"THANK YOU," Sean said simply as he walked Corinna toward the door later. "You saved my skin by offering to paint him."
"I told you that you could count on me. May I look in here?" she asked, indicating another drawing room. Lincolnshire House seemed to have a surplus of drawing rooms. "I'd like to see if there are any more Rembrandts."
"I can't think why not." He walked in with her. "What color is this room?"
"Mostly green. The walls are lined with bright green silk damask, and the draperies are green silk trimmed with black velvet. The furniture is all covered in golden and dark red brocade. It's beautiful. I'm sorry you cannot see it."
"I can see it," he told her. "It just looks different to me. The color I can see best is blue. All the rooms in my house are blue, except for Deirdre's."
"Where is your house?"
"In Hampstead. Who painted that landscape you're staring at?"
"John Hamilton." She laughed, a joyful, unselfconscious sound. "All the paintings in this room are Hamiltons. It seems Lord Lincolnshire truly is quite proud of his nephew."
"Figures," Sean muttered in disgust. "It's good to know that, though. I imagine I'd make a holy show of myself if he took me in here and I didn't recognize my own paintings."
"A holy show?"
"A great fool of myself," he translated. "A massive embarrassment." Apparently he hadn't ridden himself of the Irish as much as he'd thought. "Thank you again. I really do appreciate your help."
"I'm glad to hear that," she said. Moving to a fine Kent fireplace, she leaned against the mantel flirtatiously. Well, not precisely flirtatiously, because she wasn't a flirtatious woman. Sean found her much more straightforward than that. But seductively.
And effectively.
"I think you owe me a kiss," she added in a soft, alluring tone.
He laughed. What else could he do? "I'm not John Hamilton, remember? I'm no longer a trophy. Why should you want to kiss me again?"
"Maybe I liked it the first time," she said blithely.
Except she didn't look blithe. She still looked seductive. Bloody hell.
It was her eyes, Sean decided. Those blue, blue eyes. They made a man grateful for being color-blind. And her voice. Something in her voice appealed to him. So low and sweet. He was amused to hear sarcastic words come out of her mouth, and when she wasn't being sarcastic and he wasn't being amused, well, then…
Well, then he wanted to kiss her.
"I told my sisters your secret," she said, interrupting his tangled thoughts.
"What?" He was appalled. Any thought of kissing her fled his mind.
"I had to share it with someone," she said. "I had to. I feared I'd done wrong encouraging you to keep it up, and—"
"What did they say?"
"They heartily approved. They assured me I'd done exactly the right thing. I'm not at all sorry I told them."
"Don't tell anyone else."
"But—"
"Don't."
She hesitated, then nodded. "I won't."
"I want your promise."
"I promise. And a Chase promise is never given lightly," she added solemnly.
And seductively.
It was that voice, those eyes.
Bloody hell.
"All right, then." It seemed disaster had been averted. But that didn't stop him from sighing. He just wished he could decide what he was sighing about. "You'll be back Monday to start the actual painting? Early, I hope?"
"First thing in the morning."
"Excellent." Maybe he'd be able to escape and get something done. "I—"
"Of course, morning for me starts at noon."
"Noon?"
"At the earliest. I like to paint through the wee hours, so I sleep late." She straightened away from the fireplace and walked closer. Right up to him. So close he could see her blue irises were rimmed in a darker, midnight shade. So close he could smell her floral fragrance and the faint scent of paint underneath it.
Thoughts of kissing her flooded back.
"Do you know what else my sisters said?" she asked. Seductively.
"How could I? But I'm sure you'll tell me."
"Juliana said it doesn't signify that you're not a peer, because you're connected to the right people. And she was impressed that you own property."
"She doesn't know how much I own," he pointed out. "And neither do you."
"Houses in Hampstead are very expensive," she said dismissively. "And Alexandra reminded me that our brother, Griffin, is named for an ancestor. Aidan Griffin, Baron Kilcullen from Ballygriffin, Ireland."
"And the significance of all that is…?"
"They think it's all right for you to kiss me." She stepped even closer. "Are you certain you don't want to? I might get up earlier in the morning for a kiss."
What was a man supposed to do when a woman made such an offer? A woman who looked like an angel and tasted like sin? A woman who'd just brushed off every reason he'd considered her off-limits?
Besides, he really did need to attend to his work.
"How much earlier?" he asked.
"Ten o'clock."
"Eight."
"Nine."
He yanked her against his body and fastened his lips on hers.
For a brief moment he cursed his own weakness, but then he lost himself in the immense pleasure of kissing such a warm, willing woman. She pressed closer. Sweet Jesus, he could feel every curve of her through his clothes. Her hands drifted up and fisted in his hair. He felt his heart beating against hers and the seductive heat of her mouth. He'd never wanted anyone with such a fever, with such a hunger. She wasn't for him, but she'd crawled into him, and now she held him in her grip.
When she stepped back, she had a dazed smile on her face that he was certain reflected his own.
