"HOW SHALL we work this?" Setting his large case full of art supplies on the table, Sean glanced around the sparsely furnished garret studio. "Will you sit on the sofa?"
"Lord Lincolnshire sat on a sofa for the portrait," Corinna pointed out, "so I think you should pose there. Did he fall asleep?"
"He didn't. I think he might be getting better." Sean wasn't sure whether he was happy about that or not. Much as he liked the man, this couldn't continue forever, could it?
"Then how did you manage to leave him? What excuse did you give him?"
"I told him my painting wasn't going well at Lincolnshire House, so I needed to work here instead. That's why I brought along these supplies. I'd have looked a liar otherwise."
He'd brought candles, too, knowing it would grow dark as the evening wore on. He pulled them out of the case and set them up around the room and began lighting them.
"Lord Lincolnshire didn't mind, then?"
"I sent for Deirdre to keep him company."
Though his sister was nominally living at Lincolnshire House, she spent most of her waking hours at Daniel Raleigh's place of business—or his home, where she planned to live with or without a divorce. Sean was less than thrilled with that, but he didn't want to fight with his sister. He'd told the earl his wife was very fond of shopping.
Yet another lie, he thought with a sigh. "She wasn't happy, but she agreed."
"She should. You're putting yourself out to secure her future."
If only Deirdre saw it that way. "Lincolnshire likes her," he said dryly. "Thinks I chose a fine wife."
"That's good," she said distractedly. "I like to paint standing, but I usually sit when I sketch." She moved his case to the floor and sat herself on the small table. "This should do fine."
He lit the last candle. "I'll get you a chair."
"From where?"
"From one of my tenants." At her blank look, he smiled. "I own this building, Corinna. And half the others on this street."
"Oh." Now she looked stunned. "I thought you said the studio was Mr. Hamilton's. I guess you didn't mean literally."
"Hamilton said he plans to lease it when he returns. I intend to charge him a small fortune. I'll be right back."
It took but a few minutes to run downstairs and borrow a chair from one of the shopkeepers on the ground floor. He returned to find Corinna with her sketchbook open, chewing on her bottom lip. She'd worried it pink and plump with her teeth.
At least, he assumed it was pink. It definitely looked darker than usual. And very enticing. He wanted to kiss away the marks, wanted that so badly he could already taste her. But if he kissed her now, he knew, this session would get way out of hand.
"Sit," he said instead, "while I undress." He set down the chair so it faced the sofa.
"Just a little bit," she reminded him as she lowered herself.
He sat across from her and pulled off his shoes and stockings. "Will this do?"
She stared at his bare feet, seeming rather riveted by them, to his amusement. "Lord Lincolnshire's feet aren't in the picture," she finally said. "Just a little more."
He rose and shrugged out of his tailcoat. "Will this do, then?"
She cracked a smile. "A little more."
He unbuttoned and took off his waistcoat.
"More."
He untied and drew off his cravat.
"A little more."
He saw her swallow as he removed his braces. He unfastened the top button on his shirt.
"Wait."
"Wait?" His fingers paused on the second button, he raised a brow. "You're going to draw this wee bit of my throat?"
A nervous laugh escaped. "Your hands. Lord Lincolnshire's hands are in the picture. I've decided to start with your hands."
"I'm thinking you've sketched hands before. Your sisters', perhaps?"
"Yes, of course. But I need a man's hands."
"Lincolnshire had two, I believe. Quite naked at the time he sat for you."
"Old hands. I painted him younger."
"Your brother's hands, then. Surely he's sat for you."
"Not without grumbling. And never long enough."
"I don't remember you mentioning that any of the artists criticized Lincolnshire's hands. I'm thinking you've probably mastered the painting of hands."
"It's notoriously difficult to paint hands," she said in clipped tones. "Will you just sit down and show me your hands?"
Evidently she was anxious, which was hardly surprising. This was rather unnerving for him as well. "All right," he said, sitting and placing his hands on his spread knees. "Will this do?"
"That will do fine." She blew out a breath. "Just relax."
"I might suggest you do the same."
"Yes. Of course. Right." She scooted her chair closer and put pencil to paper. "However did you come to own half this neighborhood?"
He didn't usually talk to people about his property, his businesses, his company. He'd learned over the years that it made others envious. They couldn't understand how a single man could have so much, and they certainly didn't believe he'd worked hard and earned it honestly. They figured he'd come by it through luck or fraud or chicanery—or all three.
