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

by Royal, Lauren

  Across the street, Berkeley Square hummed with activity. From his vantage point at the north end, he watched people traipse in and out of the fenced, grassy park in the middle. In the row of houses along the west side, a blue door opened, catching his eye. Two footmen emerged, burdened with boxes and an easel. As they headed across the street toward the park, a young woman came out and followed, her lithe figure clad in a pale blue gown with a white apron tied over it. Her dark hair, worn unfashionably loose, shone in the midday sun.

  As his curricle pulled up, he blinked, suddenly recognizing Corinna.

  "Wait here," he told the stableman before dashing out into the square.

  By the time he reached her, the servants had positioned her easel beneath a giant plane tree and were setting a canvas upon it—one covered with blotches of gray and white. She riffled through a box filled with little pots of paint, her gaze focused, her plump bottom lip caught between her teeth.

  "Good day to you, Lady Corinna."

  Startled, she looked up, narrowing her eyes. Impossibly gorgeous blue eyes.

  To Sean, most everyone's eyes—including his own—appeared brown. Green, hazel, brown…they all looked brown. Only shades of blue looked truly colorful, and Corinna's eyes seemed the most brilliant blue he'd had the pleasure to see.

  A man could lose himself in those eyes.

  "Have you decided to let me sketch you?" she asked.

  "No," he said, not lost after all. "I was waiting there for my curricle"—he gestured toward Lincolnshire House—"when I noticed you entering the square. I came over to tell you I'm not Hamilton. I'm not Lincolnshire's nephew."

  She lifted a dull knife. "So you keep saying." Using it to scoop brown—or maybe red or green—paint onto a palette, she slanted him a glance. "Yet you're living in Lincolnshire House."

  "I am. I can explain. Hamilton is my brother-in-law, and—"

  "You said that in the museum."

  "Because it's true."

  She seemed to stare at his mouth for a moment before she wiped the knife on her splotched apron and used it to add a smidge of a lighter color. "I don't believe you," she said, apparently as blunt as she was beautiful. "I understand that you've enjoyed your anonymity in the past, but your secret is out now. You're going to have to get used to the fact that everyone knows you're John Hamilton."

  She was staring at his mouth again, almost as though she wanted to kiss him. He certainly wanted to kiss her. Or throttle her. "But I'm not John Hamilton."

  "And I'm not here in Berkeley Square." With a saucy smile, she picked up a brush and turned to her canvas. "I expect you should get to your own painting, Mr. Hamilton. I wish you a successful day."

  Clearly he was dismissed. He strode back to his curricle, bunching his fists—as much to keep from throttling her as to keep from touching her this time. If he didn't manage to convince her of the truth soon, his hands were going to be permanently clenched.

  WITH GRIFFIN gone, Corinna had been looking forward to a few peaceful days to work on her portrait. But she wandered the drawing room Tuesday, still pondering whom to paint.

  She'd decided her picture would be set outdoors. She was an accomplished landscape artist, after all, and it was important that her backdrop be as impressive as her central subject. She wanted the play of light and shadow, the varied greens of grass and trees, the bright hues of blooming flowers. She'd started painting all of that yesterday in the square, and she was happy enough with how it was coming along. But she couldn't make up her mind whom she wanted in the foreground and what, exactly, he or she should be doing.

  She didn't care for formal portraits where the sitter just stared at the viewer. She preferred to see subjects in context. Conversation portraits, they were called. Quite popular in the previous century, they often featured whole families or groups of friends posed casually, as though caught in some everyday action. Although it wasn't common to do the same with a single subject, she wanted to give it a try. She hoped it would make her painting a little different—and therefore more noteworthy.

  If the painting turned out well, it would not only be the first work she submitted to the Summer Exhibition, but also the first portrait she put on public view. She wanted to choose someone who would be memorable. Someone whose personality would shine from the canvas. Someone she knew well enough to portray in such a manner that the viewer would feel he or she was a close, personal friend.

