"YOU LOOK grand indeed in that dress," Sean murmured, trying not to ogle the enticing pale mounds peeking from beneath it. He'd noticed Corinna's dresses usually weren't as low-cut as most of those worn by other ladies of her class. Evidently she was too practical to paint while wearing fashionable, tiny-bodiced dresses. But the way she was leaning toward him afforded him a view that made him swallow hard anyway.
"But do you like the hue?" she asked.
"Oh, yes. The, um, green color is very flattering."
"Thank you," she said, and stepped back.
And, miraculously, she stopped asking questions.
"May I see your paintings, Sean?" Lincolnshire asked.
"Of course, Uncle," Sean said, and brought them over, one by one.
The earl examined each picture minutely, making thoughtful and considered comments. John Hamilton might have argued or agreed, but Sean was only confused. He was an entrepreneur, not an actor. Devising responses proved mentally exhausting. But he was thankful that at least Corinna had ceased making everything more difficult, had stopped asking question after question that he couldn't answer.
In fact, he suddenly realized while Lincolnshire was rhapsodizing over yet another painting, she wasn't saying anything at all. She was just standing by the table with his supplies, watching him. She seemed dumbstruck.
And all Sean had done was tell her he liked her dress. Whoever would have guessed a simple compliment could have such an effect? Contrary to the wise old saying, apparently flattery could get a man anywhere. He'd have to remember that going forward.
After Lincolnshire finished perusing all the pictures, Corinna remained quiet while they assisted him back down the steps, a slow and painful process even with her help. She didn't say much as they wheeled the chair home, and her farewell at Lincolnshire's door was uncharacteristically reserved and polite.
Mystified by the change in her, Sean saw the poor, exhausted earl upstairs and into bed. With that accomplished, he stepped out into the corridor, closed the door, and slumped against it, shutting his eyes and willing the tension to drain from his body.
Mother Mary, that had possibly been the longest afternoon of his life.
This won't interrupt your routine, Hamilton had promised. It shan't affect Delaney and Company at all.
The rotter had been lying through his teeth.
Sean was seriously considering ending the whole thing now. Not only because he was constantly neglecting his interests—which was no small consideration—but also because deceiving the kindly old man was adding to his guilt by the moment.
Well, he was free for the time being, he told himself, opening his eyes and straightening his shoulders. Maybe he could finally attend to some business. He traipsed downstairs, asked a footman to see that his curricle was brought around, and headed out of the house.
Then stopped dead on the doorstep.
"You're not Hamilton," Corinna said.
"Sweet Jesus." Sean blinked. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting to talk to you. You're color-blind. Which means you cannot be Hamilton—or any oil painter at all. At least not a good one."
Once the shock subsided, he cracked a smile. "I take exception to that. I expect I could paint a tolerably good brown scene. Assuming I had an artistic bone in my body, that is." A stableman arrived with his curricle, but he ignored it. "What was the telltale sign, then?"
"My dress is pink, not green."
"Ah." It looked pale brown. And so much for flattery getting him everywhere. "After you figured that out, you didn't say anything. What made you keep the truth from Lincolnshire?"
"Are you jesting? The last thing I'd want to do is disappoint that man. He's wonderful."
"That he is."
"And he'd be crushed to learn you're not his nephew." She pursed her lips. Those plump, tempting lips he'd vowed not to kiss again. "Who are you?"
"Sean Delaney. Hamilton's brother-in-law. I've been telling you that all along."
"If you're not an artist, what do you do?"
"I own property. I buy and sell buildings. Among other things." He shifted uneasily. "I'd like to explain. Not about that, but about how I ended up here. Will you walk with me in the square?"
She seemed to consider that for a moment. "Will you buy me an ice from Gunter's?"
"You're hungry?"
"Not particularly. But Gunter's Tea Shop is probably the only establishment in London where a lady can be seen alone with a man without ruining her reputation."
"Agreed, then," he said when he stopped laughing.
She was a clever one.
Leaving the curricle in front of Lincolnshire House, they made their way across the square to Gunter's, where he ordered a lemon ice for himself and a strawberry ice for Corinna. They took them back into the square.
"This is such a relief," he said as they walked.
"The other man in the museum was really Hamilton, then. Given how he acted at the time, I'm guessing this was his plan. Why did you go along with it?"
"I didn't want to—"
"But you did it anyway."
"For my sister." Sean sighed. "Hamilton's wife."
By the time he explained, both their dishes were empty. They sat on a bench beneath a large London plane tree. Corinna slowly licked her spoon.
It was an amazingly erotic sight.
"I don't blame you," she declared. "I'd have done the same to save my sister from being unhappy all her days."
"I feel like a bastard tricking Lincolnshire, though. I'm going to tell him the truth."
"You cannot!" She turned to him, her lips slick with melted ice. "You'll ruin your sister's chance to get her divorce. And you'll ruin Lord Lincolnshire's final few days. The earl is the most wonderful man in the world, and he's tragically lost everyone he loves, and he's so thrilled to have his nephew in his life. How can you even think of depriving such a generous old man of his last chance at happiness?"
"It's sorry I am for that. But I cannot continue perpetrating this hoax." Sean thought of telling her what it was costing him personally, but that wasn't really the point. "It isn't right to deceive him—"
"It's kind, and what's so wrong about that? How is it hurting him? He'd be much more hurt to learn his real nephew is so very selfish, and there'd be nothing he could do about it anyway. The law is the law. John Hamilton is his nearest blood relative, his legal heir. He'll inherit no matter what Lord Lincolnshire would prefer."
"He'd inherit the title and any entailed property. But Lincolnshire could will everything else to anyone he wanted."
"Yes, he could, Mr. Delaney. But—"
"Sean."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My name is Sean. And I'm thinking we should have leave to call each other by our given names."
He already called her Corinna in his head. He'd thought of her as Corinna ever since he'd heard her name called out in the British Museum. And not being accustomed to the company of the peerage, he was likely to forget to add the Lady.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "That seems rather…intimate."
"You're the only one who knows my secret," he pointed out. "That's a rather intimate thing, don't you think? And we've kissed."
A dreamy look crossed her face. A look that doubled the speed of his pulse.
"Not that that's happening again," he quickly added, thinking maybe they'd be better off not using first names after all.
"All right," she said. "Now where were we…Sean?" She paused, looking dreamy again. "Oh, yes. You'd said that should Lord Lincolnshire learn the truth, he'd be able to will everything but his title to anyone he wanted. But at what cost? He'd be unhappy and disillusioned the rest of his days, and once he's gone, will it really matter whether Mr. Hamilton does or doesn't inherit? Lord Lincolnshire deserves happiness," she concluded with conviction. "That's the deciding factor."
She had a point. A lot of points, actually. But Lincolnshire's happiness wasn't the only consideration. "He's going to find out regardless. I'm not an artist, and I seem to keep proving that, over and over. The earl may be physically deteriorating, but his mind is sharp as a knife. It's only a matter of time before he realizes I cannot possibly be an accomplished landscapist, which means I cannot possibly be his nephew. How will he feel then? Wouldn't it be better for me to admit the truth than for him to discover it himself?"
"I'm an artist. I can cover for you. I can help you keep up the masquerade."
"You're not around enough to do that."
"I can be around enough. I'll visit Lord Lincolnshire every day. I'll keep close. You won't mind that, will you?"
Sure, he wouldn't mind. He liked torturing himself, lived to spend hours in her presence, bunching his fists to keep from touching her.
She licked her spoon again, an act so innocently sensuous, it took everything he had not to kiss her on the spot.
He grabbed the spoon instead. "I won't mind," he muttered, only adding to his legion of lies.