"You want to pose for me?" she asked when she'd more or less gathered her wits. "So I can learn anatomy?"
His gaze caught hers and held, looking rather apprehensive. "I said so, aye."
Aye. Sean never said aye. "You do realize…"
Though he looked no less wary, a corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. "That I shall have to take off my clothes?"
She glanced away, scandalized. But she recognized a good opportunity when she was offered one. She needed to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait, make his body look more realistic, and sketching marble gods had quite clearly left her unprepared for the task.
She would never have asked Sean to pose for her. Never. The idea would never have occurred to her, not even after a hundred more kisses.
But now that he'd brought it up…well, how could she possibly refuse?
It was scandalous, but it could be her one and only chance to truly study male anatomy. And it was certainly her only chance before this year's Summer Exhibition. While there was time for no more than a session or two, perhaps a live model would make the difference. She might be able to master figure drawing once and for all.
Though she was staring through the large windows that overlooked the garden, she wasn't seeing trees and flowers and blue sky. Instead she was picturing the sofa where Lincolnshire had sat for her…with Sean on it instead.
Naked as the day he was born.
She swallowed hard. Her heart thumped unevenly. Warmth flooded her cheeks.
Biting her lip, she met his gaze again. "You won't have to take off all of your clothes."
"Will I not?" He raised a brow. "Lord Lincolnshire's portrait isn't just head and shoulders, as I recall. His body wouldn't look 'stiff and unnatural' had it not been shown, would it?"
"But there's no need to sketch all of you at once. I can do parts."
"Parts?" The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.
"A part at a time. You can undress just a little bit."
"If you say so." He looked unconvinced. But perhaps he also looked relieved. "Where shall we do it?"
"Not here. And not in my brother's drawing room."
God forbid.
"In the square, then? Where the painting is set?" Reacting to her shock, he released a shaky laugh. "I was jesting, mo chroí. We can use Hamilton's studio."
Macree again…what did that mean? "That sounds good. When shall we meet?"
"Time is of the essence, is it not?"
"I have four days to fix the painting. I'd best not sketch more than two."
"We shan't delay, then. I shall meet you there in an hour."
"So soon?" Time might be of the essence, but she wasn't at all sure she was ready for this. "Can you leave Lord Lincolnshire? I thought he wanted you to stay here."
"Saints preserve us. Lincolnshire does want me here. But we cannot wait for the poor man to die."
Oh, that was so irreverent.
And so true. "Sean…"
"Let's make it in the evening, then. Lincolnshire's been falling asleep early these days, and if he doesn't, I'll come up with some excuse."
"What excuse can I give Griffin to leave the house alone in the evening?" She preferred, of course, to be honest with her brother, but she could hardly tell him she was going to sketch a nude man.
Her cheeks burned at the mere thought.
"Tell him Lincolnshire's invited you for dinner. I'll come for you, and we'll walk to the studio together." Sean grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed a kiss to her lips. Quick and hot.
Her senses were spinning when he pulled back.
"It'll be fine, Corinna. Don't worry yourself. This plan is going to work."
THIRTY-TWO
HER GRANDFATHER was here somewhere.
Nervously smoothing the lavender dress she'd chosen to wear—after trying and rejecting six others—Rachael gazed down the length of the Royal Hospital's great hall. The black-and-white marble floor seemed to stretch forever. "Which one is Colonel Thomas Grimbald?" she asked the guard at the door.
It was early evening—dinnertime, to be precise. Covered in spotless white cloth, sixteen long tables crowded the hall, each seating twenty-six pensioners. Every man wore the same outfit: a scarlet coat and tricorn hat based on the service uniform of the Duke of Marlborough's time. They were all sixty-five or older, and they all, to Rachael's eye, looked alike.
Maybe none of them was her grandfather. Maybe Griffin had been wrong.
"I'll show you to Grimbald, milady," the guard said. Griffin offered his arm, and she clutched it tightly as they followed him. Cutlery clinked, and the hall rang with the deep voices of so many men. The chandeliers overhead seemed too few to light the towering chamber, but the last of the day's sunshine streamed through its many tall, arched windows.
The guard stopped at one end of a table. "Colonel Grimbald?"
A gray-haired man glanced up—a man who looked eerily familiar.
Griffin hadn't been wrong.
"This fine lady and gentleman are here to see you," the guard told him and walked off.
The man blinked and rose, standing at attention, his narrow chest puffed out in the smart red coat. He was medium height, with a long nose in a long, pleasant face. He had Rachael's dented chin and, beneath the black tricorn, Rachael's sky blue eyes.
But they were blank.
"Who are you?" he asked, not rudely but not in a welcoming tone, either.
Griffin took Rachael's hand. "I'm the Marquess of Cainewood, and this is my cousin, Lady Rachael Chase. Your son's daughter."
"Hmmph." He reclaimed his seat and picked up his fork, silently dismissing them. "My son has no daughter."
Would he send her away without even listening? Rachael looked to Griffin and back to the man. Her grandfather. "Sir." She swallowed hard. "I know this must come as a shock, since your son—my father—is dead, but—"
"Thomas isn't dead." He lifted a tankard and took a swallow of beer.
"Sir." Rachael felt tears sting her eyes and cursed herself. It would have been nice to be welcomed with open arms, but if that wasn't to be, she at