  That was why she'd painted family members over and over.

  She stopped and scanned all the many old Chase family portraits on the wall, settling on one dated 1670. The gentleman wore a long surcoat and a lace-trimmed cravat, the lady a full, heavy brocade gown with an old-fashioned stomacher fronting the bodice. A small engraved metal plate on the frame read:

  JASON AND CAITHREN

  8TH MARQUESS AND MARCHIONESS OF CAINEWOOD

  She'd never known this couple, of course. They'd both died long before she was born. But unlike the ancient, more sober portraits, which invariably featured stern, unsmiling subjects, this husband and wife looked happy. They looked like they'd been in love.

  And they looked very much like Corinna's present family.

  Juliana resembled Caithren, sharing her ancestor's warm hazel eyes and straight, streaky blond tresses. Griffin had inherited Jason's dark hair and square jaw, and both men had deep green eyes.

  But they weren't as startling a green as the eyes that belonged to the man Corinna really wanted to paint. She couldn't keep her mind off him. The way he kept lying to her was infuriating, but now whenever she picked up a Minerva Press novel she pictured him as the hero. No matter if the author described the hero as having fair hair and blue eyes; in her head his hair was dark, his eyes that startling green. When the dark-haired, green-eyed hero touched the heroine, a pleasurable shiver ran through her. And whenever the hero and heroine kissed, she imagined Mr. Hamilton kissing her, and her lips tingled.

  But give that he'd refused to let her sketch him, painting him was out of the question. She was as likely to paint him as she was to kiss him.

  Neither was going to happen.

  And no, she decided, she didn't want to update the family portrait collection by continuing to paint new pictures of people who looked eerily similar to the ones already on the walls. She'd been doing that for nearly a year, and none of her efforts had turned out good enough to hang on the walls anyway.

  Sighing, she collected her art supplies and summoned two footmen to accompany her into the square. Until she decided on a subject, she'd continue working on her setting. Carrying her box of paints, she followed the servants out the door and across the street.

  Or at least she tried to cross the street. Rounding the curve from Lincolnshire House, a curricle drew to a halt in her path. The driver looked down from his high perch.

  "I'm not Hamilton," he said coldly.

  She shrugged, thoroughly vexed. Apparently he hated her. And since he wasn't going to let her sketch him—let alone paint him—she wished he'd just leave her alone. If he'd cease popping into her life, perhaps she'd be able to concentrate on finding someone else to kiss.

  To paint, she mentally amended. She didn't want to kiss him; she only wanted to paint him.

  Holy Hannah, she was a liar.

  And was there anything worse than lying to oneself?

  "Fine," she snapped. "You're not Hamilton. Now will you please drive on so that I can paint?"

  A hoot of laughter burst from his throat. Or maybe it was a snort of frustration. Whichever, he flicked his reins and drove off, leaving her to think about painting him and kissing him…and very little else.

  At the rate she was making progress, she'd be lucky to finish a new portrait before next year's Summer Exhibition.

  TWELVE

  "NEPHEW?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I wish to see your studio today."

  Sean looked up from reading the Morning Chronicle at the breakfast table, thinking it was way too late for breakfast. By this ho
ur on a normal morning, he'd generally have risen, eaten, and driven all the way into town to his offices. On a normal morning, he'd have already gone through the day's mail, sat in on several meetings, dispatched employees to see to his interests. On a normal morning, he'd be elbow-deep in business by now, expanding his empire, increasing his fortune. On a normal morning…

  This wasn't a normal morning.

  No morning had been normal since he'd agreed to this damned scheme. Lincolnshire had trouble falling asleep and, in consequence, stayed abed late. And then he wanted his "dear nephew Sean" to keep him company at breakfast. He ate very little and very slowly, and in consequence it all took very long.

  Sean folded and set aside the newspaper. "My studio is private," he said carefully.

  "From me?" The earl looked hurt. "I'm your uncle. You're my heir."

