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

by Royal, Lauren

  "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 a body sees another face once in a while."

  Oh, no, she wasn't. "You'll live in London, all right, but with Lincolnshire." He was allowing his empire to go to hell in order to obtain her precious divorce, and she couldn't even wait and 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."

  "Oh, I remember," Deirdre said dryly. "But I don't care." The dresses clenched in her hands, she turned to him. "What is the man going to do, after all, should you fail to bring him a wife to meet?"

  "He'll be disappointed."

  "I've news for you, Sean: We're all disappointed sometimes. Lincolnshire 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. "I've news for you, Deirdre: We all have to do things we'd rather not sometimes."

  "Sometimes, maybe. But not this time."

  "If I don't produce a wife," he argued, "Lincolnshire may retaliate by withholding his fortune from your husband."

  "John deserves that. Nothing would make me happier."

  "Think again, little sister. If Hamilton isn't satisfied with the job I do placating his uncle—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."

  Sean kept silent a moment, deliberating. And then, "You won't be living with Daniel Raleigh," he said quietly.

  "I will. Is something wrong with your ears, Sean? I told you, I'm moving to Daniel's house tomorrow."

  "No, you're not. You're moving to Lincolnshire House on Monday."

  "Something is wrong with your ears."

  He hadn't wanted to tell her the whole truth, hadn't wanted her to know the worst. Hadn't wanted her to feel guilty or indebted.

  But he didn't see where he had a choice.

  "Whether he inherits Lincolnshire's fortune or not, Hamilton will soon be an earl. He's going to require an heir. In lieu of divorcing you, he intends to force you to move back in with him until you bear him a male child."

  That stopped her halfway from her clothespress to the bed. She swiveled to him, a blue dress and a brown one clutched tight to her middle. "He wouldn't. You're making this up to get me to do what you want."

  "I'm not making anything up." He walked closer and put a hand on her shoulder, easing her toward the bed and down to sit. "He told me this, Deirdre. When I refused to do his bidding, he told me to force me to agree. And the law is clear. If he demands you back in his bed, you'll have no choice but to comply." He sighed and sat beside her. "You're already packed. Come play Mrs. Hamilton at Lincolnshire House, will you? With any luck, it will be for the last time."

  Her fingers uncurled; her arms dropped to her sides. The dresses slid from her lap to the floor. "You win," she said.

  But he didn't feel like a winner.

  NINETEEN

  EARLY MONDAY evening at Lincolnshire House, Corinna was cleaning her palette and gazing at her work in progress when she felt the hair stir on her neck. Felt it swept aside. Felt warm lips pressed to her nape. A little thrill rippling through her, she bowed her head to allow better access, sighing at the tender caress.

  It ended too quickly, and she turned to see Sean.

  "I had a good day," he said. "A productive day. Thank you."

  His eyes were so green, so sincere. It was amazing how comfortable she felt meeting them, how easily she'd slid into this intimacy.

  He'd met her at the door at nine o'clock this morning, walked her into this salon, and greeted her with a kiss that had left her weak at the knees and light in the head. "Was that worth getting up for?" he'd asked.

  She'd nodded, robbed of words for once. And he'd laughed, then left to do whatever it was he did while she spent the whole day painting.

  She felt light-headed again now, just locking eyes with him. She hoped he would kiss her again—on her lips, not her nape—but instead he shifted his gaze past her. "I'm impressed."

  Addled as she was, for a moment she thought he was impressed with the salon. It was a most unlikely room to use for painting, by far the most grandiose room in London's most grandiose house.

  The salon was mostly blue, so she knew Sean could see just how gorgeous it was. Designed for lavish entertainments, it was decorated in the Italian style. Splendid blue and gold furniture matched ornate blue and gold curtaining that hung from gilt rods. The coved ceiling was painted in the palazzo manner, and the walls were broken up by alternating silk panels and mirrors in highly ornamental frames, the latter reflecting the room's sparkling gold and crystal chandeliers.

  All day Corinna had feared she'd splatter paint and ruin something. But of all the rooms in the house, it had the largest north-facing windows, so Lord Lincolnshire had insisted it was the best place to sit for his portrait.

  Then her head cleared, and she realized Sean wasn't impressed with the salon. He was looking at her painting.

  "I'm glad you like it," she said, turning to see it herself. She resumed wiping her palette. "But I've only just started, really."

  "You started this morning, before I left. You've been working all day."

  "Time flies when I'm involved in a painting. But I think I wore out poor Lord Lincolnshire. Two footmen helped him up to bed two hours ago." She set the palette on the mosaic table she'd covered for her use. "Do you think it would be all right for me to leave everything here overnight?"

  "I'm sure it will be fine. The man's unlikely to hold an entertainment anytime soon." He walked closer to the painting, peering at it. "You've laid in the basics of him already. And the background is magnificent. So detailed. How did you do that so quickly?"

  "Oh, that was already done." She began cleaning her brushes. "I've been working on it for days in the square. I just hadn't decided who to put into it."

