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

by Royal, Lauren

  "How about the rest?"

  "Benjamin West liked my basic technique but didn't have anything else good to say. William Mulready and James Northcote both think I paint excellent landscapes, but they weren't so enthusiastic about my portrait."

  He didn't know any of those names, but this wasn't the time to tell her. "That's four out of how many?"

  "Eight, not counting Mr. Hamilton. Two were hopeless. William Owen and William Beechey. They simply don't approve of women painting portraits. I have no idea what the last two thought. I found Henry Fuseli's comments completely indecipherable, and John James Chalon left before I could hear his opinion."

  "They might approve, then, the both of them."

  "They might. But they might not. Or they might, like some of the others, like my landscapes but not my portrait."

  "You can submit landscapes, then, can't you? Or landscapes along with your portrait? How many paintings are you allowed to turn in?"

  "Three. NonAcademicians are allowed to submit three…"

  She trailed off with yet another sigh.

  She looked tortured, which made his heart seem to squeeze in his chest. He wanted to gather her into his arms, but he couldn't do that in Lincolnshire's bedroom. He fisted his hands to keep from reaching for her. "What is it, cuisle mo chroí?"

  For a moment, she looked puzzled instead of distressed. "Cooshla-macree? Whatever does that mean?"

  "Nothing," he said quickly. "It just slipped out. The language of my childhood…sometimes it just slides off my tongue."

  He shouldn't be calling her that. Not as a slip of the tongue or anything else.

  The tortured look was in her eyes again. "What is it?" he repeated, without the Gaelic this time. "What has you so troubled?"

  "I don't know how to explain it," she said slowly, her gaze focused on the canopy above the earl's bed. "I don't quite understand it myself. As the reception wore on, it became more and more obvious that one of my landscapes would surely be accepted. Which has been my goal all these years, hasn't it? Yet it seemed the more they said they liked my landscapes, the more I wanted to submit a portrait. Only a portrait." She lowered her gaze, finally meeting his eyes. "I want to be known as a portrait painter, Sean. I think I'm going to try to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait."

  "Can you do that?"

  "I hope so. I think so. I have four days before the submission is due. I painted him into the scene in a week, so I should be able to fix him in a shorter time."

  "That sounds hopeful." It made sense. But she still didn't look very sure of herself. "Well then, is there another problem?"

  "There is." The two wee words sounded so despondent. "Even should I fix it, two of the committee members will refuse to vote for it just on the grounds that I'm female. And I cannot count on all six of the other members, either. If it's better—if it's brilliant—I imagine some of them may come around. But others may not. I'm counting on Mr. Hamilton to be the deciding vote, but that will work only if three others besides Mr. Shee vote for me, too. So I was wondering…"

  "Wondering what?"

  "When he gets here, before the vote, do you think you could ask him to talk to the committee?" she whispered in a rush. "I don't want my painting selected if it doesn't merit the honor, but if he could just ask them to seriously reconsider it even though they've seen it before, to give the revised version a fair look even though I haven't made a name for myself yet. Do you expect he might be willing to talk to them, as a favor? After all, you and I have done him a big favor by appeasing his uncle."

  Sean couldn't believe she'd said that in the earl's bedroom, even in a whisper. He slanted a nervous glance toward Lord Lincolnshire, but the man was snoring peacefully. Or at least as peacefully as a dying man could.

  Their secret was still safe.

  That knowledge did not, however, allow him to rest easy.

  He wasn't at all sure Hamilton would vote for Corinna's portrait, let alone encourage others to do so. I seriously doubt I will vote for that female's painting, he remembered Hamilton saying. I'm certain her paintings won't be good, because she's never studied anatomy. Sketching statues is not going to help her learn anything.

  "I'm not sure," he said apologetically. "Hamilton isn't known for being cooperative."

  "But we saved his inheritance."

  Darting another glance toward Lord Lincolnshire, he rose. "Let's have our chat somewhere else, shall we?"

  "We cannot leave him alone."

  "I told Mrs. Skeffington to rest her bones a spell, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind returning."

