"That wouldn't be good," she agreed, moving with him. "Juliana would come looking for us first, and then who knows what would happen." While he was wondering what could happen, they turned onto the path. "I liked what you said in there," she said. "In the picture gallery."
"In the picture gallery. Saints preserve us. I don't think I said anything that wasn't a disaster."
"You said that an artist's work should stand on its own, that his identity—or hers, I'm hoping everyone who was listening would agree—shouldn't influence the viewer's opinion of any specific picture." Her hand soft and warm in his larger one, she looked over and up at him and smiled. "Wherever did you come up with that?"
"Hamilton," he admitted with no small measure of disgust. "Hamilton said something very like that, and I remembered it. In my desperation to sound artistic, it just came flying out of my mouth."
"I know you despise him, and for good reason, but I'm so glad to hear he thinks that way. It makes it so much more likely that he'll vote for my painting."
Sean didn't think so. She didn't know the rest of what Hamilton had said—the part about females never painting good portraits. But he wasn't going to tell her that, not now. He wasn't going to ruin the last of these few stolen moments together.
"He should be back by now," he told her instead, pulling his hand from hers as the house came into sight. Faint snatches of music floated to them from the open French doors. "He said he'd be gone two weeks, and it was two weeks on Thursday. But instead of coming home to deal with everything, he sent a letter."
She clasped her hands before her, like maybe she was missing holding his. He hoped so. But he knew he shouldn't. "That's just as well," she said. "If he came home now, he might ruin his uncle's last days. What did the letter say?"
"He's painting the Lady of the Waterfall, and he doesn't want to leave. But I'm suspecting the lady he doesn't want to leave is the one in his bed." The rotter. "He told me not to worry; he'll be home well before the Summer Exhibition vote."
"I don't expect you were worrying," Corinna said. "You obviously cannot do the voting for him. Just like you cannot come to Lady Avonleigh's reception next week in his place. Ten days," she added with a sigh as they approached the open French doors, instinctively moving farther apart so it wouldn't appear they'd done anything but talk. "In ten days my painting will be turned in and Hamilton will come home."
"He should return before that. He said he'd be here well before the vote."
"Then in fewer than ten days, you'll be free."
Sean wouldn't be free until Lincolnshire passed on, unless Hamilton stirred everything up.
But he didn't want to say that.
Much as he wanted his life back, much as he knew he and Corinna were growing too close, ten days in her company didn't seem nearly long enough.
TWENTY-SIX
"HOW DOES LORD Lincolnshire fare today?" Sean asked as he stepped into the man's house late Monday afternoon.
Quincy sighed, a maudlin sound that spoke volumes. "Perhaps you should ask his new physician."
"New physician?"
"He's with him now. Second doctor to visit today."
Alarmed, Sean headed for the crystal staircase. Glimpsing Corinna inside the salon as he passed, he was tempted to stop. But her back was to him, and she looked absorbed, humming tunelessly while dabbing vigorously at her painting.
And Lincolnshire took precedence now regardless.
Sean took the steps two at a time, wincing at the sound of Lincolnshire's cough. Apparently hearing her brother's footsteps, Deirdre hurried out into the corridor. "You're back early today," she whispered.
"He wasn't doing well this morning."
"That's why I decided to stay home with him. He was sitting for Lady Corinna when he started coughing blood. Just a wee bit, but…"
"A wee bit is too much."
She nodded. "Lady Corinna sent him upstairs. Nurse Skeffington summoned his doctor, and then Lord Stafford arrived, too. Dr. Dalton was livid." Her eyes were wide. "He packed up his leeches and left."
"His leeches?" Sean pulled a face before registering the rest of Deirdre's words. "Lord Stafford? Corinna's brother-in-law?"
She nodded again. "Lady Corinna sent him a note. He's in with Lord Lincolnshire now." She motioned to the door, and they headed toward it.