"I'll see you Monday at nine," she said softly, and quit the room.
He heard her footsteps cross the stone floor in the entrance hall, heard the door open, heard Quincy bid her a polite farewell. By the time the door closed, he'd gathered his wits.
Somewhat.
Another man would head straight to the bottle and down a stiff drink for fortification. He'd never taken up the habit, but if anything could drive him to it, it was this damned charade.
Well, maybe he could leave now, get a little work done.
He went back to the other drawing room, where Lincolnshire was dozing in the chair. He touched the man gently on the shoulder and smiled when his eyes fluttered open. "Would you like me to see you to bed, Uncle? I think you could use the rest. And I could use a few hours to paint."
"Very well," Lincolnshire said. "But I really do…wish to meet your wife."
Sean mentally winced. He'd thought they'd dispensed with this subject. "It's truly sorry I am, but as I told you, she's in the countryside."
"You can summon her…can't you? She'll be the next countess…and the mother of my eventual heirs. I wish to…get to know her." The earl paused for a much-needed breath. And another. "Please, Sean."
The dear man's eyes shone with hope. How could Sean refuse him?
He couldn't.
Bloody hell.
"NO." IN HER beautiful floral-painted bedroom, the only room in Sean's house that wasn't blue—in fact, he wasn't sure what color it was—Deirdre tossed a pile of shifts into the trunk she was filling. "I've told you twice already, no."
It felt like days since Sean had been home. Hell, it had been days since he'd been home. He'd neglected his work yet again to come talk to his sister, and this wasn't the welcome he'd hoped for. "Why are you packing your things, then?"
"I'm moving to Daniel's house tomorrow. I'm bored out of my mind here alone in Hampstead. I'm going to live in the middle of London, where a body sees another face once in a while."
Oh, no, she wasn't. "You'll live in London, all right, but with Lincolnshire." He was allowing his empire to go to hell in order to obtain her precious divorce, and she couldn't even wait and see this thing through? "I want you to arrive early Monday evening. That will make it believable that you had to come in from the countryside. You owe me, Deirdre. I'm doing a favor for you. Now you'll do this favor for me."
"I didn't ask for any favors. I don't want any favors." She pulled three dresses out of her clothespress. Brown, brown, and brown. "I still cannot believe you allowed John to talk you into this ridiculous scheme."
"Well, I did." And didn't he regret it even more than she? "And now Lincolnshire is insisting he meet Hamilton's wife. Which is you, in case you don't remember."
"Oh, I remember," Deirdre said dryly. "But I don't care." The dresses clenched in her hands, she turned to him. "What is the man going to do, after all, should you fail to bring him a wife to meet?"
"He'll be disappointed."
"I've news for you, Sean: We're all disappointed sometimes. Lincolnshire will survive."
"He won't survive, no. Either way. And he deserves happiness in his final days. He's a nice man, Deirdre."
"John never thought so."
"John is an idiot."
"You've a point there." She folded the dresses, then sighed and went back for more. "But I don't want to play your wife."
Sean echoed her own words. "I've news for you, Deirdre: We all have to do things we'd rather not sometimes."
"Sometimes, maybe. But not this time."
"If I don't produce a wife," he argued, "Lincolnshire may retaliate by withholding his fortune from your husband."
"John deserves that. Nothing would make me happier."
"Think again, little sister. If Hamilton isn't satisfied with the job I do placating his uncle—if he loses his inheritance as a result—I'd lay odds he won't grant you your divorce."
She shrugged. "I don't care. I told you not to do this in the first place. I'll be happy living with Daniel whether I'm married to him or not."
Sean kept silent a moment, deliberating. And then, "You won't be living with Daniel Raleigh," he said quietly.
"I will. Is something wrong with your ears, Sean? I told you, I'm moving to Daniel's house tomorrow."
"No, you're not. You're moving to Lincolnshire House on Monday."
"Something is wrong with your ears."
He hadn't wanted to tell her the whole truth, hadn't wanted her to know the worst. Hadn't wanted her to feel guilty or indebted.
But he didn't see where he had a choice.
"Whether he inherits Lincolnshire's fortune or not, Hamilton will soon be an earl. He's going to require an heir. In lieu of divorcing you, he intends to force you to move back in with him until you bear him a male child."
That stopped her halfway from her clothespress to the bed. She swiveled to him, a blue dress and a brown one clutched tight to her middle. "He wouldn't. You're making this up to get me to do what you want."
"I'm not making anything up." He walked closer and put a hand on her shoulder, easing her toward the bed and down to sit. "He told me this, Deirdre. When I refused to do his bidding, he told me to force me to agree. And the law is clear. If he demands you back in his bed, you'll have no choice but to comply." He sighed and sat beside her. "You're already packed. Come play Mrs. Hamilton at Lincolnshire House, will you? With any luck, it will be for the last time."
Her fingers uncurled; her arms dropped to her sides. The dresses slid from her lap to the floor. "You win," she said.
But he didn't feel like a winner.