  "I have work to do—"

  "I know. Work that makes me mighty proud, work that rivals the very best." He gestured to all the old masters on his dining room walls. "I want to see where you work. I shall sit and watch quietly; I promise. It's not as though I could move around much even if I wanted to," he added with his usual good humor.

  But Sean's smile was regretful, not amused. "I'm sorry, but I wouldn't be able to concentrate—"

  "You won't even know I'm there."

  He did want to make the old man happy. But he couldn't—he just couldn't—allow Lincolnshire to see Hamilton's studio.

  At least, not in its current state.

  No more than an hour after leaving the British Museum, Hamilton had fetched a few paintings and stuck them in an empty garret in one of Sean's buildings. He'd even included a half-finished canvas and propped it on an easel, so it would appear as though Sean were in the middle of a project.

  But after that, he'd run off to Wales. Immediately and without a backward glance, with only a promise that he'd return in two weeks. Other than the pictures and a few well-used sketchbooks, he'd provided nothing.

  No paint. No brushes. The earl would expect to see more than art, wouldn't he? He'd expect to see art supplies.

  Still and all, Sean had no wish to disappoint Hamilton's uncle. Lincolnshire's condition was worsening by the day, and he was a nice fellow who deserved a happy ending. There was nothing for it; Sean had no choice.

  He was forced to twist the truth once again.

  "Unfortunately," he explained, "I find it impossible to paint with anyone watching over my shoulder. And I'm in the middle of something I fear I'm quite anxious to finish today. Will tomorrow be soon enough? I should be done then, and I'll be happy to bring you to the studio. Not to watch me paint, mind you, but to see the space. And to view the latest Hamilton canvases."

  He hated lying. This whole exercise was mentally exhausting. For the umpteenth time, he silently cursed himself for allowing Hamilton to talk him into it.

  "Very well," Lincolnshire finally conceded. "I shall look forward to visiting tomorrow."

  Sean thanked him and finished breakfast, then went off to work. Or rather, to purchase art supplies.

  Normally he wouldn't have a clue where to buy anything related to art. But he'd noticed Hamilton's sketchbooks all had REEVES & SONS stamped on them. Recalling a tenant by that name in one of his buildings in the center of the City, he was able to drive straight there.

  It took him a good while to choose the supplies, particularly the colors. Completely at a loss, he finally consulted one of the Reeveses—father or son, he knew not—who selected the proper pigments for him. After hearing the man rattle on about tone harmony, warmer and cooler variants, transparent as opposed to opaque, and the benefits versus the drawbacks of a broad palette compared to a more limited one—this particular "palette" apparently referring to a list of colors rather than a thing one put the colors on—Sean felt as though his head might explode.

  When at long last he came out of the shop—a "colorman's shop," he'd learned it was called—he also feared more than half his day had slipped away.

  He was in a hurry. So much so that, on his way back to his curricle, he glanced twice at a woman in the bookshop next door before realizing she was Corinna.

  A footman in Chase livery stood outside the shop, looking bored. Corinna stood on the other side of the window, her nose buried in a book. A bell on the door jangled when Sean opened it, but the noise failed to rouse her. Ignoring the bookseller's muted, "Good afternoon," Sean walked past the front desk and right up to her. Still reading, she didn't acknowledge his arrival.

  "I'm not Hamilton," he said.

  She jumped. Then slammed the book shut as her gaze flew to his face. "I don't believe you."

  "So you keep saying. But I don't paint."

  Her blue, blue eyes focused on the bulky package in his hands. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, it had REEVES & SONS stamped on it in smudged black ink.

  A tiny smile tugged at her lips. "Then what did you buy at the colorman's shop?"

  The sarcasm in her tone was unmistakable. Answering truthfully would only dig him in deeper. But he was tired of lying. He'd been trying to correct a lie. He didn't want to claim he'd purchased anything other than oil, pigments, and brushes.

  So instead he said, "What are you reading?"