"My recommendation is that the leeches and bleeding and blistering be stopped," Lord Stafford was telling the earl as they walked in. "Your choice, of course, but I don't believe those treatments will accomplish anything, unless you're aiming to hasten the end."
Lincolnshire shook his head wildly and coughed again.
"There now." Lifting a cup off the earl's bedside table, Lord Stafford leaned closer and held it to his lips. "Have a little sip for me, will you? It will soothe your throat, and the warmth will ease your lungs." He straightened and looked to Sean. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton."
Considering the man knew he wasn't Hamilton, he'd said that smoothly, Sean thought. "Thank you for attending him. I thought you ran a smallpox facility."
"I spend most days vaccinating, yes. But I also see a few very special patients." He aimed a gentle smile at Lord Lincolnshire. "Another sip for me, as a favor?"
The earl took a very tiny one.
"He doesn't have but a wee appetite," Deirdre said.
"He's doubtless nauseous," Stafford explained. "Although we cannot see it, of course, his internal organs will be swelling along with those parts we can see. He won't be wanting to eat much, but you should encourage him to take what he can. Especially the tea."
"We will," Sean said. "And we shouldn't allow Dr. Dalton to apply more leeches, then, yes?"
"It's my belief such treatments will only make Lord Lincolnshire more uncomfortable. Better to let things progress naturally, as I see it. But I don't expect Dr. Dalton will be returning in any case." Stafford set an affectionate hand on the earl's shoulder. "I'll be attending Lord Lincolnshire now."
Lincolnshire gave him a weak smile. "Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes.
"Think nothing of it. I'd do anything for you—just like everyone else who's had the good fortune to be part of your life."
Not Hamilton, Sean thought darkly, watching the earl's breathing even out. His head lolled against the pillows. No matter his cheerful front, Lincolnshire was weakening. He wouldn't last much longer. Though Sean regretted spending the day out of the house, he'd needed to talk to his people, to figure out where more of Lincolnshire's servants could be placed. He wanted to assure the earl's peace of mind before he passed.
Stafford dropped his stethoscope into his black leather bag and fastened it with a snap. "I'll return in the morning. I trust Nurse Skeffington to take good care of him in the meantime."
Deirdre glanced gratefully at the sturdy woman hovering nearby. "Sure, and she will. And Sean and I will be caring for him, too."
Lord Lincolnshire's actual niece by marriage, Deirdre was proving more devoted than Sean had expected. More grown-up than he'd imagined. He gave her a sad smile of approval before following Stafford downstairs.
The two men paused at the salon door. Corinna still had her back turned, but she wasn't painting anymore. She wasn't humming, either. She just stood there, gazing at her canvas.
Her hair was swept up, and the nape of her neck looked vulnerable. Something inside Sean stirred, a long, liquid pull.
As though she could sense it, she turned. "Sean. And James." Joining them in the entry hall, she looked to her brother-in-law in concern.
"Lord Lincolnshire has fallen asleep. I put a drop of laudanum in his tea. He's resting easily for now."
"Might he get better, then, do you think?"
"I fear not," Lord Stafford said gently. "It is, of course, difficult to predict the path of an illness. He could have an hour or a day when he seems better, but overall he will continue to decline." He leaned close and kissed her cheek. "You were right to send for me. Juliana suggested I see him, but I didn't realize t
he situation was so urgent."
"Thank you for coming." She walked him to the front door, which the competent Quincy was already holding open. "I know Lord Lincolnshire is in the best of hands," she added softly.
She watched him go down the steps, then waited for Quincy to close the door before turning to Sean. "When did you get home?"
This wasn't home, but he shrugged wearily. "A while ago. You looked very busy."
"I'm finished."
"Leaving for the evening, then?"
"I'm finished. With the painting."
"Oh." He blinked. "May I have a look?"
"Yes, I was hoping you would." She hesitated a moment before heading back to the salon, motioning him to follow. As they drew near the canvas, she seemed to hold her breath. "What do you think?"
