She wanted to talk to him without everyone's eyes on the two of them. She wanted him to look at her without it being a look of distress. She wanted to touch him and feel his touch in return. She wanted to be close enough to breathe in his scent.
And she was dying for a kiss.
Unfortunately, Lady Billingsgate's guests weren't cooperating. And neither was Lord Lincolnshire.
"Wouldn't you care for some air, Uncle?" Sean asked for the third time.
"Oh, no. I'm…enjoying this conversation."
No doubt he basked in seeing his heir command so much attention. But Corinna had already had to save Sean from mistaking a watercolor for an oil and justify his description of a piece of William Hogarth's as a "groundbreaking new work."
Not an easy task, considering Hogarth had died in 1764.
"It was groundbreaking when it was a new work," she'd said. Fortunately, the hangers-on bunched around Sean had nodded as though they'd interpreted his comment that way all along.
"Oh, I do adore mythology as the subject for a painting," Lady Trevelyan said now, moving on to the next piece of art. "What do you think of this one by Kauffmann, Mr. Hamilton?"
"Very detailed," Sean said—a safe enough comment. But then he added, "I admire his—"
"His?"
"Joshua Reynolds, he means," Corinna rushed to say. "Am I right, Mr. Hamilton? You were referring to Sir Joshua Reynolds, since Angelica Kauffmann was one of his protégées?"
"Joshua Reynolds, yes." The smile he sent her was a grateful one. "As I was saying, I admire Reynolds for being open-minded enough to recognize a female artist."
"That's what I thought." Corinna breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Although, of course, Kauffmann was widely recognized as one of the founders of the Royal Academy. One of only two female Academicians in its history, as a matter of fact."
Sean's smile now was warm rather than grateful. "I look forward to your being the third."
Their gazes caught and held. He really did want to see her succeed. "I appreciate your support," she said softly.
A gentleman cleared his throat. "Speaking of Reynolds," he said, moving along to stand before two large portraits. "What do you think, Mr. Hamilton, of Reynolds's work as compared to Gainsborough's?"
"Hmm." Corinna saw Sean glance to the artists' signatures. "This Gainsborough is rather sentimental, is it not, while the Reynolds here is, ah, more grand. Establishing the importance of the man portrayed rather than sympathy with the subject."
Though Sean looked quite proud of his analysis, the questioner frowned. "I meant in general, Mr. Hamilton, not these particular portraits. One man's body of work juxtaposed against the other."
"I do not judge entire bodies of work, sir. I never seek signatures prior to evaluating a painting. Each work should stand on its own—the artist's identity shouldn't influence my opinion of any specific picture."
The gentleman was clearly taken aback. "I thought all artists studied the masters' techniques."
Corinna didn't quite know what to say to that, so she was relieved when Juliana stepped forward and laughed. "Ah, there is your mistake, Lord Prescott," she said. "One cannot make suppositions regarding all artists. Artists are known to be eccentric and individualistic. They pride themselves on being unconventional. Therefore you should never expect a particular artist, such as Mr. Hamilton here, to approach other artists' work in any singular, conforming manner."
Thank God for sisters, Corinna thought. Lord Lincolnshire also looked impressed with Juliana's speech. He blinked madly. And then he coughed. And coughed again. A bit of froth appeared on his lips.
Looking alarmed, Sean dug out a handkerchief and dabbed it off. "I really think you need some air, Uncle. I insist."
"Take me to the…doors, then. And…let me see…you dance"—gasping, he looked to Deirdre—"with your wife."
Corinna was alarmed, too. "He cannot even get three syllables out before needing a breath," she said to her sister as they followed Sean, Deirdre, and Lord Lincolnshire into the ballroom. "Maybe you should ask James to have a look at him." Besides being an earl, Juliana's husband was also a physician.
"I'm sure Lord Lincolnshire has his own doctors."
"But he's getting worse."
"He's dying," her sister reminded her gently.
"But he might die before I finish his portrait, and he really wants to see it completed."
Juliana measured her for a moment. "All right. I'll ask James."
"Thank you," Corinna said.
They watched Sean wheel Lord Lincolnshire over to the open French doors, then turn to Deirdre and reluctantly escort her to the dance floor. The musicians struck up a country tune.
Corinna breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness it isn't a waltz."
"Why is that?" Juliana asked.
"Sean cannot waltz to save his life."
"Sean?"
"Mr. Delaney," Corinna corrected quickly. "And thank you for stepping in to save him. With any luck, that was the last in our long series of close calls."
A slow smile curved her sister's lips. "Our, hmm?"
"Yes, our. You, me, Mr. Delaney, Alexandra, Griffin. We're all in this together. All of us who know the secret."
Juliana's smile remained. "Our could also mean just you and Sean—I mean, Mr. Delaney." Now her smile widened at her own deliberate mistake. "The two of you belong together. Anyone can see it."
"We do not." The last thing Corinna wanted was her meddlesome sister interfering. "He's not from our world, Juliana. Griffin would never agree."
"Griffin has nothing against the man. In fact, he said he admires him. I asked him what he thought of Mr. Delaney earlier this evening, before he left and came back with Rachael."
Rachael and Griffin were dancing together even now. Unsurprisingly, Corinna's sister was looking rather smug about how that relationship was progressing. And Corinna wasn't at all surprised to hear Juliana had questioned Griffin about Sean, either. "Mr. Delaney is color-blind. He cannot even appreciate my paintings."
"There's something between the two of you," Juliana insisted.
"A mutual desire to see Lord Lincolnshire happily through his last days, that's all."
Her sister shrugged. "If you
