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

by Royal, Lauren

  Odd, considering she'd certainly felt excited at the thought of seeing Sean later. But Corinna wasn't about to confide that to her sister. And in the back of her mind, she felt disturbed somehow, as though something bad might happen.

  "Of course I'm excited. And I'm thrilled for you and James and, oh, all of us." Corinna forced a smile, deciding she must be more worried about fixing Lord Lincolnshire's portrait than she'd thought. She rose and gave her sister a heartfelt hug, then sat again. "I'm just being selfish as usual. Thinking about my upcoming submissions. I need to bring my paintings to Somerset House on Monday."

  "Who is going with you?" Lady A asked.

  Corinna hadn't thought that far ahead, but of course she couldn't go alone. It wouldn't be proper. Being female proved terribly inconvenient at times. "I suppose I'll ask Griffin."

  "I'd be honored to accompany you, my dear." Lady A's smile looked wistful. "It would be my pleasure. I'm supposed to assist my nephew at the Institute until four o'clock on Monday, but I can tell him I need to leave at noon." The New Hope Institute was James's facility, where he provided smallpox vaccinations for the poor. Lady B was his assistant today—she and Lady A took turns. "Will that be early enough?"

  "That will be fine." Considering all the kind woman had done for her, Corinna wouldn't think of denying her this pleasure. "I'll come for you in my brother's carriage at one o'clock. The submission deadline isn't until five."

  "Oh, then two o'clock would be better, if you wouldn't mind. That way I'll have time for luncheon first. And there's nothing to worry about." Lady A leaned to give Corinna's hand a pat. "The committee members said lovely things about your paintings. My daughter would have been overjoyed to have such important men give her such recognition," she added with a sigh.

  Corinna didn't know whether Lady A's sigh indicated happiness for her prospects or sadness for her own daughter's failed dream. But regardless, she sighed along with her. "Most of them did say nice things, but they also said my portrait wasn't quite right. I need to fix it before Monday."

  "You're not going to skip the Teddington ball tomorrow night, are you?" Juliana asked. "Or Lady Hartley's breakfast on Sunday? It's the event of the season."

  "I probably should skip both." Which meant her brother would be hovering over her all weekend, badgering her to leave the house and meet more men. "I wish I could find somewhere peaceful to paint."

  "Chelsea Physic Garden is very peaceful." Juliana rubbed her belly, even though it was still flat as a canvas. "Only physicians and apothecaries can generally gain entrance, but James could obtain a ticket for you."

  "I was just in Chelsea yesterday," Rachael commented rather absently. "At the Royal Hospital."

  Corinna still felt disturbed. Maybe it would be better to change the subject. "Why is that?" she asked.

  When Rachael looked flustered and hesitated, her younger sister Claire answered for her. "It was a charitable visit. Rachael brought books for the pensioners."

  "That was very kind," Lady C said.

  A footman came in and set a tray of tea things on a table by the door.

  "Would anyone like tea?" Since Aunt Frances wasn't up to acting as hostess, Lady A rose and headed toward the teapot. "My younger daughter's father-in-law is a Chelsea Pensioner. But I haven't seen him in years."

  While Lady A was across the room, Rachael nudged Corinna. "Lady A seems to take any excuse to mention her younger daughter," she whispered. "I think the poor woman really misses her."

  "Brilliant observation," Corinna whispered dryly.

  "James told me Lady A's younger daughter took her own life," Juliana said quietly. "Lady A doesn't have any grandchildren. Her oldest daughter eloped against her father's wishes, and he banished her from their lives. Her middle child, a son, drank too much and accidentally drowned. And her younger daughter was in the family way when she jumped off the London Bridge, taking Lady A's last chance at having a grandchild with her."

  "Oh, poor, poor woman!" Rachael sighed. "I really like Lady A. She reminds me of my mother. I think it's the gardenia scent she wears. Mama always loved gardenia perfume." Though she smiled, the expression looked sad. "I think I'll go help her pour tea."

  As their cousin went off, Corinna nudged Juliana. "I think Lady A smells as much of camphor as gardenias."

