JASON AND CAITHREN
8TH MARQUESS AND MARCHIONESS OF CAINEWOOD
She'd never known this couple, of course. They'd both died long before she was born. But unlike the ancient, more sober portraits, which invariably featured stern, unsmiling subjects, this husband and wife looked happy. They looked like they'd been in love.
And they looked very much like Corinna's present family.
Juliana resembled Caithren, sharing her ancestor's warm hazel eyes and straight, streaky blond tresses. Griffin had inherited Jason's dark hair and square jaw, and both men had deep green eyes.
But they weren't as startling a green as the eyes that belonged to the man Corinna really wanted to paint. She couldn't keep her mind off him. The way he kept lying to her was infuriating, but now whenever she picked up a Minerva Press novel she pictured him as the hero. No matter if the author described the hero as having fair hair and blue eyes; in her head his hair was dark, his eyes that startling green. When the dark-haired, green-eyed hero touched the heroine, a pleasurable shiver ran through her. And whenever the hero and heroine kissed, she imagined Mr. Hamilton kissing her, and her lips tingled.
But give that he'd refused to let her sketch him, painting him was out of the question. She was as likely to paint him as she was to kiss him.
Neither was going to happen.
And no, she decided, she didn't want to update the family portrait collection by continuing to paint new pictures of people who looked eerily similar to the ones already on the walls. She'd been doing that for nearly a year, and none of her efforts had turned out good enough to hang on the walls anyway.
Sighing, she collected her art supplies and summoned two footmen to accompany her into the square. Until she decided on a subject, she'd continue working on her setting. Carrying her box of paints, she followed the servants out the door and across the street.
Or at least she tried to cross the street. Rounding the curve from Lincolnshire House, a curricle drew to a halt in her path. The driver looked down from his high perch.
"I'm not Hamilton," he said coldly.
She shrugged, thoroughly vexed. Apparently he hated her. And since he wasn't going to let her sketch him—let alone paint him—she wished he'd just leave her alone. If he'd cease popping into her life, perhaps she'd be able to concentrate on finding someone else to kiss.
To paint, she mentally amended. She didn't want to kiss him; she only wanted to paint him.
Holy Hannah, she was a liar.
And was there anything worse than lying to oneself?
"Fine," she snapped. "You're not Hamilton. Now will you please drive on so that I can paint?"
A hoot of laughter burst from his throat. Or maybe it was a snort of frustration. Whichever, he flicked his reins and drove off, leaving her to think about painting him and kissing him…and very little else.
At the rate she was making progress, she'd be lucky to finish a new portrait before next year's Summer Exhibition.
TWELVE
"NEPHEW?"
"Hmm?"
"I wish to see your studio today."
Sean looked up from reading the Morning Chronicle at the breakfast table, thinking it was way too late for breakfast. By this hour on a normal morning, he'd generally have risen, eaten, and driven all the way into town to his offices. On a normal morning, he'd have already gone through the day's mail, sat in on several meetings, dispatched employees to see to his interests. On a normal morning, he'd be elbow-deep in business by now, expanding his empire, increasing his fortune. On a normal morning…
This wasn't a normal morning.
No morning had been normal since he'd agreed to this damned scheme. Lincolnshire had trouble falling asleep and, in consequence, stayed abed late. And then he wanted his "dear nephew Sean" to keep him company at breakfast. He ate very little and very slowly, and in consequence it all took very long.
Sean folded and set aside the newspaper. "My studio is private," he said carefully.
"From me?" The earl looked hurt. "I'm your uncle. You're my heir."
"I have work to do—"
"I know. Work that makes me mighty proud, work that rivals the very best." He gestured to all the old masters on his dining room walls. "I want to see where you work. I shall sit and watch quietly; I promise. It's not as though I could move around much even if I wanted to," he added with his usual good humor.
But Sean's smile was regretful, not amused. "I'm sorry, but I wouldn't be able to concentrate—"
"You won't even know I'm there."
He did want to make the old man happy. But he couldn't—he just couldn't—allow Lincolnshire to see Hamilton's studio.
At least, not in its current state.
No more than an hour after leaving the British Museum, Hamilton had fetched a few paintings and stuck them in an empty garret in one of Sean's buildings. He'd even included a half-finished canvas and propped it on an easel, so it would appear as though Sean were in the middle of a project.
But after that, he'd run off to Wales. Immediately and without a backward glance, with only a promise that he'd return in two weeks. Other than the pictures and a few well-used sketchbooks, he'd provided nothing.
No paint. No brushes. The earl would expect to see more than art, wouldn't he? He'd expect to see art supplies.
Still and all, Sean had no wish to disappoint Hamilton's uncle. Lincolnshire's condition was worsening by the day, and he was a nice fellow who deserved a happy ending. There was nothing for it; Sean had no choice.
He was forced to twist the truth once again.
"Unfortunately," he explained, "I find it impossible to paint with anyone watching over my shoulder. And I'm in the middle of something I fear I'm quite anxious to finish today. Will tomorrow be soon enough? I should be