  Indeed, Mrs. Skeffington was coming down the corridor when Sean peeked out. He thanked his lucky stars she hadn't returned a minute earlier and overheard Corinna. After seeing the nurse settled by Lincolnshire's side, he guided Corinna downstairs and into the salon.

  He closed the door behind them both. Took a seat on a blue-and-gold sofa. Smoothed his palms against his thighs.

  Cleared his throat.

  Corinna settled beside him, closer than he would have liked. Well, he liked it, but he needed to keep a clear head for this conversation.

  "I'm sorry I said that out loud," she apologized. "I wasn't thinking."

  "No harm done." He drew and released a breath. "I have an idea."

  "For what?"

  "For helping you fix the portrait of Lincolnshire."

  "Helping me? How can you possibly help with that? I only want you to have a talk with Mr. Hamilton."

  "You've a need to learn anatomy, haven't you? Since you're wanting to make him look more natural?"

  She looked perplexed. "That's why I sketched all those Elgin Marbles."

  "But that wasn't good enough, was it?"

  He couldn't believe what he was about to say. He'd spent the last two days thinking about how they were getting too close, and this would make it even harder to keep any sort of distance. But he saw no other way to make certain Hamilton would admire her portrait. No other way to repay her for all the assistance she'd so generously given him.

  There was nothing for it. He drew one more deep breath and took the plunge. "I'm thinking I can pose for you."

  "What?"

  "I can pose for you. If you practice painting me, that might help you fix the portrait in time."

  THIRTY-ONE

  HOLY HANNAH. Corinna had to forcibly close her mouth.

  "You want to pose for me?" she asked when she'd more or less gathered her wits. "So I can learn anatomy?"

  His gaze caught hers and held, looking rather apprehensive. "I said so, aye."

  Aye. Sean never said aye. "You do realize…"

  Though he looked no less wary, a corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. "That I shall have to take off my clothes?"

  She glanced away, scandalized. But she recognized a good opportunity when she was offered one. She needed to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait, make his body look more realistic, and sketching marble gods had quite clearly left her unprepared for the task.

  She would never have asked Sean to pose for her. Never. The idea would never have occurred to her, not even after a hundred more kisses.

  But now that he'd brought it up…well, how could she possibly refuse?

  It was scandalous, but it could be her one and only chance to truly study male anatomy. And it was certainly her only chance before this year's Summer Exhibition. While there was time for no more than a session or two, perhaps a live model would make the difference. She might be able to master figure drawing once and for all.

  Though she was staring through the large windows that overlooked the garden, she wasn't seeing trees and flowers and blue sky. Instead she was picturing the sofa where Lincolnshire had sat for her…with Sean on it instead.

  Naked as the day he was born.

  She swallowed hard. Her heart thumped unevenly. Warmth flooded her cheeks.

  Biting her lip, she met his gaze again. "You won't have to take off all of your clothes."

  "Will I not?" He raised a brow.
"Lord Lincolnshire's portrait isn't just head and shoulders, as I recall. His body wouldn't look 'stiff and unnatural' had it not been shown, would it?"

  "But there's no need to sketch all of you at once. I can do parts."

  "Parts?" The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.

  "A part at a time. You can undress just a little bit."

  "If you say so." He looked unconvinced. But perhaps he also looked relieved. "Where shall we do it?"

  "Not here. And not in my brother's drawing room."

  God forbid.

  "In the square, then? Where the painting is set?" Reacting to her shock, he released a shaky laugh. "I was jesting, mo chroí. We can use Hamilton's studio."

  Macree again…what did that mean? "That sounds good. When shall we meet?"

  "Time is of the essence, is it not?"

  "I have four days to fix the painting. I'd best not sketch more than two."

  "We shan't delay, then. I shall meet you there in an hour."

  "So soon?" Time might be of the essence, but she wasn't at all sure she was ready for this. "Can you leave Lord Lincolnshire? I thought he wanted you to stay here."

  "Saints preserve us. Lincolnshire does want me here. But we cannot wait for the poor man to die."