  "I agree." They shared a smile. "But as Rachael has been suffering from dampened spirits of late," Juliana added, "I don't think we should say anything to ruin her comforting illusion."

  Corinna wished she had a comforting illusion. All the way through the rest of the visit, and all the way home, she continued feeling disturbed. As she went up to her bedroom to ready herself before meeting Sean, she told herself things weren't that bad.

  Sean was still willing to kiss her. She still had time to fix Lord Lincolnshire's picture. And her life certainly wasn't as tragic as Lady A's. She'd lost her parents and a brother, yes, but only to illness, which was sad but not completely unexpected. She hadn't lost anyone to drink, or to suicide, or because they'd eloped without permission and been banished from the family.

  She plopped onto her bed, suddenly realizing why she felt disturbed.

  She wanted Sean's baby more than anything. She wanted to marry him. But what if she had to elope with him in order to accomplish that?

  She hoped Griffin would agree to their marriage, but what if he didn't? Sean wasn't anything like the men her brother pushed on her, and not only because he was Irish. He could certainly support her—after what she'd learned yesterday, she suspected he could support half of London. But he wasn't aristocratic. Griffin's saying he admired Sean and wanted his advice didn't mean he'd endorse their marriage.

  She was willing to defy her brother's wishes to marry Sean, should it come to that. She was willing to run off to Gretna Green to elope. Her family wasn't the type to banish her. And she was an artist, after all, wasn't she? Freethinking, a rebel, unconventional.

  But none of that mattered…because Sean was conventional.

  He wouldn't elope with her against her brother's wishes. She was certain of that. He was too honorable.

  Now that she'd figured out why she felt disturbed, the disturbance grew. The iced cakes she'd eaten felt like they were congealing in her stomach. The tea she'd sipped was threatening to come back up.

  How could she persuade Griffin to allow them to marry if he disapproved? She didn't know. All she knew was that unless she came up with a plan, her future with Sean was very uncertain. And should Griffin discover she was meeting Sean, this might be the last time they were alone together, ever.

  She'd best make the most of it.

  She'd work on a plan, she decided as she rose to change and gather her things. In the interim, she wanted more of Sean's kisses. And she couldn't afford to be nervous about sketching him this time. If she were to have a prayer of fixing Lord Lincolnshire's portrait, she needed to study Sean. All of him.

  Her stomach churning with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation and who knew what else, she felt more disturbed than ever. Thinking she needed what she'd sometimes heard referred to as "Dutch courage," she grabbed a bottle of her brother's first vintage on her way out.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THEY MET IN the afternoon this time, so Sean didn't bother lighting any candles. "I'm thinking we don't need them with all of this light," he told Corinna. "Hamilton chose this place because of the north-facing windows."

  "I'll be able to see you fine without candles," she said softly. "All of you, I'm hoping."

  Sweet Jesus, he was in trouble.

  How on God's green earth was he going to take off all his clothes without the two of them ending up tangled together on the sofa? It had been a close thing yesterday. Never had he come so near to going against everything he believed. And he'd removed only his shirt last time.

  Now she wanted to see all of him.

  "I'm thinking you won't see all of me at once, though," he said, noticing she'd brought two glasses and a bottle of wine with her. H
e would have to make sure he didn't drink much. "I'm remembering you said you wanted to sketch part of me at a time."

  "I really need to see all of you if I'm to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait." Turning away, Corinna made herself busy pouring the wine. "Male artists sketch live models day in and day out. I have only these two sittings to get it right." With an apologetic smile, she turned back and held out a glass filled to the brim. "I brought some of my brother's wine to help us both relax."

  Sean accepted the wine reluctantly, telling himself he needed to keep a clear head. He took a tiny sip, just to be polite.

  She drank nearly half of her own large glass down. "Don't you like the wine?"

  "I like it fine. But I don't drink very much, so I've never built up a tolerance."

  "Now I'm remembering you drank only a little that night you were summoned to our family dinner. Just a couple of sips."

