For once he didn't protest that he wasn't John Hamilton. He was too stunned. "So it was a trophy kiss?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You kiss artists? You thought to add me to your collection? A particularly shiny prize?"
She splayed a hand on her heaving cleavage. "I've never kissed another artist."
She had not, he noted, claimed she'd never kissed another man. Evidently she'd been kissed before. But while she'd been an enthusiastic participant, she hadn't seemed schooled, making him suspect that she'd never been kissed before in the French manner.
He found himself pleased by that notion. A man liked to be first. However, he was very much aware that he had no business kissing her at all, in the French manner or otherwise.
He wasn't John Hamilton. He wasn't Lincolnshire's nephew. He wasn't an English peer, or a soon-to-be English peer, or remotely related to any English peer at all.
He wasn't even English.
He was an upstart Irish commoner with lots of money but apparently no sense. Aristocratic young misses like Corinna were off-limits to men like him.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I'm not."
She was very blunt, he thought, not for the first time. And very beautiful.
He'd thought that before, too.
"I won't kiss you again," he vowed.
"I hope you will." Her lips curved, making him want to kiss them again, vow be damned. "I enjoyed kissing you very much," she added artlessly.
In the sense of being free of guile, of course. Of stating something simply and sincerely. She certainly wasn't artless in the literal definition.
"You shouldn't have enjoyed kissing me," he informed her, "because I'm not John Hamilton."
"Not that again." Reaching up to the shelf, she shoved his package toward him. "Don't forget your art supplies," she called over her shoulder as she walked away. "You're going to need them the next time you paint."
He was still standing there when the bell jangled and the door shut behind her.
THIRTEEN
CORINNA STOOD before her easel in Berkeley Square the next day, painting.
Oh, very well, daydreaming.
Or—since she was determined to stop lying to herself—reliving yesterday's kiss.
For at least the hundredth time.
She'd been kissed before, of course, but never like that. She'd never tangled tongues with a man. She could have sworn her legs had turned to water. Not only her lips, but her entire body had seemed to tingle. She was surprised her pounding heart hadn't cracked a rib.
She couldn't say she hadn't been aware that such kisses were possible—she'd certainly read of them in Minerva Press novels. In fact, standing right there in the bookshop, she'd read in Children of the Abbey where Lord Mortimer had clutched Amanda close and straining her to his beating heart, he imprinted a kiss on her tremulous lips.
And the sort of kiss she'd shared with Mr. Hamilton was exactly what she had imagined.
It had seemed an excellent novel, and she'd had every intention of buying it. Until he'd kissed her—until he'd imprinted a kiss on her lips—leaving her head spinning and her mind blanker than a fresh canvas. And she'd forgotten all about buying the book.
Truthfully, though she relished reading of such kisses, she hadn't expected to experience one until after she married. After all, the most proper ladies considered even a chaste kiss to be scandalous before a man proposed. But she'd never been proper, and she couldn't be sorry she hadn't waited.
Kissing Mr. Hamilton had been glorious. Magnificent. Awe-inspiring.
The most memorable, most erotic moment of her entire life.
And in all the hours since, when she wasn't daydreaming about the kiss, when she wasn't reliving it over and over in all its shocking, knee-weakening glory, she'd been engrossed in trying to figure out if that sort of kiss would have proved so incredible with any man, or only with Mr. Hamilton.
She suspected only with Mr. Hamilton. And despite what she'd said in the heat of the moment, that wasn't just because he was John Hamilton, either. It was mostly because something about him called to her; something about him just—
"Lady Corinna." A familiar voice interrupted her musings.
It sounded weaker and more breathless than she'd like. Lord Lincolnshire wasn't doing well. Her heart sinking, Corinna looked over to see him sitting in his wheelchair outside the fence that enclosed the park.
Setting her palette down on a bench, she walked over to greet him, feeling a bit better as she got closer. He looked flushed and swollen…but happy. Happier than she'd seen him in ages.
Mr. Hamilton stood behind him, his hands on the back of the chair drawing her gaze. Only yesterday those hands had held her, had pressed her tight to his hard body. They looked tanned and large and square, appealingly masculine.
"My nephew is taking me to his studio," Lord Lincolnshire informed her brightly, snapping her attention back to him. "I'm going to see his newest paintings."
"We really must be on our way," Mr. Hamilton said without meeting Corinna's eyes. "I have much to do today after this."
Lord Lincolnshire smiled up at her. "Would you like to come along?"
"No," Mr. Hamilton shot out at the same time Corinna exclaimed, "Oh, yes!"
"Thank you for the invitation," she added. "I'd be delighted to come along."
"No," Mr. Hamilton repeated more forcefully, finally looking at her. "My workspace is private. There's a reason I'm known as a recluse."
"Come now, nephew," Lord Lincolnshire chided. "You're about to be an earl. Your days as a recluse have come to an end."
"Uncle—"
"Mr. Hamilton," Corinna interrupted, having never been one to hold her tongue. "Your uncle would like me to accompany you. Will you disappoint such a kindly man?"
Mr. Hamilton opened his mouth, most likely to argue, but then apparently had second thoughts, because he closed it. Into a very straight line. And he glared at her.
Obviously, she'd won.
Remembering that stern mouth imprinting a kiss on her lips, she smiled. "I'll be but a moment. I'll meet you gentlemen at the gate."
After quickly returning to her easel and instructing the footman to take it
