"His painting doesn't look finished."
The artist had hung an all but monochrome canvas. "You're color-blind. How can you tell?"
"It's a landscape, and the sky isn't even blue. How the devil did it get accepted?"
"Academicians are allowed to hang six paintings each without going through the selection process," Corinna explained in an undertone. "And Varnishing Day isn't just for varnishing; it's also for fixing little things. Turner is rather famous for this trick. While his fellow artists—"
"That's you," Sean interrupted.
"Oh, God, it is, isn't it?" She felt her heart might burst. "While the rest of us struggle to fix some tiny mistake, he practically paints an entire picture."
"Thus proving his technical virtuosity?"
"And awing everyone else in the process." She watched the dull painting blaze to life as Turner swiftly transformed it with glorious chrome and brilliant vermilion and costly ultramarine. He stood so close to his canvas he appeared to paint with his eyes and nose as well as his hands. "He's legendary," she whispered. "They call him the painter of light. He first exhibited here at the age of fifteen."
"While you're an ancient twenty-two?"
"I suppose I should feel lucky you're willing to marry such an old hag."
"We'd best wed quickly, a rún, before you get any older."
"Is tomorrow soon enough?"
"An hour from now wouldn't be soon enough."
She laughed, a joyous sound that warmed Sean's heart. "I don't know how Turner does it. He's been known to produce two hundred and fifty pictures in a single year. It takes me at least two weeks to complete a painting."
"Not that one." Sean gestured to his image on the wall.
"That one just flowed out of me," she admitted. "I guess I'll varnish it now."
She looked nervous as she walked toward it, paint box in hand. Sean followed, moving a step stool so that she could reach it.
"Is that yours?" someone asked as she climbed up, setting off a volley of comments.
"She's unknown!"
"A female painted that?"
"A genius."
"I think it's shameful," a disgruntled man disagreed.
Through it all, Corinna held her head high, nerves notwithstanding. She made her own way in the world, just like Sean did. That was why he loved her.
Well, that and because she made his blood surge with just a look.
Only one more day until he made her his forever. Standing back, he smiled as she dipped her brush in varnish and began swiping it over his bare chest.
SIXTY
"WELL," GRIFFIN said. "That's it." Upstairs in the Berkeley Square town house, he shut the master bedroom door and leaned his hands against it. "Corinna is on her way to Hampstead, to a house I've never even seen."
"You'll see it soon," Rachael said behind him, where he knew she was slipping off her shoes.
He heard the soft give of the mattress as she sat on the bed across the room, and he imagined her rolling down her stockings. To torture himself just a bit, he remained facing away, the sound of swishing silk making his body stir, making his blood heat.
"And I'm sure it's a fine house," she continued, her sultry voice sliding into him. "Deirdre told me it's enormous, and set in acres of gardens and woodland, and it was built by Robert Adams. She said her brother has more money than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow."
"That man could eat a pot of gold for breakfast and never notice it was missing. I swear, Rachael, I didn't know it was possible for one man to have so much. It boggles the mind. But it doesn't matter. He has Corinna now, and that's all that counts. Corinna wanted him, and I wanted her happy."
"You did the right thing, Griffin. She loves him, and he loves her. And I love you."
"I love you, too." He straightened and turned, feasting his eyes on her. She rose and took a few steps toward him, barefooted and gorgeous. Hopping on one foot and then the other, he pulled off his own shoes and stockings, then ripped off his tailcoat and waistcoat, leaving it all littering the floor as he went to her.
He couldn't believe he'd wed Rachael. He couldn't believe anything that had happened this week, all the incredible events that had led to him marrying his sister to a man he hardly knew and to getting married himself.
And he couldn't believe he still hadn't touched his wife.
She was beautiful inside and out, the most beautiful thing in his life. And all he'd ever done was kiss her. For just half of one hour. For all his bluster about men keeping their hands off his sisters, he'd never imagined marrying a woman he'd barely kissed and never really touched.
"You're wearing your mother's wedding dress," he said, walking toward her, remembering her pulling it out of the heavy oak trunk, and how he'd thought it looked lacy and beautiful. It fit her perfectly, as he'd known it would. Rachael was all willowy, graceful curves, and the sight of her in his bedroom, in the white dress, made his throat ache. It made his palms itch.
He couldn't believe she was his and he still hadn't touched her.
"You look lovely," he told her, walking closer.
"You look better." He was standing before her now, so close they were only a breath apart. "I'm a Chase now," she said.
Her come-hither scent was overwhelming him, making him dizzy. "Is that why you wanted to marry me? So you could think of yourself as a Chase again?"
"No, that's just a bonus. I wanted to marry you because I love you. I want to make children with you."
Hearing that spiked his lust, kicked his pulse up a notch or two or three. He very much wanted to make children with her.
And he still hadn't touched her.
Her face