He'd grown up tithing, and these days he gave quite a bit of money to charity—more money every year than most people ever saw in a whole lifetime. But people didn't seem to care about that. They wanted what he had for themselves, and they resented him for having it when they didn't. They thought he should simply agree to give them some of it. Or they plotted ways to steal some of it, or destroy some of it.
Mother Mary, he'd never been able to decide which was worst.
Quite a few people did know, of course. People in high places, people he often dealt with. People those people had told. It was inevitable, he supposed, and he accepted that, even though it sometimes made life difficult. But he operated on the general principle that anyone who didn't already know—and had no reason to know—would be better kept in the dark.
But Corinna…
How could he justify keeping Corinna in the dark any longer? He'd been kissing her. She stirred his blood, and he'd become equally attracted to her intellect. He admired her. She seemed to fill a void in his life he hadn't known was there, and he'd been thinking of marrying her.
Though he remained far from convinced he actually could, the thought had surely crossed his mind. And she'd been asking for details for quite a while now. Not forcefully, but sweetly. Under the circumstances, it didn't feel right to keep dodging her questions.
"I have a knack," he finally said.
Her gaze stayed on her sketch, but a faint smile curved her lips. "Deirdre said you'd say that."
"When was that?"
"At the Billingsgate ball." Focusing on his left hand, she drew a few lines. "She told me you departed Ireland with nothing, and the next time she saw you, you owned several pieces of property."
"I didn't start with nothing," he corrected. "My uncle left me an inheritance."
"How much?"
"Ten thousand pounds."
She nodded, clearly unimpressed. Sean hadn't expected any different. Ten thousand might be a fortune to a vicar's son in Ireland, but to a marquess's daughter in Mayfair?
It was a pittance.
Such different people they were, from such different backgrounds. He might have money now and dress like a gentleman, but he'd never have met her were it not for Hamilton. He'd never have spoken to her. Never have danced with her or shared ices in Berkeley Square.
And they certainly would never have kissed.
He shifted uneasily, thinking he shouldn't be doing this. Knowing he shouldn't be doing this. It was too tempting for them both, and he didn't know how he was going to remove any more of his clothes without her attacking him and him allowing it. Or, more likely, encouraging it.
She was only sketching his hands so far, he reminded himself. There was no need to panic yet.
"What happened after you received the inheritance?" she asked.
"I left my family, came to London, bought a small, run-down building. By myself I fixed it up, and then I sold it for a profit. That's when I discovered I have a knack."
"For buying and selling property?"
"For making money," he said with a grin.
He couldn't help himself. He rarely talked about this with anyone, and he was rather proud of himself, after all. The seventh deadly sin, his father would have reminded him had he been alive to see how far his son had come. But Sean would have laughed, because he believed a man was entitled to find satisfaction in a job well-done.
As was a lady, he thought, watching her sketch. "I bought a larger building and did it again," he explained. "And again. Eventually I had enough funds to hire other people to fix up the buildings, so I could concentrate on finding and buying them faster, and after that, I realized it might be more profitable to keep some of the buildings—select ones, based on criteria—and make money leasing them out."
"Deirdre said you own more than buildings. Businesses. Manufactories. And ships, too, she told me."
His sister had a big mouth. No wonder Corinna had been so curious. "Well, now, one of the tenants I leased to had a business that was about to fail, and I realized I could fix that, too. So I bought it and made it profitable. And then I bought other businesses. And started some. Some of the businesses required supplies that came from outside the country, and I realized I could make more profit by importing such supplies myself. And importing supplies for other people. And exporting some of the things I was manufacturing, and some other things other people were manufacturing— " He cut himself off and shrugged. "I seem to have a knack for making money all sorts of ways."
She froze midsketch, stunned. And admiring. All the men she knew were wealthy, of course, but their wealth came from owning land. Mostly from owning land for generations—the same land, for hundreds of years. None of them had started with nothing, or even ten thousand pounds, and built their wealth all by themselves.
No other men she knew had a knack for making money. Or a knack for much of anything else, come to think of it. Except maybe sitting a horse or tying a perfect cravat.
"How is it coming?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The hands."
"Oh. They're…they're fine."
"You need to see more than hands, Corinna, if you're going to fix Lincolnshire's portrait."
She nodded, knowing he was right.
Apparently taking that as agreement, he rose and finished unbuttoning his shirt. In one single, fluid movement, he pulled it off over his head. Then he draped it over the arm of the sofa and…just stood there.
He was magnificent.
He looked better than the Elgin gods. Human, not marble, and very, very male. His chest rippled with muscles and ridges, and he looked warm and smooth and altogether enticing. It was all she could do to keep from reaching out to touch him.