"It looks just like Lincolnshire. A healthier, more vital Lincolnshire." The man who'd sat for her, blended together with the younger Lincolnshire of her memories, Sean guessed.
It was a full-body portrait, a natural pose in lieu of the typical head-and-torso formality. The painting showed the earl seated on a bench beneath a plane tree in Berkeley Square—perhaps the same bench where Sean had explained the truth to Corinna. Lincolnshire wasn't eating a Gunter's ice, though; instead he held a weighty, leather-bound book. Rather than reading it, he looked like he'd just glanced up, distracted by the viewer walking by. He seemed relaxed and contemplative. And very much alive.
"It's good," Sean said simply.
Corinna exhaled in a rush. "You know nothing about art."
"I know what I like, and it looks very well done to me. You'll submit it for the Summer Exhibition, won't you?"
"I hope to. But first I'm going to show it at Lady Avonleigh's reception on Wednesday." She'd have it delivered, along with a selection of her other paintings, to Lady A's house tomorrow. "I want to see what the artists say of it."
"The judges."
"Yes." She bit her lip and met his gaze, nerves suddenly jumping in her stomach. "I hope they'll like it."
Her voice quavered, and she wondered if he'd heard it. He didn't say anything, so she couldn't tell. He only looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her, while she stood there wishing she hadn't eaten any luncheon, because she felt like the cold meat and fruit she'd nibbled on was about to come back up.
Abruptly he turned and walked back to the salon's huge carved and gilded door. Shut it with a heavy thump. Then turned again to face her. "You're nervous," he stated in that low, melodic tone that made everything shift inside her. "Come here, Corinna."
She rushed into his arms, raising her face for his kiss. But he didn't kiss her. He only held her. He only held her tight, murmuring wordless sounds of comfort, or maybe they were Irish words—she didn't know. But just at that moment, she fell in love.
The realization robbed her of breath, made her heart stutter once before it raced faster. She slid her hands beneath his tailcoat and around him. Squeezed him as he was squeezing her, as hard as she could.
"There's nothing to be nervous about," he said soothingly, running his hands up and down her back. "It's a lovely painting."
She turned her head to lay her cheek against his warm, comforting chest, wishing there weren't a shirt and waistcoat between them. "I know."
"And you've many more paintings at home, don't you? So if the judges don't agree, they could choose another one."
He smelled like starch and soap and man. "I know." Impossibly masculine man.
"And if they don't choose another one, there's always next year. You won't give up. I know you."
She knew him, too. And she loved him. She didn't think she could tell him—there was so much happening around them, so much else complicating his life. But she raised her face again, hoping this time he'd kiss her so she could tell him without words.
He did.
It was a gentle kiss, not at all like the ones they'd shared before. Their kisses tended to be stormy. But this was tranquil and slow and calming—and exactly what she needed.
Tender and caring, his lips slid over hers, taking their time. His tongue swept her mouth, languid and unhurried, luxurious and deliberate, as though tasting her and discovering her and making her feel better were the only things he cared about in the whole world.
She quivered. But not with nervousness now, because he was right: There was always next year, and at the moment this give and take, this lingering caress, seemed so much more important. She lost herself in him, lost herself in the magic of love and all of its promise.
A knock came at the door, and they jerked apart. Sean whirled and opened it. "Deirdre."
His sister blinked, looking between them. "I'm sorry. I wasn't meaning to interrupt."
"No, no." He drew her inside. "Lady Corinna was just showing me her finished picture."
Corinna feared the other woman could see the truth on her face—or rather her lips, which were tingling and felt thoroughly kissed. But if Deirdre could tell, she didn't let on. Her own lips curved in a faint smile as she walked toward the painting.
"Oh, Lady Corinna, this is absolutely lovely. Tell me about it, will you?"
Behind Deirdre's back, Corinna shared one last, lingering glance with Sean, feeling so much better about everything. She was in love, and she knew that mattered more than any painting.