  "I watched my maternal grandfather drink himself into the grave. An effective advertisement for moderation."

  She touched his hand, a brief contact that left him wanting more. "I'm sorry."

  He'd felt the warmth of her skin, and now he smelled her sweet floral fragrance and the slight hint of paint underneath it. He'd come to love that hint of paint, because it was uniquely Corinna and he loved her. To keep himself from reaching for her, he abruptly sat and sipped again. "He was a happy drunk, but he never made anything of himself."

  "You've made a lot of yourself," she said, moving to sit across from him. After draining the rest of her glass and setting it on the floor, she reached for her sketchbook. "You're the best man I know."

  She was the second person to tell him that today, which served to remind him of the first and what he'd learned before Lincolnshire had said that. The reminder cut him to the core.

  He took a full swallow of wine.

  Her blue, blue eyes locked on his, she opened the sketchbook. "You can disrobe now. I'm ready."

  He wasn't ready—he didn't think he'd ever be ready—but there was nothing for it. He'd offered to pose for her, and he wanted her painting to be a success. He took another swallow of wine and put his glass down carefully, then stood and tugged off his shoes and stockings, his cravat, his coat, his waistcoat. Feeling her gaze on him, he swiftly removed his braces, then unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off over his head.

  Like last night, his hands moved to the buttons on his trousers. But this time she didn't stop him.

  He stopped himself instead.

  Taking a gulp of air, he reached for his glass and swallowed more wine.

  "Sean?" she whispered, then bit her lip. She looked as tense as he felt. And as aroused. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and yearning.

  The sight devastated him.

  Her sketchbook lay open on her lap, ignored. He felt sweat break out on his brow, a sheen slick his bare chest. Her gaze was fastened on the front of the trousers he'd yet to open, on the obvious bulge straining against them. He knew it was only a matter of time before that sketchbook was on the floor and they were in each other's arms. A short time.

  Maybe he should just tell her the facts, tell her they had no future together, cut this off before it got out of hand.

  No, he couldn't tell her, not until she'd finished the portrait. The knowledge wouldn't just cut this off; it would devastate her. He was devastated already, so he knew exactly how she would feel. Completely, utterly devastated.

  And she wouldn't be able to paint.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  CORINNA COULDN'T sketch. She could only stare. She felt a heat beginning to build in her, and she wanted nothing more than to leap across the space between them. And Sean wanted her too, didn't he? More than he wanted to breathe, he'd said last night, and hadn't hearing that melted her to the consistency of fresh paint?

  Just like she felt melted now.

  The big glass of wine had gone to her head, and she licked her lips, feeling a bit woozy. The sketchbook slid to the floor as she leaned over to pull off her slippers.

  "What are you doing?" Sean murmured.

  She didn't quite know what she was doing, so she didn't answer. Instead she reached beneath her skirts and untied one garter and then the other, dropping the lace-trimmed ribbons atop her discarded shoes.

  She could scarcely believe she was acting so wanton. It had to be the Dutch courage, because she'd never been the beguiling sister. That was Juliana's role. But suddenly she remembered Juliana demonstrating something she called the look, a practiced flirtation so contrived Corinna had never been able to imagine herself doing it. Now she glanced down and then swept her gaze up, looking at Sean full on as she curved her lips very slowly in a deliberately seductive smile.

  His pupils dilated, and she saw his breathing quicken.

  Seduction was so much easier than she'd ever thought it would be.

  Maybe it was the wine, but she thought it was also Sean. He was so seductive himself that any woman would feel seductive around him. Every word he said in that lyrical Irish voice seeped right into her, dissolving her bones. She hadn't even touched him yet, nor had he touched her, but her blood was already sluicing through her in a seductive rhythm.

  Soft afternoon light slanted through the north-facing windows, illuminating his sculpted face, glinting off the slight dark stubble that had grown since he'd shaved this morning. Her fingers itched to stroke that roughness, that glorious maleness, just as her body yearned to press against him, to mold her curves to his muscled form.

