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 to make last minute changes and coat their works in varnish.
"I don't want anyone to see it until after it's varnished," she added. "If it's accepted, you can see it in the Exhibition."
"Well, that's just silly."
She shrugged. "I'm an artist, temperamental and all that." She began backing down the corridor. "I'm going to put this in my room now, and you'd better not go looking at it."
It was his turn to shrug, as though he couldn't be bothered to walk that far to look at a stupid painting. He backed into his study, and she backed into her room and closed the door behind her. After leaning the painting against a wall, facing in, she covered it with a sheet. Then she balanced a hairpin precariously on the top edge, where it would be knocked off if anyone disturbed it.
There, she thought with a grin.
Impatient to see Sean, she ripped off her apron, smoothed her dress, left her room, and poked her head into Griffin's study. "I'm going to tell Lord Lincolnshire his portrait is finished," she said, although, of course, it wasn't.
Scribbling on some paperwork, Griffin didn't look up. "Lincolnshire will be sleeping now, Corinna."
"Maybe, but maybe not. I won't wake him. If he's sleeping, I'll go back in the morning."
"Take a footman with you. I won't have you walking alone in Berkeley Square in the middle of the night."
Did he really think she'd walk alone in London at night? That much of a rebel she wasn't. A lady could get herself raped or worse, even in Mayfair.
"I'm not the ninnyhammer you seem to think I am," she informed him. "I won't be long." Then she all but ran down the stairs, pausing just long enough to request a footman before she ran all the way to Lincolnshire House. Leaving the footman panting at Lincolnshire's gate, she lifted her skirts, raced up the portico steps, and banged the knocker.
Quincy answered. "Good evening."
"I wish a word with Mr. Hamilton."
"I'm sorry, but he's not at home, milady."
"He isn't? Oh." Disappointment was a sudden ache in her middle. How many hours must intervene ere she could press him to her throbbing heart, as the sweet partner of her future days? she recalled reading in Children of the Abbey. "I'll return tomorrow then, I guess."
She had just started to turn away when Deirdre came to the door. "Lady Corinna?"
Turning back, she dredged up a smile. "I was hoping to see your…your husband, Mrs. Hamilton. I have something exciting to tell him."
"He's been gone all day. A wee bit of trouble with his, ah…his latest painting." Deirdre slanted a glance to Quincy. "Would you care to come in?"
"Is Lord Lincolnshire awake?"
"I fear not." Sean's sister sighed. "He spent the morning closeted with his solicitor yet again. Then he complained of some pain—claimed the Regent was sitting on his chest again or some such thing. He passed out for a moment, then woke and fell asleep. He's been sleeping ever since."
"That doesn't sound good," Corinna observed, the ache of disappointment growing sharper. "I'll return tomorrow, when I hope he'll be better."
Deirdre nodded and took a step back to allow Quincy to shut the door.
"Wait," Corinna said, remembering something. "I've a question, if you wouldn't mind. About a word or a phrase I'm thinking might be Irish."
"Is that so?" Coming forward again, Deirdre looked curious. "What is it, then?"
"Cooshla-macree. Does that mean something? Or is it only a few syllables of nonsense?"
Sean's sister frowned a moment before her expression cleared. "Cuisle mo chroí," she repeated, the words sounding a bit different as they rolled off her tongue. "It means 'pulse of my heart.' Or 'sweetheart,' I suppose you might say."
"Sweetheart," Corinna breathed. "How about creena?"
"Críona, 'my heart.'"
"Ahroon?"
"A rún, 'my love.'" Sean's sister cocked her pretty blond head. "I find myself wondering where you heard these words, I do confess."
"I expect you know." Bursting with happiness once more, Corinna gave a startled Deirdre an impulsive hug before she ran back home.