But he couldn't. Somewhere in the madness, somewhere in the midst of giving her what he could, he'd discovered he still had a shred of clarity.
The wispiest shred, the barest fog, but just enough.
He wasn't going to take her. Not forever, not for a moment, not at all. He couldn't do that; he couldn't ruin her. Lust and drink had brought him closer to that than he'd intended, so close a hot rush of shame and regret overwhelmed him, but it wouldn't take him any farther.
"Take me now," Corinna whispered desperately, pressing herself up against him.
She felt divine, but he couldn't take her now. Not even if he'd wanted to. The shame and regret had stolen his desire.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Cuisle mo chroí, I'm so sorry."
"I feel like I've been waiting forever."
"I'm sorry." She was going to be waiting forever. He was never going to take her. He wasn't going to be able to do that, ever, because they had no future together.
But he couldn't tell her, not now, not until her painting was finished.
More shame and regret overwhelmed him, tightening his throat, making it difficult to breathe as he watched her eyes slowly clear, watched her come to her senses.
"Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh, Sean. I cannot believe what happened. It was more wonderful than I can possibly describe. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but it was heaven."
"It was, yes," he said, meaning it. He'd been in a terrible state physically, but feeling her tremble in his arms had been the sweetest moment he'd ever known. He would never feel such sweetness again, but to feel it even once was a gift beyond measure.
"Next time—"
"Hush," he interrupted, and kissed her, a short kiss, because his throat was so tight he feared he couldn't breathe. There wouldn't be a next time, but he couldn't tell her that until her painting was finished.
He feared he might never be able to breathe again.
And he still had to help her fix the painting. She hadn't sketched yet, and she needed to sketch. He couldn't marry her, he would never have her, but he could still do what he'd come here to do. Three days from now, when he gave her the facts, when he devastated her, at least she would have her art. She'd have fixed her painting, and when it was accepted for the Summer Exhibition, she would still have her dreams, and they would help console her.
That thought in mind, he rose from the sofa and pulled her up, too. Ignoring her startled face, he tugged her bodice back up. Fortunately, the rest of her dress fell into place all by itself.
"Go sit in the chair, Corinna."
"What?"
"It's time to sketch now." He started unbuttoning the left side of the falls on his trousers.
"You've got to be jesting. I couldn't possibly sit and sketch now."
"We came here so you can sketch," he said, unbuttoning the right side. "Go sit down."
She did, watching him shuck off his trousers. Her eyes widened. Thank God he'd lost his desire, he thought, sweeping a used sketchbook off the table.
"Sketch, Corinna." He sat, holding the book as the earl had in her picture, arranging himself in a similar pose. "I want you to sketch."
Her gaze wandered over him. Wandered everywhere. A melting softness came into her eyes.
She devastated him.
But he hadn't the luxury of being devastated, not anymore. "Start sketching."
"I cannot possibly concentrate after what just happened. We'll have to do this again tomorrow."
"We're not doing this again, Corinna. I'm not leaving here until you've sketched enough anatomy to fix Lincolnshire's portrait. And I'm not touching you again; that I promise. I'm not kissing you or touching you…so sketch."
THIRTY-EIGHT
CORINNA HAD never painted so fast in her life.
As she swept her brush along the canvas, she remembered all the hours she'd spent sketching earlier tonight. Intense hours. She hadn't thought she'd be able to concentrate, but she'd found herself focusing, fascinated, simply sinking into the experience. After sketching a full hour and realizing that wasn't nearly enough, she'd sent home a note with a contrived excuse, and Sean had lit candles, and she'd kept sketching.
Still caught in the lush aftermath of Sean's lovemaking, she'd captured him, all of him, head to bare toe. Captured his essence, she was sure of it. Her painting instructors had spoken of this, but studying a real, live man had made the difference. Finally, after months and years of trying, it had all clicked into place. She'd come home with page after page of sketches that would help her fix Lincolnshire's body beneath his clothes.
She wouldn't see Sean again until the portrait was finished. He'd made it clear, very clear, that he expected her to spend the entire weekend painting. Knowing she needed that time, she hadn't argued. Much as she would miss seeing him, she had but two days left to paint.
Three hours ago, in the darkness, Sean had walked her to her doorstep, graced her with a single, heart-stopping kiss, and sent her inside to fix the portrait. Instead, without conscious thought, she'd grabbed a blank canvas. In the quiet house, while Griffin and his staff slumbered upstairs, she'd surrounded it with lanterns.
And started another portrait, more vivid than any she'd ever imagined.
Now, in the middle of the night, the picture was simply pouring out of her, the brush an extension of her body, its movements seemingly undirected. Hour by hour, stroke by stroke, the portrait was taking form, coming to life.
Unlike the vast majority of the portraits she'd ever seen, this portrait wasn't posed; it wasn't contrived; it wasn't meant to convey the importance of its subject. The gentleman's clothing wasn't carefully chosen to indicate his level of status or wealth. He wasn't meticulously groomed, nor did he hold objects imbued with significance.
