He shrugged, not wanting to get her hopes up. "I can try. I'll bring you back to London now, and I'd like to take Corinna to Lady Partridge's ball tomorrow night. I'll leave for regimental headquarters first thing Sunday morning. With luck, I'll have an answer for you by Thursday."
"An officer," she breathed. "Someone important."
A bark of a laugh burst out of him. "It doesn't take importance to buy a commission. Only money."
Her eyes shone. "You were important. You led campaigns in the Peninsular War. Your patrol brought news of the Prussian retreat at Wavre, thus influencing the Duke of Wellington to fight at Waterloo."
"How do you know all that?"
"Your sisters. They're proud of you. You'd have been at Waterloo had your brother not died."
"Well, he did," he said flatly, keeping the bitterness out of his voice.
He'd never wanted to be a marquess. And he'd felt damned ineffective since becoming one. But here, now, was a chance to use his military connections to advantage. To help someone.
To help Rachael.
And that thought made him entirely too pleased.
EIGHT
"YOU'RE NOT going to stay up till all hours again, are you?"
In a creative haze, Corinna turned from her easel and blinked at her brother in the drawing room's doorway. It was close to midnight, and she hadn't realized he'd returned home. "I'm starting a new painting."
"You didn't answer my question. I've had a long day, and I'm off to bed. Will you also be retiring soon?"
"I don't know." Irritated, she set down her palette. "It depends upon how this goes."
Griffin walked closer. "Doesn't look like much."
"Yet." All she'd done was layer the pale gray ground that she used as the undertint for her paintings, with a rough white oval in the upper middle.
"What is it going to be?"
"I'm not sure," she hedged.
But she knew what she wanted it to be: a portrait. That was why she'd laid the white oval where she planned to paint the face. Flesh tones would appear brighter over white than gray, and she wanted the face to be luminous.
And she wanted it to be a good portrait. That was why she'd sketched the Elgin Marbles.
"I want you to get a good night's sleep," Griffin pressed. "I've several men I want you to meet at Lady Partridge's ball tomorrow evening."
Not that again. Your turn will come next, she remembered Juliana saying. All she wanted was to concentrate on her art, but everyone wanted to marry her off.
Like paint swiped with turpentine, her creative haze had dissipated. "Well, then, I'll certainly go to bed," she said sarcastically, thinking she hadn't decided whom she wanted to paint anyway.
"I'm glad to hear it," Griffin said, evidently missing her sarcasm. "By the way, I need to leave Sunday morning, and I probably won't be back until Thursday. I won't be able to take you to Almack's on Wednesday night."
"What a pity." Day after day of painting without interruptions, while he was busy dealing with some problem at Cainewood or whatever. Though she vaguely wondered what he was going to do, she didn't want to prolong this discussion. "That's too bad, Griffin," she said, hiding a smile. "Good night."
Looking forward to the week ahead, she hummed as she cleaned up and put everything away. Then she went upstairs to her room, lit a candle from the fireplace, and ducked into her dressing room to grab a nightgown.
And there she stopped short.
The paintings taunted her. Hidden paintings, dozens of them stacked leaning against the walls. Portrait after portrait, none of them quite right.
She'd spent a decade and more learning to paint still lifes and landscapes. Practicing, persevering, perfecting. Eventually she'd begun putting people into her scenes, figures strolling or laboring or simply lounging in the background. But that hadn't proved enough, hadn't satisfied her dreams.
She'd always wanted to paint real portraits, detailed studies of people. She all but burned to paint portraits, and last year she'd put all other sorts of painting behind her.
She walked closer and flipped canvases, bringing the candle near to scrutinize the year's many efforts. Her maid. Alexandra and Juliana. Alexandra and baby Harry. Juliana alone, her shoulders bare, her skirts hiked up to expose one scandalous, naked knee.
Juliana, the dear, had obligingly posed for Corinna in the buff. Rigidly, self-consciously nude. Unfortunately, Corinna had been unable to paint her sister nude, as the sight of such a work of art would have driven Griffin out of his mind.
And none of the paintings were good enough.
Sighing, she leaned them back against the wall. She knew she had it in her to produce a fine portrait. She'd long since mastered all the things she could easily study—the face, the hair, the clothing, the hands—and she portrayed her subjects' expressions with unfailing insight.
But when it came to the body, she found herself frustrated every time. The people looked stiff and unnatural, not altogether surprising, given they'd looked stiff and unnatural when they'd posed. Corinna's maid and sisters could never seem to sit still for long, and sketching them had never proved as helpful as she'd wished.
Not to mention her maid and sisters were all female. Men were formed differently, and since half the world's population was male, Corinna intended to paint them, too. But barring her brother—who so far had been uncooperative—where on earth was a gently bred lady supposed to find a male model?
Well, perhaps sketching the Elgin Marbles had done the trick, she reminded herself, lifting her chin. At least they had held still for hours.
Squaring her shoulders, she returned to her room and summoned her maid to help ready her for bed. But then she found she couldn't relax. She rarely rose before noon, because she retired late as a habit. Although painting by candlelight rather than sunlight could sometimes prove challenging, the night hours were quiet, almost mystical, the very best time for creativity.
It was too early to fall asleep.
She pulled out a small book tucked under her