  He paused for a significant beat before he turned to her. "So you wanted to paint Lincolnshire. You didn't offer only to save my skin."

  "You've caught me out." Swirling three brushes in turpentine, she grinned. "I think I'm finally going to complete a good portrait. One fine enough to put on display. I've always wanted to, but…"

  "But what?"

  "Women don't usually, you know? Paint portraits, I mean. It's not considered very ladylike. We're supposed to paint only scenes and still lifes." Setting the brushes aside, she sighed. "I'm tired of painting apples and bottles and trees."

  "You paint very good trees," he pointed out, gesturing toward her picture.

  "I've had lots of practice," she said dryly.

  "You have goals," he said. "I admire that."

  "Everyone has goals. Of some sort."

  "But your goals go beyond those expected of your gender. You'll have to overcome great odds to achieve them, yet you're not letting that stop you. I applaud you for that."

  "Thank you," Corinna said softly. She'd never had a man say he admired her, let alone imply he expected she'd reach her goals. Griffin was supportive, of course, but that was his job. He was her brother. And while she had no doubt he wished t
he best for her—while she was sure he wanted her happy—she'd never felt he truly believed she'd see the success she hoped to achieve.

  Griffin believed her art was a hobby, something to keep her occupied until she married.

  Sean, on the other hand, seemed to believe in her. And as Amanda had thought in Children of the Abbey, in return her heart felt he was one of the most amiable, most pleasing of men.

  Oh, God, she really had to stop this.

  What she had with Sean was just kisses. No matter what her sisters said, she knew he wasn't the sort of man her brother wanted for her. And she wasn't looking for marriage now, anyway. Her art was more important.

  "Thank you," she repeated. "I'm finished here and expected home for dinner. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

  "At nine?"

  "For another kiss, I'll be here at nine."

  He laughed. "You aren't anything like I expected a marquess's daughter would be, do you know that?"

  "I'm an artist," she said.

  And he laughed again. "I'll walk you to the door."

  They headed out of the salon. Unusually for this mansion full of servants, the entrance hall was empty. Quincy wasn't there, and there were no footmen, no maids scurrying from one side of the house to the other.

  "My sister will be here soon," Sean said quietly. "She's going to live here until this is all over."

  "Will she?" Corinna asked, surprised.

  "Lincolnshire's insisting upon seeing my wife. And she's Hamilton's actual wife, so…"

  "So at least that one thing won't be a lie?"

  "Exactly." Reaching the front door, he opened it. "But I'm afraid something will slip now that Deirdre's getting involved."

  "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

  He shrugged, making it obvious he was.

  She clutched his arm. "Please don't reveal the secret. It might be easier, but it won't be best. I don't like keeping secrets either, you know. I feel terribly guilty keeping my brother in the dark."

  "Don't tell him," he warned under his breath. "You promised."

  "I remember. And that's why I haven't told him until now. But my sisters think we're doing the right thing, and I'm certain he would, too—"

  "He wouldn't. He'd expose me forthwith; I'm sure of it."

  "You don't know Griffin—"

  "He's a marquess, isn't he? That's all I need to know. I'm everything the ton despises." Standing there in the open doorway, he raised a hand and began ticking off all the marks against him. "I'm Irish—"

  "I told you, we're part Irish, too."

  "What, a quarter?"

  "Probably a tenth," she admitted, thinking it was probably even less than that.

  He ticked off more fingers. "I'm untitled, I'm in trade, I'm richer than any three members of society combined—"

  "Really?" She hadn't known he had that much money. "Where did you get your fortune?"

  He looked like he was sorry he'd let that slip. And like he was scrambling to decide what to tell her. But just then the wooden gate opened outside, and a woman walked into the courtyard.

  Without hesitation and looking quite sure of herself, the woman crossed to the portico and mounted the steps. She was blond, green-eyed, and very pretty. Or at least, she looked like she'd be very pretty if she weren't scowling.

  "Corinna, this is my sis—" Sean started, but stopped when the woman gestured discreetly.

  He turned to see Quincy approaching the door.

  "My wife has arrived," he said loudly instead.

  TWENTY

  FIVE MINUTES later, after Corinna departed following her introduction to his "wife," Sean found himself standing in Lincolnshire's bedroom with his sister beside him.

  "Uncle," he said, "this is Mrs. Hamilton. Deirdre, the Earl of Lincolnshire."

  Deirdre curtsied. "It's pleased I am to meet you, Lord Lincolnshire."

  "I'm so very pleased you've come." Struggling to sit higher against all of his pillows, Lincolnshire blinked and yawned. "Please excuse me. I sat all…day for a portrait, and I fear that…left me exhausted."

  To Sean's relief, Deirdre didn't seem fazed by the man's shortness of breath. Nor did she seem repulsed by his ever-swelling body. "I understand that you're ill, my lord."

  "I'm dying," Lincolnshire said in his plainspoken way.

  "That, too. And it's sorry I am to hear it."

  "No fault of…yours." The old man cocked his head. "You're Irish."

  She exchanged a wary glance with Sean. "Born and raised in Kilburton, sir. Your nephew married me while he was living in Ireland."

