"I can see it," he told her. "It just looks different to me. The color I can see best is blue. All the rooms in my house are blue, except for Deirdre's."
"Where is your house?"
"In Hampstead. Who painted that landscape you're staring at?"
"John Hamilton." She laughed, a joyful, unselfconscious sound. "All the paintings in this room are Hamiltons. It seems Lord Lincolnshire truly is quite proud of his nephew."
"Figures," Sean muttered in disgust. "It's good to know that, though. I imagine I'd make a holy show of myself if he took me in here and I didn't recognize my own paintings."
"A holy show?"
"A great fool of myself," he translated. "A massive embarrassment." Apparently he hadn't ridden himself of the Irish as much as he'd thought. "Thank you again. I really do appreciate your help."
"I'm glad to hear that," she said. Moving to a fine Kent fireplace, she leaned against the mantel flirtatiously. Well, not precisely flirtatiously, because she wasn't a flirtatious woman. Sean found her much more straightforward than that. But seductively.
And effectively.
"I think you owe me a kiss," she added in a soft, alluring tone.
He laughed. What else could he do? "I'm not John Hamilton, remember? I'm no longer a trophy. Why should you want to kiss me again?"
"Maybe I liked it the first time," she said blithely.
Except she didn't look blithe. She still looked seductive. Bloody hell.
It was her eyes, Sean decided. Those blue, blue eyes. They made a man grateful for being color-blind. And her voice. Something in her voice appealed to him. So low and sweet. He was amused to hear sarcastic words come out of her mouth, and when she wasn't being sarcastic and he wasn't being amused, well, then…
Well, then he wanted to kiss her.
"I told my sisters your secret," she said, interrupting his tangled thoughts.
"What?" He was appalled. Any thought of kissing her fled his mind.
"I had to share it with someone," she said. "I had to. I feared I'd done wrong encouraging you to keep it up, and—"
"What did they say?"
"They heartily approved. They assured me I'd done exactly the right thing. I'm not at all sorry I told them."
"Don't tell anyone else."
"But—"
"Don't."
She hesitated, then nodded. "I won't."
"I want your promise."
"I promise. And a Chase promise is never given lightly," she added solemnly.
And seductively.
It was that voice, those eyes.
Bloody hell.
"All right, then." It seemed disaster had been averted. But that didn't stop him from sighing. He just wished he could decide what he was sighing about. "You'll be back Monday to start the actual painting? Early, I hope?"
"First thing in the morning."
"Excellent." Maybe he'd be able to escape and get something done. "I—"
"Of course, morning for me starts at noon."
"Noon?"
"At the earliest. I like to paint through the wee hours, so I sleep late." She straightened away from the fireplace and walked closer. Right up to him. So close he could see her blue irises were rimmed in a darker, midnight shade. So close he could smell her floral fragrance and the faint scent of paint underneath it.
Thoughts of kissing her flooded back.
"Do you know what else my sisters said?" she asked. Seductively.
"How could I? But I'm sure you'll tell me."
"Juliana said it doesn't signify that you're not a peer, because you're connected to the right people. And she was impressed that you own property."
"She doesn't know how much I own," he pointed out. "And neither do you."
"Houses in Hampstead are very expensive," she said dismissively. "And Alexandra reminded me that our brother, Griffin, is named for an ancestor. Aidan Griffin, Baron Kilcullen from Ballygriffin, Ireland."
"And the significance of all that is…?"
"They think it's all right for you to kiss me." She stepped even closer. "Are you certain you don't want to? I might get up earlier in the morning for a kiss."
What was a man supposed to do when a woman made such an offer? A woman who looked like an angel and tasted like sin? A woman who'd just brushed off every reason he'd considered her off-limits?
Besides, he really did need to attend to his work.
"How much earlier?" he asked.
"Ten o'clock."
"Eight."
"Nine."
He yanked her against his body and fastened his lips on hers.
For a brief moment he cursed his own weakness, but then he lost himself in the immense pleasure of kissing such a warm, willing woman. She pressed closer. Sweet Jesus, he could feel every curve of her through his clothes. Her hands drifted up and fisted in his hair. He felt his heart beating against hers and the seductive heat of her mouth. He'd never wanted anyone with such a fever, with such a hunger. She wasn't for him, but she'd crawled into him, and now she held him in her grip.
When she stepped back, she had a dazed smile on her face that he was certain reflected his own.
"I'll see you Monday at nine," she said softly, and quit the room.
He heard her footsteps cross the stone floor in the entrance hall, heard the door open, heard Quincy bid her a polite farewell. By the time the door closed, he'd gathered his wits.
Somewhat.
Another man would head straight to the bottle and down a stiff drink for fortification. He'd never taken up the habit, but if anything could drive him to it, it was this damned charade.
Well, maybe he could leave now, get a little work done.
He went back to the other drawing room, where Lincolnshire was dozing in the chair. He touched the man gently on the shoulder and smiled when his eyes fluttered open. "Would you like me to see you to bed, Uncle? I think you could use the rest. And I could use a few hours to paint."
"Very well," Lincolnshire said. "But I really do…wish to meet your wife."
Sean mentally winced. He'd thought they'd dispensed with this subject. "It's truly sorry