  Oh, that was so irreverent.

  And so true. "Sean…"

  "Let's make it in the evening, then. Lincolnshire's been falling asleep early these days, and if he doesn't, I'll come up with some excuse."

  "What excuse can I give Griffin to leave the house alone in the evening?" She preferred, of course, to be honest with her brother, but she could hardly tell him she was going to sketch a nude man.

  Her cheeks burned at the mere thought.

  "Tell him Lincolnshire's invited you for dinner. I'll come for you, and we'll walk to the studio together." Sean grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed a kiss to her lips. Quick and hot.

  Her senses were spinning when he pulled back.

  "It'll be fine, Corinna. Don't worry yourself. This plan is going to work."

  THIRTY-TWO

  HER GRANDFATHER was here somewhere.

  Nervously smoothing the lavender dress she'd chosen to wear—after trying and rejecting six others—Rachael gazed down the length of the Royal Hospital's great hall. The black-and-white marble floor seemed to stretch forever. "Which one is Colonel Thomas Grimbald?" she asked the guard at the door.

  It was early evening—dinnertime, to be precise. Covered in spotless white cloth, sixteen long tables crowded the hall, each seating twenty-six pensioners. Every man wore the same outfit: a scarlet coat and tricorn hat based on the service uniform of the Duke of Marlborough's time. They were all sixty-five or older, and they all, to Rachael's eye, looked alike.

  Maybe none of them was her grandfather. Maybe Griffin had been wrong.

  "I'll show you to Grimbald, milady," the guard said. Griffin offered his arm, and she clutched it tightly as they followed him. Cutlery clinked, and the hall rang with the deep voices of so many men. The chandeliers overhead seemed too few to light the towering chamber, but the last of the day's sunshine streamed through its many tall, arched windows.

  The guard stopped at one end of a table. "Colonel Grimbald?"

  A gray-haired man glanced up—a man who looked eerily familiar.

  Griffin hadn't been wrong.

  "This fine lady and gentleman are here to see you," the guard told him and walked off.

  The man blinked and rose, standing at attention, his narrow chest puffed out in the smart red coat. He was medium height, with a long nose in a long, pleasant face. He had Rachael's dented chin and, beneath the black tricorn, Rachael's sky blue eyes.

  But they were blank.

  "Who are you?" he asked, not rudely but not in a welcoming tone, either.

  Griffin took Rachael's hand. "I'm the Marquess of Cainewood, and this is my cousin, Lady Rachael Chase. Your son's daughter."

  "Hmmph." He reclaimed his seat and picked up his fork, silently dismissing them. "My son has no daughter."

  Would he send her away without even listening? Rachael looked to Griffin and back to the man. Her grandfather. "Sir." She swallowed hard. "I know this must come as a shock, since your son—my father—is dead, but—"

  "Thomas isn't dead." He lifted a tankard and took a swallow of beer.

  "Sir." Rachael felt tears sting her eyes and cursed herself. It would have been nice to be welcomed with open arms, but if that wasn't to be, she at least wanted some answers. "I know your son did something shameful, but I just want to ask you—"

  "My son has done nothing wrong." The words weren't said angrily but rather matter-of-factly, his blue gaze unfocused on his dinner. "Thomas will be an important man someday; just you wait and see. He'll be marrying John Cartwright's daughter, he will. Lord John Cartwright's daughter. Course, the gel ain't yet born, so I cannot be telling you her name." He glanced back up, cocking his head in apparent confusion. "Who are you?"

  Flustered, Rachael freed her hand from Griffin's so she could dig in the beaded reticule that matched her lavender dress. "I'm your granddaughter." She pulled out her father's badge and held it out toward the man. "See, this is your son's badge."

  "My son has no badge," he said flatly. "Where would he get such a thing? The lad isn't even a year old."

  The man across from him, an aging fellow with big ears and a hooked nose, reached to take the badge and examined it with a low whistle. "Tenth Hussars. Old Grimbald's son must have done well for himself." He handed it back. "He don't mean to be uncivil, milady," he said sympathetically. "Colonel Grimbald, he's not quite here, if you catch my drift. Thinks it's 1760. If you stay long enough, he'll start nattering on about how he just saved some fellow's life and the bloke promised his firstborn daughter to his infant son."

