THIRTY
THE EARL'S health was failing fast.
Lord Lincolnshire hadn't left his bedroom in two days…two days during which he wanted his nephew nearby. Stuck in the house for hour upon hour, Sean was at his wit's end. He had so much he needed to accomplish, so much that wasn't getting done.
And he missed Corinna.
For a solid week she'd spent long days painting in the salon. Morning to evening, she'd been there. Though he hadn't been there much himself during those hours, he'd liked seeing her portrait every night, checking her progress. He'd liked thinking that if he wanted to see her, he knew exactly where to find her.
She'd been a fixture. A comfort. A temptation.
But since she'd finished the portrait, all her time had been spent with her aunt or Lady Avonleigh. Now that he was here, she was gone. He didn't know when he might see her next, and the house felt empty.
Fearing the situation would drag on, yesterday Sean had asked Higginbotham to have his art supplies fetched from the studio on Piccadilly Street. Thinking it was what Hamilton would do himself, he'd set everything up in the drawing room that had Hamilton's pictures all over the walls. Then he'd summoned his secretary, Mr. Sykes.
Sykes had been in Sean's employ for nearly eight years. He was a short, dark man with round gold spectacles, a quick, precise mind, and an encyclopedic knowledge of Sean's many and varied enterprises. During the hours the earl slept—which, fortunately, were many—the two of them worked quietly behind closed doors in the drawing room. The staff had been told that Sykes was Sean's assistant, there to mix paint for him and such. In reality, they were allocating positions for all of Lincolnshire's many servants.
Sean was thankful that was now done. He'd begun notifying each member of the staff of his final decisions. Were it not for the sadness of Lincolnshire's impending demise, he suspected some of them might be singing as they worked. They were obviously looking forward to what lay ahead. And very relieved overall.
But Sean was not.
In deference to Lincolnshire's wishes, he was neglecting his own concerns. In defiance of Hamilton's plans, he'd been introduced as the man in public. And other than the last few days—and despite knowing what was best—he was kissing Corinna too often and growing much more attached to her than was prudent.
Nothing was working out the way it was supposed to. And lately he'd found himself wondering if maybe he could stay with her. Marry her. He kept thinking about how her brother reportedly thought him a fine man, and attaching way too much significance to that.
This had to stop.
When she showed up unexpectedly Thursday morning, he was entirely too happy to see her.
"How is he?" she asked quietly, poking her head into the earl's room.
"The same." Sean waved her to the chair next to him beside the towering bed, where the earl slumbered upright, his back propped against a dozen pillows. "Sleeping as comfortably as I expect we can hope." It seemed the only way the man could sleep these days, the only way he could breathe.
"You look upset."
"It's not pleasant," he said with a shrug, "but it cannot last much longer." He looked closer at her, noticing her tense jaw, a certain wildness in her eyes. Or maybe panic. "You look upset, too."
Lowering herself to the chair, she sighed. "Lady Avonleigh's reception didn't go well."
"What happened?"
"She kept asking why you weren't there," she said, keeping her voice low. "Or rather, why Mr. Hamilton wasn't there." She winced and flicked a wary glance at Lincolnshire, apparently worried he might have overheard. "Sorry."
"He's asleep. Though we should be careful."
She nodded. "The committee members were mystified, since they believe Mr. Hamilton to be in Wales. Lady A and her sisters and my cousins and others all kept saying he'd been seen at various social events, and the artists kept saying that was impossible…" She clenched her hands together in her lap. "It was a mess, Sean."
"It's sorry I am about that." Not that there was anything he could have done. "How about the rest? Did the committee members like your new painting?"
She sighed again. "For the most part, they didn't seem enthralled with my portrait of Lord Lincolnshire."
"Why not?" He was outraged. These artists were obviously idiots. Temperamental idiots, one and all—with the exception of Corinna, of course. "It's brilliant."
"It isn't." When he might have protested further, she unclenched her hands and laid one on his arm. "They liked Lord Lincolnshire's expression well enough. William Mulready said I captured the essence of the man." A hint of a smile transformed her face; she'd obviously liked hearing that. "And they admired the textures overall. They thought his suit looked like real velvet, his lace truly handmade, the trees wet and glistening."
"But…?" All of that sounded grand. Which meant there had to be a but.
"But they claimed Lord Lincolnshire's form doesn't seem real beneath his clothes. He looks stiff and unnatural."
"Did they?" Sean hadn't looked for such a thing. Hadn't known to look for such a thing. He'd been impressed with the way she'd rendered Lincolnshire's face, and aye, his clothes and the background. Even color-blind, he could see that. But he'd paid no attention to the man's body.
Well, another man wouldn't, would he? Unless he were an artist.
Hurting for her, he tried to point out the positive. "It doesn't sound all that bad. They had lots of good things to say."
"One of them really loved my work—"
"One?"
"Yes, one. Or rather, only one had no reservations about it. Martin Archer Shee, that was."
"How about the rest?"
"Benjamin West liked my basic technique but didn't have anything else good to say. William Mulready and James Northcote both think I paint excellent landscapes, but they weren't so enthusiastic about my portrait."
He didn't know any of those names, but this wasn't the time to tell her. "That's four out of how many?"
"Eight, not counting Mr. Hamilton. Two were hopeless. William