She'd never seen another man without his shirt. Did they all look like this? Somehow, she thought not. All the gentlemen of her acquaintance led lives of leisure. It seemed fixing buildings had toned Sean's body in a way that made him different.
And much, much better.
His hands moved to the buttons on his trousers.
"No." She swallowed hard. "That's enough for now." She wouldn't be able to concentrate if presented with anything beyond that splendid torso. "You need a book."
"A book?"
"In the painting, Lord Lincolnshire is holding a book."
He reached for one of the sketchbooks Mr. Hamilton had left behind. Another fluid movement that made something flip-flop in her stomach. "Will this do?"
"What? Oh, yes. Have a seat. Like Lord Lincolnshire did, if you'll remember."
He sat and held the book, looking nothing like Lord Lincolnshire, even though the pose was similar. She sketched a few lines. Shaky lines, since she couldn't seem to take her eyes off him.
"I fear you don't really look like Lord Lincolnshire."
"Close enough, I imagine. You're painting him younger, aren't you?"
"I thought the portrait would be more compelling that way. And please Lord Lincolnshire more as well. But I seriously doubt he ever looked like you. That he looked so…"
Hard and hot. Strong and overwhelming. Just looking at Sean robbed her of words. She was growing more confident, though. Her fingers flew across the page, capturing every detail while she had the chance.
She'd remember this evening always.
"So…what?" he asked.
"Hmm?"
He smiled and settled back. "How many sessions do you expect you'll need?"
A thousand. Maybe more. "I've time for only two," she said regretfully. "After that I'll really need to paint. I hope Mr. Hamilton won't return and expect to use this studio before then."
"Don't worry yourself about that." Disgust filled his voice. "I got another letter from him yesterday. He's staying longer. Claims he's seeing fairies in the falls or some such blarney," he added with a snort. "But of course he's really lingering with his lover."
His lover. Corinna felt her skin heat just hearing those two words. Her eyes skimmed Sean's form, her pencil traced the lines on the paper, and she imagined him kissing her.
Her lips tingled.
She blew out a tense breath.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"I'm just concentrating."
Sean shifted, reclining a little to one side, raising an arm to lay it along the back edge of the sofa. He was looking more relaxed—and not at all like Lord Lincolnshire had posed. She considered asking him to move back, but she didn't want him to.
In the flickering candlelight, he looked absolutely delicious. So delicious she wanted a bite. It was a shocking thought, but she wanted to do it. She wanted to sink her teeth into all that smooth, warm skin—
Oh, this would never do.
She had to concentrate on sketching him, not biting him. Or kissing him.
She sketched awhile more in pensive silence.
"I know you're worried." She heard compassion in his voice. He shifted again, raising a bare foot to the sofa's surface. He rested the hand with the sketchbook on his bent knee. "But Hamilton is aware that I cannot pretend to be him at the Royal Academy. He'll be home in time to vote on the Selection Committee."
"I know that," she said.
"Is something else wrong, then, a rún?"
Oh, yes, something was wrong. He kept saying words she didn't understand, for one thing. Words that sounded so lovely and melodic they made her melt inside, even not knowing what they meant. And the way he was looking at her, the way she was looking at him. She wanted to touch him and bite him and kiss him, and she needed to sketch.
It was all just unbearable.
Her sketchbook and pencil both fell from her hands. "Oh, Sean, I don't think I can do this anymore. Not tonight."
His foot slid back down to the floor. The hand with the book dropped to his side. "Why not?"
She didn't answer. She didn't think she could tell him. Looking concerned, he took his arm off the edge of the sofa back and sat straighter, ruining the delicious pose.
But she found him delicious, anyway.
"Because I cannot concentrate," she said, feeling her temper rise, although she couldn't figure out why. "All I can think of is bi…kissing you."
"Oh. Well, then. I think we can fix that." She thought he might smile, but he didn't. In fact, he looked a little apprehensive. "Why don't you come over here and give me a kiss, get it out of your system?"
Well, she wasn't going to resist that invitation. She simply couldn't. She all but flew out of the chair and into his arms, sprawling over him on the sofa.
He'd intended it to be a little kiss. A get-it-out-of-your-system kiss. She knew that. She could tell by the way he looked startled, by the way his mouth felt a little stiff when she planted her lips on his.
But that didn't last long, of course. Most of their kisses had been rather wild, and this one was no exception. A moment later he was kissing her back, slanting his mouth over hers, sweeping his tongue inside to claim her.
And, oh, she wanted to be claimed. She remembered reading Ethelinde last summer, and how Ethelinde had cried, I am yours whenever you come to claim me. That was exactly how she felt.