Hugging her new secret to herself, she went to join his sister.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ALMOND CAKES
Grinde halfe a pound of Almonds and mixe with halfe a pound of Sugar and Orange or Lemon Water. To this add ten Yolks of Egges beaten and the boiled skins of two Oranges or Lemons grounde fine. Mixe together with stiff Egge Whites and melted Butter gone cold and bake it all in a good Crust.
Good for nibbling during nervous occasions, such as when my daughter brought my first grandchild into the world earlier this year. Oh, my, what a day and night. I think I'd much rather give birth myself!
—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1736
AS WAS customary, the furniture in Aunt Frances's Hanover Square home had been rearranged to prepare for the birth of her child.
On the ground floor of Malmsey House, a room had been designated as the lying-in chamber, and a portable folding bed had been brought in for the occasion. A larger connecting room provided a gathering place for relations during the labor, and more rooms across the corridor had been outfitted to house the accoucheur—the obstetrical doctor—and the monthly nurse, called such because she not only assisted the accoucheur and attended the mother during the birth, but stayed for a month afterward to care for the baby.
The accoucheur and monthly nurse had arrived yesterday in anticipation of Aunt Frances's due date a week hence. But apparently Dr. Holmes had reckoned incorrectly, because today, while Corinna and her family nibbled on the almond cakes Juliana had baked and brought, Frances was laboring in the inner chamber.
As she had been for half a day already.
Corinna had been forced to rush this morning to get her paintings sent to Lady A's house before coming here to be with Aunt Frances. Along with the portrait, she'd chosen all her best landscapes and a few of her favorite still lifes. At least waiting for the birth was keeping her from fretting over whether she'd made the right selections.
Well, a little bit, anyway.
Hearing more moans and murmurs through the door, she winced. "How long is this going to take?"
"It hasn't been that long." Alexandra smiled down at her infant son. "If you'd attended Harry's birth, you'd know that."
Alexandra had delivered in the wintertime, at Hawkridge House in the countryside. Two weeks early, a full week before her sisters had planned to arrive. Her accoucheur had miscalculated, too, and at the moment, Corinna was grateful for that. The thought of Alexandra groaning like Aunt Frances made her want to groan herself.
"Oh, damn," Griffin suddenly said.
"What is it?" Corinna asked. Had he heard something through the door that she hadn't? Something bad? Something dire?
&n
bsp; "It's nothing," he said. "I just forgot something." He rose and went over to a little desk in a corner of the room, where he started pulling drawers open. "I need to send a message."
Juliana rose, too, and found paper and quill for him. "It seems this is taking forever," she said, looking rather pale as she returned to her seat. "James, maybe you should help."
"I don't deliver babies," her physician husband said for the fifth time. "But there's no need to fret. Dr. Holmes is the best."
"He could take some measures," Griffin muttered as he scribbled.
"It's usually better not to intervene as long as the labor is making progress. What would you have him do?"
"Bloodletting, perhaps."
"James doesn't believe in bleeding," Juliana said quickly. Juliana hated the sight of blood. She said it made her sick to her stomach.
Griffin folded his letter and began scribbling again, adding the direction to the outside. "Then maybe forceps."
"The use of forceps," James said, "can result in tearing the mother."
"I don't want to hear this," Corinna said. The sight of blood didn't bother her, but her stomach was turning anyway with all of this talk. She didn't want to see Aunt Frances bled, and the thought of forceps was equally upsetting. But something needed to be done, because she didn't think she could listen to what was coming from behind the closed door a moment longer.
"Are you all right?" Juliana asked her.
"I'm fine. I just never want to give birth."
Everyone laughed. But this was no laughing matter. She was never going to tell Sean she loved him, because what if he wanted to get married? And though Griffin probably wouldn't assent, what if he did? She could end up wedded and bedded and moaning and groaning behind a birthing room door herself.
A particularly piercing scream came from the room beyond, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
"It's worth it," Alexandra said softly, still smiling down at her child.
Art of Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 3) Page 15