  She drew the hem of her dress up to rest on her knees and began rolling down a stocking, watching Sean's face. What she saw there made the heat build more. He was watching her with the most impassioned look, like in Children of the Abbey, a look more intoxicating than any wine. She pulled the stocking off of her foot and dropped it to the floor and started on the other.

  Transfixed, Sean stood riveted in place, staring at the pile of satin and lace and silk that was building up. He knew he should stop her, but he couldn't seem to make himself move. She drew the second stocking off her foot, baring her toes. Small toes they were, pale and tender-looking. Imagining sucking on them, he thought he might die. He looked up to her bare, curvy calves and died a little more. He raised his gaze to her naked knees, and saw the hem of her dress rucked up there, and imagined her wearing a gauzy bit of a shift under it. Or a chemise, as the highborn called it. A gauzy, enticing chemise.

  He tried to take another swallow of wine, but his glass was empty.

  What was he doing? He couldn't tell her he couldn't marry her, so he had to keep his wits about him. He had to fight this. He shouldn't be imagining what was under her dress; he shouldn't be imagining anything. Feeling light-headed, he carefully set down the glass. He wouldn't allow her to refill it.

  "Sean," she said in a tone so husky it made his breath catch. She rose and walked close, so close he felt heat shimmering between them. Lifting a hand to his cheek, she turned his head to face her.

  All over again, her blue eyes devastated him.

  "Are you all right, Sean?"

  He wasn't all right, no. He was growing so hard he was in pain. He was dying.

  "Sean," she breathed, moving her fingers on his face so gently he wondered that he could feel it. But he did feel it, so strongly the feeling seemed to permeate his body. She shifted and leaned closer, arching herself toward him. "Oh, God, Sean, I want you to kiss me."

  Oh, God, Sean thought. He could see down her dress.

  Sacred heart of Jesus.

  There was a gauzy chemise under it, just as he'd imagined. Beneath that, her breasts looked high and round and firm, making him want to touch them. Hell, he didn't just want to touch them—he wanted to rip off her dress and fasten his mouth on them. She leaned closer, and he could see their rosy tips strain against the chemise like he was straining against his trousers. Her scent swamped him, and she raised her other hand to cradle his face, and then…

  He kissed her. It was a defensive move, because he couldn't stare down her
dress a moment longer without exploding. But he was lost the moment his lips touched hers.

  Lost in the kiss, lost in her, lost in his own longing. She consumed him.

  He was devastated.

  Somehow they made it down to the sofa, and she was pushing him back and crawling over him. She was running her hands over his chest and around to his back. Her fingers left fire in their wake, a hot trail of burning sweetness that seemed to devastate him yet more.

  "Touch me, Sean," she murmured. "Touch me like I'm touching you."

  She devastated him. He was going to die if he didn't touch her. So, God help him, he touched her.

  His hands went everywhere, everywhere they shouldn't, everywhere he wanted. Under her bodice to tease a nipple, to cup a breast when she moaned and asked for more. He was going to die if he didn't taste her, so his mouth followed. He nibbled on her neck, her shoulders. He unbuttoned her dress in back and dragged it down and suckled her, feasted on her.

  Corinna wanted more. She'd never imagined she could feel like this. What she'd felt last night when she'd thought she wanted him was nothing compared to this. Nothing. The little ache that she'd felt then was nothing compared to how she ached now. Sean's mouth on her breast felt hot and made her ache everywhere, but especially between her legs, where the ache was exquisite, almost painful, just unbearable. She wanted more.

  "Sean," she whispered, "I want you to take me."

  "I want to take you," he echoed in a tone so ragged it tore at her heart. "I want all of you." He reversed their positions, climbing over her. He slipped a hand under her skirt and skimmed it up her calves to her thighs. Still he suckled her breasts, one and then the other, a sensation so astounding she was grateful she'd found the courage to act wanton. His fingers felt wonderfully warm on her legs, stroking, inspiring her to touch him more. She ran her hands over his skin, feeling his muscles underneath, and sinewy tendons, crisp hair where he had it and the smooth, soft places where he didn't.