She plopped onto her bed, suddenly realizing why she felt disturbed.
She wanted Sean's baby more than anything. She wanted to marry him. But what if she had to elope with him in order to accomplish that?
She hoped Griffin would agree to their marriage, but what if he didn't? Sean wasn't anything like the men her brother pushed on her, and not only because he was Irish. He could certainly support her—after what she'd learned yesterday, she suspected he could support half of London. But he wasn't aristocratic. Griffin's saying he admired Sean and wanted his advice didn't mean he'd endorse their marriage.
She was willing to defy her brother's wishes to marry Sean, should it come to that. She was willing to run off to Gretna Green to elope. Her family wasn't the type to banish her. And she was an artist, after all, wasn't she? Freethinking, a rebel, unconventional.
But none of that mattered…because Sean was conventional.
He wouldn't elope with her against her brother's wishes. She was certain of that. He was too honorable.
Now that she'd figured out why she felt disturbed, the disturbance grew. The iced cakes she'd eaten felt like they were congealing in her stomach. The tea she'd sipped was threatening to come back up.
How could she persuade Griffin to allow them to marry if he disapproved? She didn't know. All she knew was that unless she came up with a plan, her future with Sean was very uncertain. And should Griffin discover she was meeting Sean, this might be the last time they were alone together, ever.
She'd best make the most of it.
She'd work on a plan, she decided as she rose to change and gather her things. In the interim, she wanted more of Sean's kisses. And she couldn't afford to be nervous about sketching him this time. If she were to have a prayer of fixing Lord Lincolnshire's portrait, she needed to study Sean. All of him.
Her stomach churning with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation and who knew what else, she felt more disturbed than ever. Thinking she needed what she'd sometimes heard referred to as "Dutch courage," she grabbed a bottle of her brother's first vintage on her way out.
THIRTY-SIX
THEY MET IN the afternoon this time, so Sean didn't bother lighting any candles. "I'm thinking we don't need them with all of this light," he told Corinna. "Hamilton chose this place because of the north-facing windows."
"I'll be able to see you fine without candles," she said softly. "All of you, I'm hoping."
Sweet Jesus, he was in trouble.
How on God's green earth was he going to take off all his clothes without the two of them ending up tangled together on the sofa? It had been a close thing yesterday. Never had he come so near to going against everything he believed. And he'd removed only his shirt last time.
Now she wanted to see all of him.
"I'm thinking you won't see all of me at once, though," he said, noticing she'd brought two glasses and a bottle of wine with her. He would have to make sure he didn't drink much. "I'm remembering you said you wanted to sketch part of me at a time."
"I really need to see all of you if I'm to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait." Turning away, Corinna made herself busy pouring the wine. "Male artists sketch live models day in and day out. I have only these two sittings to get it right." With an apologetic smile, she turned back and held out a glass filled to the brim. "I brought some of my brother's wine to help us both relax."
Sean accepted the wine reluctantly, telling himself he needed to keep a clear head. He took a tiny sip, just to be polite.
She drank nearly half of her own large glass down. "Don't you like the wine?"
"I like it fine. But I don't drink very much, so I've never built up a tolerance."
"Now I'm remembering you drank only a little that night you were summoned to our family dinner. Just a couple of sips."
"I watched my maternal grandfather drink himself into the grave. An effective advertisement for moderation."
She touched his hand, a brief contact that left him wanting more. "I'm sorry."
He'd felt the warmth of her skin, and now he smelled her sweet floral fragrance and the slight hint of paint underneath it. He'd come to love that hint of paint, because it was uniquely Corinna and he loved her. To keep himself from reaching for her, he abruptly sat and sipped again. "He was a happy drunk, but he never made anything of himself."
"You've made a lot of yourself," she said, moving to sit across from him. After draining the rest of her glass and setting it on the floor, she reached for her sketchbook. "You're the best man I know."
She was the second person to tell him that today, which served to remind him of the first and what he'd learned before Lincolnshire had said that. The reminder cut him to the core.
He took a full swallow of wine.
Her blue, blue eyes locked on his, she opened the sketchbook. "You can disrobe now. I'm ready."
He wasn't ready—he didn't think he'd ever be ready—but there was nothing for it. He'd offered to pose for her, and he wanted her painting to be a success. He took another swallow of wine and put his glass down carefully, then stood and tugged off his shoes and stockings, his cravat, his coat, his waistcoat. Feeling her gaze on him, he swiftly removed his braces, then unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off over his head.
Like last night, his hands moved to the buttons on his trousers. But this time she didn't stop him.
He stopped himself instead.
Taking a gulp of air, he reached for his glass and swallowed more wine.
"Sean?" she whispered, then bit her lip. She looked as tense as he felt. And