  Lincolnshire nodded. "Kilburton is a pretty place."

  "And how would you know that?" Deirdre raised a brow. "I don't recall your ever visiting."

  Sean winced. Deirdre never had been one to think before opening her mouth. But Lincolnshire only laughed—a laugh that ended in a wheeze. "Haven't been there…since before you were born," he told her, and then added to Sean, "I like her."

  Releasing a breath, Sean smiled and moved closer to his sister, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. "I like her, too."

  "You should, considering…she's your wife. Whyever did you leave her in the countryside? She's…lovely." The old man grinned. "Give her a kiss."

  The look sister and brother exchanged this time wasn't wary. It was panicked.

  "Go on," Lincolnshire demanded.

  Sean turned to Deirdre and pecked her on the cheek.

  "That will never do," the earl declared in apparent disgust. "Word is you two…don't get along. Rumor has it you live apart."

  Was that why the old man had insisted Deirdre be fetched? Was he intent on seeing a reconciliation? "You've said that before," Sean reminded him. "Wherever did you hear it?"

  "Everywhere. I'm dying, not deaf. And I won't countenance…such a relationship in Lincolnshire House." He paused, all but gasping for air, but when Deirdre went to open her mouth, he waved a hand to stop her. "All the Lincolnshire earls have been happily…married, and I mean to see…that tradition continue."

  "You shouldn't listen to rumors," Sean protested. "I love Deirdre."

  Maybe not that way, but he did love her.

  "Then…kiss her…like a man," the old earl wheezed.

  There was nothing for it.

  Reluctantly, Sean faced Deirdre once again. Sucking in a breath, he leaned down and laid his lips on hers, lightly, for the briefest instant.

  It was all he could manage.

  When he pulled back, Deirdre looked rather pale.

  Lincolnshire shook his head. "Before I expire…I want to see better than that."

  Saints preserve us, Sean thought.

  "And I've a favor…to ask of you."

  "Anything, Uncle," Sean said. "Anything at all." So long as it didn't involve kissing his sister.

  A weak smile twitched on the man's lips. "Were I you…I'd wait to hear it first." He paused for a breath, and then another. "I wish you to…keep this house—"

  "I will. You have my word." Arrogant Hamilton wouldn't be selling the most impressive house in all of London. "You won't mind living here, will you, Deirdre?"

  She glanced around in patent disbelief, taking in the towering damask-hung bed, the scenes painted on the ceiling, the gold-stamped leather wallcoverings. "What sort of knothead would mind living here?"

  That prompted another smile. But Lincolnshire wasn't finished. "And all of my staff…in perpetuity."

  Tempted as he was to agree to that too, Sean couldn't add to his mountain of lies. "He has more than a hundred servants," he informed Deirdre.

  Her eyes widened. No knothead herself, she was well aware Hamilton wouldn't keep nearly that number. He was a man who valued his privacy.

  "Oh, Lord Lincolnshire, my husband doesn't like spending much time in London. The scenes he paints are all in the countryside. We won't be needing so many servants when he isn't here."

  "For me, my dear. I cannot stand to think…these loyal people…my people…will be forced
to fend for themselves."

  Exchanging a glance with his sister, Sean shook his head.

  "I need to know…this house will remain in your hands. And my staff…will retain their employment."

  "I'll keep the house," Sean promised, "as I've said, although it's overly large for just Mrs. Hamilton and myself." Indeed, it was overly large for anyone unrelated to royalty. "But as to the other—"

  "Sean," Lincolnshire cut in gently. Beseechingly. "Did you not say…you would do anything for me?"

  In the long silence that stretched between them, Sean's mind raced. He was more likely to bed Deirdre than Hamilton was to retain the old earl's enormous staff. "What if I could find new, better employment for them all instead?"

  A wee snort emerged from the man's throat. "Better than working…for me?"

  "Very well, I misspoke. I agree there's no kinder, more thoughtful employer. But more prestigious positions exist, certainly. And…"

  "And I won't…be here."

  Sean nodded.

  But evidently the earl remained unconvinced. "How can you find them all…employment? You're an artist, not…a man of business."

  "I know people. Trust me."

  "I do," Lincolnshire said meaningfully, making Sean writhe inside with guilt. "But I want…I need to know they're settled. That…they'll be happy."

  "You will. I'll find them all employment."

  "Better positions?"

  "Better positions than they have now."

  "Before I'm gone?"

  "Before you're gone, Uncle. This I promise."

  One promise he could keep. One promise he would keep.

  The man nodded, apparently satisfied. "Now, as to you two."

  Deirdre's eyes widened again. "What now?"

  "I want to see you dance…at the Billingsgate ball…on Saturday."

  TWENTY-ONE

  APPLE PUFFS

  Pare the fruit and bake them. When cold, mixe the pulp of the Apple with Sugar and lemon-peel shred fine, taking as little of the Apple-juice as you can. Orange marmalade is a great improvement. Put in paste with a little Sugar inside and on top. Bake in a quick oven a quarter hour until browne.