"Not this sad. You've been hiding in this room since Tuesday." Griffin gazed down at his sister lying on her bed, her back to him. Her knees were hugged to her chest. He couldn't see her face, but she didn't strike him as sad.
More like devastated.
"I'll miss the old man, too," he added, "but it has to be more than that."
She heaved a sigh so pathetic it broke his heart. "All right, it's more than that," she admitted, tears in her voice. "The Summer Exhibition committee did the judging on Tuesday, and my painting wasn't accepted."
"Have you received a letter saying so?"
"No. Not yet. The Exhibition won't open until the first Monday in June, and until the Hanging Committee has finished arranging all the selections on the walls, a few pieces may be in question. So I wouldn't expect a letter yet."
"That's good news, then," he told her, trying to cheer her. "Acceptance must at least be a possibility. Surely they'd have sent a letter by now if the answer were a definite no."
"You don't know that. And I've heard that Mr. Hamilton—I mean, Lord Lincolnshire"—this pronounced with a plethora of disgust—"didn't vote for any portraits."
"He's not the only man on the committee."
"No, there are eight others, two of whom abhor female painters. Another three didn't like my portrait of Lord Lincolnshire, and two more gave me no opinion at all."
"So you'll try again next year." Griffin sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her back. "Maybe you should sign a man's name next time."
She rolled over, and the glare she gave him convinced him it had been a poor time to jest.
"I'm sorry," he muttered quickly.
Now that he could see it, her tear-streaked face made him feel like a complete failure as a brother. He'd known her art was important to her, but he honestly hadn't known it meant so much that she'd be so crushed by a temporary setback. He couldn't remember her ever being this distressed before, not even the two times he'd taken short leaves to come home when their parents had died.
"I know this is important to you," he said carefully, "and I'm sorry if you've felt I've discounted your art while trying to find you a husband. That wasn't my intention. I've just been a little…focused. Apparently too focused. I promise not to do that from now on, all right? I won't push suitors on you. When you see a man you're interested in, just let me know, and—"
"Leave me alone, Griffin," she growled.
"But—"
"Now."
"Very well." He rose and backed away, his hands held up defensively. "I'm sorry, Corinna, truly I am. But I wish you would believe me when I say I want to see you happy."
Rolling to face away from him again, she said, "I know that," in a wan little voice.
He supposed it was the best he could expect for now.
He'd done all he could, he told himself as he left, softly closing the door between them. Too bad it wasn't good enough. Turning to face the door, he banged his forehead against the polished wood, pressing hard.
He would never understand women, never figure out what made them tick. Never be able to decipher their moods. He felt bad that he'd made light of Corinna's art, and he would pay more attention in the future. Make more of an effort to show her he cared and help advance her career, if he could find a way to do that. But he was also certain that finding her a husband to love would improve her disposition.
Or at the very least, make someone else responsible for dealing with it.
He banged his head against the wood again.
"Griffin," he heard nearby. "Are you all right?"
A low, sultry voice that was all too familiar.
He straightened and turned to see its owner, finding her standing there in a black dress that should have made her look drab, or at least less alluring than usual. But it didn't. It had a wide neckline, revealing a good deal of her shoulders, and it rustled as she moved closer, the bodice hugging her seductive curves. Her hair had been done up formally for the reception at Lincolnshire House, leaving just a few loose chestnut tendrils that fell in soft waves around her face.
He swallowed hard and took an uneasy step back, bumping against Corinna's door.
"May I have a word with you?" Rachael glanced around the corridor. "In private?"
He nodded shortly and led the way to his study, aware all the while of her come-hither scent following behind him. Would this torture never end? He'd found her grandmother, hadn't he? He'd tracked her mysterious origins, discovered what had become of her father. What more did she want from him? Why wasn't she with Lady Avonleigh over at Lincolnshire House, together with her happy new family?
After ushering her into the study, he shut the door and turned to her. "What do you want, Rachael?"
She blinked, no doubt taken aback by his unintended harshness. But she recovered her composure quickly. And when she answered him, it was in a tone that made a ball of heat smack him in the gut and spread down.
"I want you to kiss me."
His pulse hammering, he hesitated…until she licked her lips.
"CORINNA?”
A knock sounded on her closed door.
"Are you all right?" Juliana called.
Corinna might have ignored anyone else, but there was no putting off Juliana. "I'll live," she muttered, rolling over and levering herself to sit on the edge of the bed. Realizing she was clutching the claddagh necklace, she shoved it under her pillow, and, with the back of a hand, mopped the last of her tears off her face. "Come on in."
Juliana did, holding up a piece of heavy cream-colored paper with a large, broken red seal. "A letter came for you."
Just what she needed now, the news of her rejection. Well, at least the suspense would be over. "From the Royal Academy?"
"From the former Lord Lincolnshire's solicitor. Addressed to 'The Marquess
