For one delusional moment, he imagined Cainewood was hiding a pistol behind his back.
"It won't happen again," he promised quickly. Stupidly.
Once had been more than enough.
Cainewood frowned and raised both his hands. Empty hands. "I beg your pardon?"
Sean blew out a breath, remembering Lincolnshire. "The earl has been asking for you."
"Yes, his solicitor summoned me. I don't know why. But I've another appointment this morning, so I'm hoping this won't take long."
"I think he just wants to say good-bye," Sean assured him, moving past him.
On the street, waiting for his curricle, he found his gaze drifting to the town house with the blue door on the west side of the square. As though drawn by unseen cords, he walked toward it, stopping on the pavement in front of the large window that fronted the drawing room.
Corinna wasn't in the drawing room, of course. It wasn't even ten o'clock, and she slept until noon unless someone offered her a kiss for getting up early. Her easel was visible, though, so he walked closer to have a look at how Lincolnshire's portrait was coming along. But it sat sideways, and the painting was covered by a crisp white sheet.
And it wasn't finished. He knew that. She'd use every minute she had left before it was due. It wouldn't be finished before tomorrow, which meant he couldn't devastate her until then. He couldn't wake her—that wouldn't be fair.
He needed to see this thing through the right way, he lectured himself, heading back to where his curricle waited. He'd known that all along. There had been no use losing sleep over a decision so obvious.
LADY AVONLEIGH'S town house was near all of Oxford Street's many shops. As Griffin banged the knocker, Rachael couldn't help hoping that Lady A might invite her to visit often. They could go shopping and get to know each other. It would be such fun. She'd never had any living grandparents to spend time with—at least, not any she'd known of.
The butler who answered the door looked as old as Lady A and Lady B put together. "Yes?" he croaked.
"I've come to call on Lady Avonleigh," Rachael said.
He cleared his throat. "She's not here. She's left for Lady Hartley's breakfast."
"But it's not even one o'clock."
He shrugged his bony shoulders. "She doesn't like to be late for anything, my lady."
Her heart sinking, she swiveled to Griffin. "I told you we should have come first thing in the morning."
When he also shrugged, she couldn't help noticing his shoulders were much wider than the butler's. "I don't mind waiting," he said.
"Lady Hartley's breakfast will probably last until midnight! It's the event of the season."
"We'll change our clothes, then, and go to the breakfast."
"I've already sent my regrets. And it's in a garden, under a tent. There will be no place to talk privately."
"We could walk with Lady Avonleigh in the garden."
"Any number of people might be walking as well and overhear us."
"Then we could take her into Lady Hartley's house."
"You cannot go into someone's house during a garden party, Griffin. It's not polite to go where you're not invited."
"Juliana went into Lady Hartley's house during last year's breakfast," he pointed out.
"And look what happened! It was the scandal of the season!" When it came to the social niceties, men didn't know anything. She sighed. "We'll come back tomorrow. In the morning."
FORTY-TWO
AS THE CLOCK on the mantel struck ten on Sunday night, Corinna dipped her smallest brush in coffee-colored paint and carefully covered the green irises on her canvas. Over the next quarter hour, she added black pupils, curvature, depth and highlights, and glints where the flame of a candle reflected.
Blowing out a breath, she stepped back.
Sean's eyes were brown now, and the portrait was done.
She'd already changed his dark hair to a streaky blond, made it a little straighter and a little longer, made it positively glow in the candlelight. The rest of the picture remained the same—the shockingly sensual pose; the sculpted, faintly stubbled face; the ridged, toned torso; the heart-stopping, contemplative gaze—but she was sure no one would recognize Sean now.
The painting was going to be a sensation.
Blond or black-haired, brown-eyed or green, his image looked compelling. Captivating. Spellbinding. Seductive. Like the man himself.
She'd never completed such a large painting in only two days before, and she could hardly believe she was finished. The hours had sped by in such a frenzy since late Friday night. But done was done, and there was no sense in fiddling with it any longer. She'd be as likely to ruin it as she was to improve it.
Although she couldn't show it to Sean, of course—she wasn't yet ready for anyone, including him, to learn he was her portrait's inspiration—she couldn't wait to tell him it was complete. He'd be so surprised to hear she'd finished half a day early. Bursting with happiness and excitement and energy, she hefted the canvas off her easel and started upstairs, holding it at arm's length, where she could smile at it as she went.
She was hauling it down the corridor toward her bedroom when the door to Griffin's study opened. Whirling to face him, she watched him raise his hands to grip the jamb on either side of his head. Such a casual pose, when she was feeling her heart pound in her throat.
"What are you doing, Corinna?"
"Bringing this to my room. I'm finished."
"Are you?" He looked pleased. Probably because he could get back to shoving men at her now. "Let's see it," he said, moving into the corridor.
"No!" In reaction, she pulled the canvas closer to her body, nearly smearing paint against her apron. She'd have killed him if that had happened, just killed him. "Not yet. It isn't varnished yet."
Artists rarely varnished their paintings before submitting them to the Summer Exhibition. There was a tradition called Varnishing Day, after the selected pictures were hung but before the Exhibition opened, when all the artists came