  "John Cartwright," Grimbald confirmed with a nod. "A bloomin' a-ris-to-crat." He drew the word out into four distinct syllables and ended it with a chortle. "My name will be connected to nobility."

  Rachael dropped the badge back into her reticule. "Dear heavens." She stared down the hall toward an old, faded mural of King Charles II on a horse with the Royal Hospital in the background. He'd commissioned these buildings, she suddenly remembered—a disjointed thought that came out of nowhere—but never lived to see them finished.

  Like her father hadn't lived to see her.

  Disappointment was a physical ache, a knot in her middle. She looked back to her grandfather and tried again. "Sir—"

  "Yes?" He looked up, appearing startled to find her there, blinking at her through eyes just like her own. "Who are you?" he asked.

  "Our thanks for your time, sir." Griffin curved an arm around her shoulders. "Let's go," he murmured under his breath. "Staying here will accomplish nothing."

  She nodded and allowed him to draw her back toward the door. Suddenly the huge room felt close and stifling, making her grateful to step out into the cool evening air. In the center of the deserted courtyard, a grand, bronze statue of King Charles thrust toward the sky, and she sat on its marble base, smoothing her dress over her knees and hugging them.

  "He's gone," she said. "He's there, but he's gone."

  "I'm sorry." Griffin stood gazing down at her, looking as solid as the old brick building behind him. "I should have come to see him myself before bringing you."

  "No. I'd have wanted to see him, anyway. Just to convince myself he was my grandfather."

  "He has your eyes."

  "And my chin. We're related; I've no doubt of that at all." She hugged her knees tighter. "But he'll never be able to tell me what happened to my father."

  "No, he won't." Griffin lowered his rangy frame to sit beside her. "He thinks your father is still a child."

  A lone hawk circled overhead, looking as solitary as Rachael felt. "I'll never really know who I am."

  "Ah, Rachael." He shifted closer, wrapping an arm about her to pull her against him. "What your father did, however heinous, has nothing to do with who you are.
"

  She dropped her head to his shoulder, taking comfort from his nearness, breathing in his warm male scent. "I know. I just wanted to know. I assure you, I wouldn't have fallen apart had I learned the truth."

  "I never thought you would. You're strong, Rachael."

  "You think so?"

  "I know so."

  There was conviction in his voice, and admiration, and something else she couldn't identify, but it helped the knot in her middle loosen a little. It helped to have Griffin here. She'd always considered him an unreliable scapegrace, yet he'd been by her side all through this. Which seemed to lend her the strength she'd been missing. The strength he believed she had.

  It was amazing what a difference it made to have someone believe in her.

  THIRTY-THREE

  "HOW SHALL we work this?" Setting his large case full of art supplies on the table, Sean glanced around the sparsely furnished garret studio. "Will you sit on the sofa?"

  "Lord Lincolnshire sat on a sofa for the portrait," Corinna pointed out, "so I think you should pose there. Did he fall asleep?"

  "He didn't. I think he might be getting better." Sean wasn't sure whether he was happy about that or not. Much as he liked the man, this couldn't continue forever, could it?

  "Then how did you manage to leave him? What excuse did you give him?"

  "I told him my painting wasn't going well at Lincolnshire House, so I needed to work here instead. That's why I brought along these supplies. I'd have looked a liar otherwise."

  He'd brought candles, too, knowing it would grow dark as the evening wore on. He pulled them out of the case and set them up around the room and began lighting them.

  "Lord Lincolnshire didn't mind, then?"

  "I sent for Deirdre to keep him company."

  Though his sister was nominally living at Lincolnshire House, she spent most of her waking hours at Daniel Raleigh's place of business—or his home, where she planned to live with or without a divorce. Sean was less than thrilled with that, but he didn't want to fight with his sister. He'd told the earl his wife was very fond of shopping.