.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I won’t.”
“I want your promise.”
“I promise. And a Chase promise is never given lightly,” she added, her eyes wide and solemn.
“All right, then.” It seemed disaster had been averted. But that didn’t mean all was forgiven, no matter how wide she made her eyes. She wasn’t getting that kiss. “You’ll be back Monday to start the actual painting? Early, I hope?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Excellent.” Maybe he’d be able to 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 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 scent with that hint of paint underneath it.
She wasn’t getting that kiss.
“Do you know what else my sisters said?” she asked. Not-quite-flirtatiously.
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Juliana said she was impressed by your connections. And the fact that you’ve made a success of yourself at such a young age.”
“She doesn’t know how successful I am,” he pointed out. “And neither do you.”
She waved that away. ”Houses in Hampstead aren’t cheap. And Alexandra reminded me that our brother, Griffin, is named for our ancestor, Aidan Griffin, Baron Kilcullen from Ballygriffin, Ireland.”
He narrowed his eyes. ”And the significance of all this 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.”
He resolutely looked away from her lips. He needed to think. Not that he could think clearly anyway, with her standing so close and daring to make such an offer. He had to admit it was tempting. He did need to get to work earlier on Monday. And she had just eliminated every reason he’d considered her off-limits.
He sized her up shrewdly. “How much earlier?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
He yanked her to him.
He would have cursed his weakness, but he was too busy enjoying himself. Or rather, enjoying her—her warmth, her hands drifting up to thread her fingers into his hair, her heart pounding like a drum against his own. Even though he’d been expecting it, he was still stunned by the unimaginable softness of her lips. Carefully, gingerly, he drew the bottom one between his teeth and, just as he’d watched her do a hundred times, bit down.
She gasped and pulled away, and for a panicked second he thought he’d hurt her.
But she was laughing, her lovely eyes sparkling up at him. He laughed along in relief.
She pressed two fingers to her bottom lip, as if she could still feel the bite. ”I’ll see you Monday at nine,” she said in her cheeky way, and quit the room.
He heard her footsteps cross the stone floor in the entrance hall, heard the door open, heard Quincy bid her a polite farewell. By the time the door closed, he’d gathered his wits.
Somewhat.
He went back to the other drawing room, where Lincolnshire was dozing, propped on his many pillows. Sean touched the earl 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 winced. He’d thought they’d dropped the subject. “It’s truly sorry I am, but as I told you, she prefers to stay in the countryside.”
“She can make an exception…just this once? She’ll be the next countess…and the mother of my eventual heirs. I wish to…get to know her.” The earl paused for a much-needed breath. And another. “Please, Sean.” His eyes shone with hope.
Saints preserve us.
Sean couldn’t refuse.
“No.” In her lovely floral-painted bedroom, the only room in Sean’s house that wasn’t blue—in fact, he wasn’t sure what color it was—Deirdre tossed a pile of shifts into the trunk she was filling. “I’ve told you twice already, no.”
It felt like days since Sean had been home. Begorrah, it had been days since he’d been home. He’d neglected his work yet again to come talk to his sister, and this wasn’t the welcome he’d hoped for. “Why are you packing your things, then?”
“I’m moving to Daniel’s house tomorrow. I’m bored out of my mind here alone in Hampstead. I’m going to live in the middle of London, where I can
see another face once in a while.”
Oh, no, she wasn’t.
“You’ll live in London, all right, but with Lincolnshire.” He was shirking his own duties in order to obtain her precious divorce, and she couldn’t even wait to see this thing through? “I want you to arrive early Monday evening. That will make it believable that you had to come in from the countryside. You owe me, Deirdre. I’m doing a favor for you. Now you’ll do this favor for me.”
“I didn’t ask for any favors. I don’t want any favors.” She pulled three dresses out of her clothespress. Brown, brown, and brown. “I still cannot believe you allowed John to talk you into this ridiculous scheme.”
“Well, I did.” And didn’t he regret it even more than she? “And now Lincolnshire is insisting he meet Hamilton’s wife. Which is you, in case you don’t remember.”
“I remember, little brother,” Deirdre said dryly. “But I don’t care.” The dresses clenched in her hands, she turned to him. “What is the old man going to do, after all, if you fail to produce a wife?”
“He’ll be disappointed.”
“I’ve news for you, Sean: We’re all disappointed sometimes. The old man will survive.”
“He won’t survive, no. Either way. And he deserves happiness in his final days. He’s a nice man, Deirdre.”
“John never thought so.”
“John is an idiot.”
“You’ve a point there.” She folded the dresses, then sighed and went back for more. “But I don’t want to play your wife.”
Sean echoed her own words back to her. “I’ve news for you, Deirdre: We’re all forced to do things we’d rather not sometimes.”
“Sometimes, maybe. But not this time.”
“If I don’t fulfill his wishes,” he argued, “Lincolnshire may retaliate by withholding his fortune from your husband.”
“John deserves that. Nothing would make me happier.”
“Think again, dear sister. If your husband isn’t satisfied with my performance—if he loses his inheritance as a result—I’d lay odds he won’t grant you your divorce.”
She shrugged. “I don’t care. I told you not to do this in the first place. I’ll be happy living with Daniel whether I’m married to him or not.”
