Before Sean could protest any further, Hamilton pushed him toward a young woman busily sketching.
THREE
IF ONLY SHE could find a real man who looked like this, Corinna mused as she sketched another Greek god, life would be downright blissful.
Not that she was planning to wed anytime soon, much to her brother Griffin's chagrin. He wanted nothing more than to marry her off, to have her—his last unwed sister—out of his house and off of his hands. To make her someone else's responsibility.
To that end, he'd insisted on shoving her toward eligible men at all the balls this year. He'd also been dragging her to Almack's and every other social event on the calendar. The season had been underway but a few weeks, yet she felt as though she'd met more men this month than the rest of her life combined.
It was annoying, to say the least.
She did enjoy balls, and she also liked men, of course. She'd especially liked kissing the few who had managed to get her alone. Although artists were supposed to be passionate creatures, she'd sadly lacked passion in her life until recently. Her grandmother, father, mother, and eldest brother had died in succession, keeping her from socializing for four long years.
Now that she'd finally experienced some passion, she'd found men's lips to be softer and warmer than she'd expected, and the closeness had proved positively exhilarating. Enjoyable indeed. But right now her art was more important than finding love.
Unless she were to find one of these Greek gods…
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she used her pencil to shade the fascinating muscles on the god's toned bare chest. Then, looking up, she spotted two gentlemen heading in her direction. As though some higher power had read her mind and sent him to fulfill her fantasy, the taller one seemed to her a Greek god come to life.
Flipping to a new page, she started sketching the real man instead of the stone replica. Quickly, before he disappeared from view.
His angular, sculpted face was framed by crisp black curls that grew long at the back of his neck…long enough to make a woman's fingers itch to comb through them. His eyes were the greenest she'd ever seen. Unfortunately, he was rather more clothed than the marble gods, but having sketched quite a few of them, she fancied she could imagine what he looked like beneath his well-made but conservative trousers, waistcoat, and tailcoat. Her pencil outlined broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips—
She froze midsketch as the two men walked right up to her.
"Good afternoon," the shorter one said.
Like the taller man, he was dark-haired and green-eyed and good-looking. And he was much more fashionably dressed. But all in all, she decided, not nearly of the same Greek god caliber.
Still, she swallowed hard. She wasn't accustomed to handsome gentlemen introducing themselves. Good manners dictated they ask permission of a young lady's chaperone, who would then provide the introduction.
She might have kissed a few men, but none who hadn't gone through the proper channels to meet her first.
"Good afternoon," she returned guardedly. "Mr.…?"
"Delaney," he said smoothly. "Sean Delaney, at your service. And this," he added, indicating the taller man, "is my good friend Mr. John Hamilton. Having noticed you sketching, he wished to be introduced to a fellow artist. You've heard of him, I presume?"
Had she heard of him? Corinna's sketchbook and pencil fell to the floor as her jaw dropped open. Everyone had heard of John Hamilton, the renowned, reclusive painter of landscapes.
She turned to him, positively stunned. Her Greek god was John Hamilton—John Hamilton!—and he'd requested an introduction. To her, Corinna Chase, possibly the most unrenowned artist in all of London.
"Mr. Hamilton," she gushed, "I cannot tell you how much I admire—"
"Please stop," he interrupted, bending to scoop up her supplies. He straightened and, with a roll of his gorgeous emerald eyes toward Mr. Delaney, handed the items to her. "I'm sorry, but I'm not John Hamilton." His lilting accent was distracting. The deep, melodious Irish voice didn't quite mesh with the Greek physique. "I'm Sean Delaney. And I'm afraid my brother-in-law here—the real John Hamilton—has a horrible sense of humor."
"Now, Hamilton." The other man dolefully shook his head. "There's no need to hide your identity from this charming young lady."
"It's your identity in question, and you hide it from everyone." The Greek god drew a line in the air that traced the other man from head to toe. "You'll note he's the one dressed in artistic style," he pointed out to Corinna before brushing at his own, much plainer clothes. "I'm merely a common man of business."
"Please forgive Mr. Hamilton." Mr. Delaney—or perhaps he was Mr. Hamilton—raised a brow toward Corinna. "He's much too self-effacing."
"Blarney!" the Greek god shot back. "You're a dunce, Hamilton."
Corinna had observed a tennis match once, and she now felt like that little ball bouncing back and forth between the two men. She didn't know which one to believe. But since she didn't expect to see either of them ever again, she figured it didn't signify.
While they'd volleyed, she'd regained her senses enough to remember Mr. Hamilton was a member of the committee that chose artwork for the Summer Exhibition. That was what truly mattered.
She clutched her art supplies to her chest. "I'm an oil painter myself," she told both of them, praying one really was John Hamilton. "I'm here sketching the marbles to learn anatomy so I can improve my technique for portraits. It's my fondest hope that one of my canvases will be selected for this year's Summer Exhibition."
"I'm certain Mr. Hamilton will vote for it," the shorter man assured her gravely.
"I will not." The Greek god's fists were clenched, and his Irish lilt came through gritted teeth. "I mean, he won't. Or perhaps he will, but I'm not Hamilton."
"Pshaw." The other man waved a smooth, graceful hand. "He's—"
"Corinna!" She looked away to