But Minerva Press novels hadn't prepared her for everything else Sean made her feel. When he kissed her, the world disappeared…she knew only the exciting heat of his mouth and her own blood rushing through her veins, the fierce pounding of her heart and that wonderful melting feeling inside her.
He undid her.
Feeling like that now, she touched him like she'd been wanting to. She ran her hands over his bare skin, and it was hot and silky and made an ache form low in her middle. And she wanted more.
"I want you, Sean," she murmured.
He stopped kissing her. "What?"
"I want you." She hadn't realized that until she'd said it, but it was true. That was why her temper had flared; she wasn't getting what she wanted. "I want all of you."
He didn't pretend that he didn't understand her. "I want you, too," he said wryly, but she also heard frustration in his voice. "This is difficult, isn't it?"
"No, it's wonderful. You feel wonderful." She ran her hands over him again, feeling his muscles jump beneath his warm skin, beneath her fingers. A soft groan sounded in his throat, and he shut his eyes, making a little thrill run through her. "Touch me, Sean," she breathed. "Touch me like this."
Instead, he opened his eyes and took her hands. Took them off of himself.
"I cannot." He sat up, moving her to sit beside him, shifting so he could meet her eyes. "Not now, not before…it wouldn't be right, Corinna. I cannot do that." A strand of her hair had come loose, probably when she'd leapt on him, and he reached to gently tuck it back. "What you're offering me isn't mine to take. Not now."
"But I want you to take it." More than she'd wanted anything before in her life. "That makes it yours to take."
"It doesn't." He shook his head. "I shouldn't even be kissing you, though God knows I enjoy it. You're an innocent. A sheltered, aristocratic miss."
"I'm an artist," she argued. "Artists are eccentric, individualistic. Free-spirited." Maybe she wasn't all of those things, exactly, but she'd always wanted to be. "We don't conform to convention."
"Well, I do. Sweet Jesus, I'm the son of a vicar. I don't go around ruining women. I won't do to you what that bastard Hamilton did to my sister. I like to think I'm better than that."
Corinna was startled silent. How could she argue with that? How could she say she wanted him to act like the man he despised most in the world? He was only being honorable. And she'd known all along he was honorable, hadn't she?
He'd proved his honor so many times, in so many ways. The way he'd wanted her to know the truth from the very beginning, and kept at her until she believed him. The way he still felt guilty deceiving Lord Lincolnshire, even though he knew it was best.
And then there was the way he didn't want Deirdre to live with the man she loved unless she could marry him. She should hardly be surprised he held himself to the same standards. Sean was the most honorable man she knew.
That was one of the many reasons she loved him.
It wasn't that he didn't want her. She wasn't stupid enough to believe that. She could see the wanting in his face, feel it in his kiss, in the way he touched her. He'd said not now, hadn't he? He was planning a future with her. He hadn't told her yet, just like she hadn't told him she loved him. All of that had to wait until this was all over. She was going to have to content herself with his kisses until then.
He wanted her. He just didn't want her now. And he seemed so distressed, so troubled. The way he was looking at her broke her heart.
"You are much better than that," she said quietly. "That's why I want you so much, but I understand." And then, because she couldn't help herself: "But I wish you wanted me now."
"Of course I want you now," he burst out, sounding exasperated, sounding like he couldn't believe he had to explain it. "You obviously don't understand. I want you now, and a minute ago, and a minute from now. All I ever think about is wanting you. I want you more than I want to breathe, but I want what's best for you even more than that."
And when those words came out of his mouth, that was when Sean knew.
He loved her.
Yes, she made his blood sing; yes, she'd crawled under his skin; yes, he admired her drive and ambition. But it was more than that, much more. When a man put a woman's interests before his own, when he denied what he wanted most because it wouldn't be best for her…well, if that wasn't the definition of love, he didn't know what was.
He loved her. He was going to ask her to marry him.
Not now, not until all of this was over. Not until he'd seen everything through, eased Lincolnshire to his rest, settled things between Hamilton and Deirdre. Not until he'd reclaimed his life and had something to offer Corinna besides subterfuge and lies. Not until he could approach her brother with his head held high.
Even then, the marquess was likely to refuse him. But he was going to ask.
And though he was a busy man who rarely stopped to pray anymore, right now he was praying harder than he ever had that the answer would be yes.
He kissed her, because he'd already done that and there was no going back. It was a gentle kiss, slow and heartfelt, a kiss he hoped told her without words what he wasn't ready to say.
Then he rose and reached for his shirt. "I'm thinking it's a good idea for us to stop now, as you said. We'll do this again tomorrow afternoon."