Not Hamilton, Sean thought darkly, watching the earl's breathing even out. His head lolled against the pillows. No matter his cheerful front, Lincolnshire was weakening. He wouldn't last much longer. Though Sean regretted spending the day out of the house, he'd needed to talk to his people, to figure out where more of Lincolnshire's servants could be placed. He wanted to assure the earl's peace of mind before he passed.
Stafford dropped his stethoscope into his black leather bag and fastened it with a snap. "I'll return in the morning. I trust Nurse Skeffington to take good care of him in the meantime."
Deirdre glanced gratefully at the sturdy woman hovering nearby. "Sure, and she will. And Sean and I will be caring for him, too."
Lord Lincolnshire's actual niece by marriage, Deirdre was proving more devoted than Sean had expected. More grown-up than he'd imagined. He gave her a sad smile of approval before following Stafford downstairs.
The two men paused at the salon door. Corinna still had her back turned, but she wasn't painting anymore. She wasn't humming, either. She just stood there, gazing at her canvas.
Her hair was swept up, and the nape of her neck looked vulnerable. Something inside Sean stirred, a long, liquid pull.
As though she could sense it, she turned. "Sean. And James." Joining them in the entry hall, she looked to her brother-in-law in concern.
"Lord Lincolnshire has fallen asleep. I put a drop of laudanum in his tea. He's resting easily for now."
"Might he get better, then, do you think?"
"I fear not," Lord Stafford said gently. "It is, of course, difficult to predict the path of an illness. He could have an hour or a day when he seems better, but overall he will continue to decline." He leaned close and kissed her cheek. "You were right to send for me. Juliana suggested I see him, but I didn't realize the situation was so urgent."
"Thank you for coming." She walked him to the front door, which the competent Quincy was already holding open. "I know Lord Lincolnshire is in the best of hands," she added softly.
She watched him go down the steps, then waited for Quincy to close the door before turning to Sean. "When did you get home?"
This wasn't home, but he shrugged wearily. "A while ago. You looked very busy."
"I'm finished."
"Leaving for the evening, then?"
"I'm finished. With the painting."
"Oh." He blinked. "May I have a look?"
"Yes, I was hoping you would." She hesitated a moment before heading back to the salon, motioning him to follow. As they drew near the canvas, she seemed to hold her breath. "What do you think?"
"It looks just like Lincolnshire. A healthier, more vital Lincolnshire." The man who'd sat for her, blended together with the younger Lincolnshire of her memories, Sean guessed.
It was a full-body portrait, a natural pose in lieu of the typical head-and-torso formality. The painting showed the earl seated on a bench beneath a plane tree in Berkeley Square—perhaps the same bench where Sean had explained the truth to Corinna. Lincolnshire wasn't eating a Gunter's ice, though; instead he held a weighty, leather-bound book. Rather than reading it, he looked like he'd just glanced up, distracted by the viewer walking by. He seemed relaxed and contemplative. And very much alive.
"It's good," Sean said simply.
Corinna exhaled in a rush. "You know nothing about art."
"I know what I like, and it looks very well done to me. You'll submit it for the Summer Exhibition, won't you?"
"I hope to. But first I'm going to show it at Lady Avonleigh's reception on Wednesday." She'd have it delivered, along with a selection of her other paintings, to Lady A's house tomorrow. "I want to see what the artists say of it."
"The judges."
"Yes." She bit her lip and met his gaze, nerves suddenly jumping in her stomach. "I hope they'll like it."
Her voice quavered, and she wondered if he'd heard it. He didn't say anything, so she couldn't tell. He only looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her, while she stood there wishing she hadn't eaten any luncheon, because she felt like the cold meat and fruit she'd nibbled on was about to come back up.
Abruptly he turned and walked back to the salon's huge carved and gilded door. Shut it with a heavy thump. Then turned again to face her. "You're nervous," he stated in that low, melodic tone that made everything shift inside her. "Come here, Corinna."
She rushed into his arms, raising her face for his kiss. But he didn't kiss her. He only held her. He only held her tight, murmuring wordless sounds of comfort, or maybe they were Irish words—she didn't know. But just at that moment, she fell in love.
The realization robbed her of breath, made her heart stutter once before it raced faster. She slid her hands beneath his tailcoat and around him. Squeezed him as he was squeezing her, as hard as she could.
"There's nothing to be nervous about," he said soothingly, running his hands up and down her back. "It's a lovely painting."
She turned her head to lay her cheek against his warm, comforting chest, wishing there weren't a shirt and waistcoat between them. "I know."
"And you've many more paintings at home, don't you? So if the judges don't agree, they could choose another one."
He smelled like starch and soap and man. "I know." Impossibly masculine man.
"And if they don't choose another one, there's always next year. You won't give up. I know you."
She knew him, too. And she loved him. She didn't think she could tell him—there was so much happening around them, so much else complicating his life. But she raised her face again, hoping this time he'd kiss her so she could tell him without words.
He did.
It was a gentle kiss, not at all like the ones they'd shared before. Their kisses tended to be stormy. But this was tranquil and slow and calming—and exactly what she needed.
Tender and caring, his lips