  Her reaction was astonishing. She blushed and stuttered and quickly shoved the book onto the nearest shelf. When he looked to see the title, she grabbed his upper arm and maneuvered him down a row of bookcases. And around a corner and down a second row. She didn't stop until she'd backed him into a dead end.

  He smiled down at her. She looked very becoming with flushed cheeks. And though she'd finally released him, he'd rather liked having her touching him.

  He'd liked that to an alarming degree.

  A small part of him wondered what she'd been reading. A very small part of him. The rest of him was busy contemplating the fact that the two of them were quite alone here, tucked amongst the quiet bookshop's tall shelves. There didn't seem to be any other customers, the bookseller was well out of view, and the footman who'd accompanied Corinna was apparently still outside daydreaming.

  Sean set the package on a high, empty shelf.

  The shop smelled like paper and dust, but Corinna smelled of flowers and paint. Her breathing seemed loud in the pervasive silence. Loud and a wee bit ragged. Watching him, she sank her teeth into her bottom lip—that plump, tempting lip—and swayed toward him, perhaps involuntarily.

  Without thought, he leaned in to kiss her.

  She tasted as sweet as she smelled, her mouth yielding against his. He brushed it once, twice, then settled into place, taking possession. She gasped, parting her lips just enough to let him in.

  He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself—he didn't want to help himself. He'd been imagining this kiss since that first day in the British Museum. He wrapped his arms around her and slipped his tongue into her mouth, half expecting her to bite it in protest.

  But she didn't.

  She kissed him back.

  First she angled her head to make their lips match more closely. Next she sighed into his mouth. Tentatively, she touched the tip of her tongue to his. Then, seeming to go boneless in his arms, she simply sank into the experience.

  She felt…wonderful. Soft and warm and curving in all the right places. Sean wasn't a man to think in poetic terms, but the word that sprang to mind was divine. She molded her body to his and wound her arms around his neck, threading her fingers into the hair at his nape. By degrees she grew bolder, the kiss deepening, an exciting, arousing dance of lips and tongues. He sensed she was learning as she went along, but she seemed a very apt pupil. And an extremely talented one as well.

  When she finally pulled away, he was left rather witless.

  Her cheeks were even more flushed than before; her breath was now ragged enough to make her breasts heave beneath her thin dress; her eyes looked as hazy as he felt. "Why?" she asked in a voice so throaty it kicked his lust up a notch. "Why did you do that?"

  He wasn't
sure why. "I suppose because I wanted to."

  "But you hate me!"

  "Obviously, I don't. Although I will admit to finding you somewhat exasperating." He measured her in return. "Why did you let me do that?"

  Her hazy eyes widened. "Are you jesting? What female—most especially what female artist—wouldn't let John Hamilton kiss her?"

  For once he didn't protest that he wasn't John Hamilton. He was too stunned. "So it was a trophy kiss?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You kiss artists? You thought to add me to your collection? A particularly shiny prize?"

  She splayed a hand on her heaving cleavage. "I've never kissed another artist."

  She had not, he noted, claimed she'd never kissed another man. Evidently she'd been kissed before. But while she'd been an enthusiastic participant, she hadn't seemed schooled, making him suspect that she'd never been kissed before in the French manner.

  He found himself pleased by that notion. A man liked to be first. However, he was very much aware that he had no business kissing her at all, in the French manner or otherwise.

  He wasn't John Hamilton. He wasn't Lincolnshire's nephew. He wasn't an English peer, or a soon-to-be English peer, or remotely related to any English peer at all.

  He wasn't even English.

  He was an upstart Irish commoner with lots of money but apparently no sense. Aristocratic young misses like Corinna were off-limits to men like him.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "I'm not."

  She was very blunt, he thought, not for the first time. And very beautiful.

  He'd thought that before, too.

  "I won't kiss you again," he vowed.

  "I hope you will." Her lips curved, making him want to kiss them again, vow be damned. "I enjoyed kissing you very much," she added artlessly.