He'd survived his first waltz. But as her sweet, paint-tinged scent wafted away, he found himself wishing it had lasted longer.
And wasn't that absurd? He was lucky he had come out alive.
ELEVEN
SHORTLY AFTER noon on Monday, Sean paced outside the gate in front of Lincolnshire House, planning his day as he waited for his curricle to be brought around.
Thanks to a long breakfast with Lincolnshire, he was getting a very late start. He needed to stop by his main offices and make sure everything had gone well in his absence. Two contracts should be waiting for him to sign, he had three pending transactions to review, and he hoped to open negotiations for a factory he wished to sell. In addition, he expected barrels of wine he'd imported to arrive, he had a hotel to inspect in the center of London, and he wanted to talk to Deirdre—which meant a drive out to Hampstead and back.
Across the street, Berkeley Square hummed with activity. From his vantage point at the north end, he watched people traipse in and out of the fenced, grassy park in the middle. In the row of houses along the west side, a blue door opened, catching his eye. Two footmen emerged, burdened with boxes and an easel. As they headed across the street toward the park, a young woman came out and followed, her lithe figure clad in a pale blue gown with a white apron tied over it. Her dark hair, worn unfashionably loose, shone in the midday sun.
As his curricle pulled up, he blinked, suddenly recognizing Corinna.
"Wait here," he told the stableman before dashing out into the square.
By the time he reached her, the servants had positioned her easel beneath a giant plane tree and were setting a canvas upon it—one covered with blotches of gray and white. She riffled through a box filled with little pots of paint, her gaze focused, her plump bottom lip caught between her teeth.
"Good day to you, Lady Corinna."
Startled, she looked up, narrowing her eyes. Impossibly gorgeous blue eyes.
To Sean, most everyone's eyes—including his own—appeared brown. Green, hazel, brown…they all looked brown. Only shades of blue looked truly colorful, and Corinna's eyes seemed the most brilliant blue he'd had the pleasure to see.
A man could lose himself in those eyes.
"Have you decided to let me sketch you?" she asked.
"No," he said, not lost after all. "I was waiting there for my curricle"—he gestured toward Lincolnshire House—"when I noticed you entering the square. I came over to tell you I'm not Hamilton. I'm not Lincolnshire's nephew."
She lifted a dull knife. "So you keep saying." Using it to scoop brown—or maybe red or green—paint onto a palette, she slanted him a glance. "Yet you're living in Lincolnshire House."
"I am. I can explain. Hamilton is my brother-in-law, and—"
"You said that in the museum."
"Because it's true."
She seemed to stare at his mouth for a moment before she wiped the knife on her splotched apron and used it to add a smidge of a lighter color. "I don't believe you," she said, apparently as blunt as she was beautiful. "I understand that you've enjoyed your anonymity in the past, but your secret is out now. You're going to have to get used to the fact that everyone knows you're John Hamilton."
She was staring at his mouth again, almost as though she wanted to kiss him. He certainly wanted to kiss her. Or throttle her. "But I'm not John Hamilton."
"And I'm not here in Berkeley Square." With a saucy smile, she picked up a brush and turned to her canvas. "I expect you should get to your own painting, Mr. Hamilton. I wish you a successful day."
Clearly he was dismissed. He strode back to his curricle, bunching his fists—as much to keep from throttling her as to keep from touching her this time. If he didn't manage to convince her of the truth soon, his hands were going to be permanently clenched.
WITH GRIFFIN gone, Corinna had been looking forward to a few peaceful days to work on her portrait. But she wandered the drawing room Tuesday, still pondering whom to paint.
She'd decided her picture would be set outdoors. She was an accomplished landscape artist, after all, and it was important that her backdrop be as impressive as her central subject. She wanted the play of light and shadow, the varied greens of grass and trees, the bright hues of blooming flowers. She'd started painting all of that yesterday in the square, and she was happy enough with how it was coming along. But she couldn't make up her mind whom she wanted in the foreground and what, exactly, he or she should be doing.
She didn't care for formal portraits where the sitter just stared at the viewer. She preferred to see subjects in context. Conversation portraits, they were called. Quite popular in the previous century, they often featured whole families or groups of friends posed casually, as though caught in some everyday action. Although it wasn't common to do the same with a single subject, she wanted to give it a try. She hoped it would make her painting a little different—and therefore more noteworthy.
If the painting turned out well, it would not only be the first work she submitted to the Summer Exhibition, but also the first portrait she put on public view. She wanted to choose someone who would be memorable. Someone whose personality would shine from the canvas. Someone she knew well enough to portray in such a manner that the viewer would feel he or she was a close, personal friend.
That was why she'd painted family members over and over.
She stopped and scanned all the many old Chase family portraits on the wall, settling on one dated 1670. The gentleman wore a long surcoat and a lace-trimmed cravat, the lady a full, heavy brocade gown
