Stafford dropped his stethoscope into his black leather bag and fastened it with a
snap
. ‘‘I’ll return in the morning. I trust Nurse Skeffington to take good care of him in the meantime.’’
Deirdre glanced gratefully at the sturdy woman hovering nearby. ‘‘Sure, and she will. And Sean and I will be caring for him, too.’’
Lord Lincolnshire’s actual niece by marriage, Deirdre was proving more devoted than Sean had expected. More grown-up than he’d imagined. He gave her a sad smile of approval before following Stafford downstairs.
The two men paused at the salon door. Corinna still had her back turned, but she wasn’t painting anymore. She wasn’t humming, either. She just stood there, gazing at her canvas.
Her hair was swept up, and the nape of her neck looked vulnerable. Something inside Sean stirred, a long, liquid pull.
As though she could sense it, she turned. ‘‘Sean. And James.’’ Joining them in the entry hall, she looked to her brother-in-law in concern.
‘‘Lord Lincolnshire has fallen asleep. I put a drop of laudanum in his tea. He’s resting easily for now.’’
‘‘Might he get better, then, do you think?’’
‘‘I fear not,’’ Lord Stafford said gently. ‘‘It is, of course, difficult to predict the path of an illness. He could have an hour or a day when he seems better, but overall he will continue to decline.’’ He leaned close and kissed her cheek. ‘‘You were right to send for me. Juliana suggested I see him, but I didn’t realize the situation was so urgent.’’
‘‘Thank you for coming.’’ She walked him to the front door, which the competent Quincy was already holding open. ‘‘I know Lord Lincolnshire is in the best of hands,’’ she added softly.
She watched him go down the steps, then waited for Quincy to close the door before turning to Sean. ‘‘When did you get home?’’
This wasn’t home, but he shrugged wearily. ‘‘A while ago. You looked very busy.’’
‘‘I’m finished.’’
‘‘Leaving for the evening, then?’’
‘‘I’m
finished
. With the painting.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ He blinked. ‘‘May I have a look?’’
‘‘Yes, I was hoping you would.’’ She hesitated a moment before heading back to the salon, motioning him to follow. She seemed to hold her breath as they drew near the canvas. ‘‘What do you think?’’
‘‘It looks just like Lincolnshire. A healthier, more vital Lincolnshire.’’ The man who’d sat for her, blended together with the younger Lincolnshire of her memories, Sean guessed.
It was a full-body portrait, a natural pose in lieu of the typical head-and-torso formality. The painting showed the earl seated on a bench beneath a plane tree in Berkeley Square—perhaps the same bench where Sean had explained the truth to Corinna. Lincolnshire wasn’t eating a Gunter’s ice, though; instead he held a weighty, leather-bound book. Rather than reading it, he looked like he’d just glanced up, distracted by the viewer walking by. He seemed relaxed, contemplative. And very much alive.
‘‘It’s good,’’ Sean said simply.
Corinna exhaled in a rush. ‘‘You know nothing about art.’’
‘‘I know what I like, and it looks very well done to me. You’ll submit it for the Summer Exhibition, won’t you?’’
‘‘I hope to. But first I’m going to show it at Lady Avonleigh’s reception on Wednesday.’’ She’d have it delivered, along with a selection of her other paintings, to Lady A’s house tomorrow. ‘‘I want to see what the artists say of it.’’
‘‘The judges.’’
‘‘Yes.’’ She met his gaze, nerves suddenly jumping in her stomach. ‘‘I hope they’ll like it.’’
Her voice quavered, and she wondered if he had heard it. He didn’t say anything, so she couldn’t tell. He only looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her, while she stood there wishing she hadn’t eaten any luncheon, because she felt like what she had eaten was about to come back up.
Abruptly he turned and walked back to the salon’s huge carved and gilded door. Shut it with a heavy
thump
. Then turned again to face her. ‘‘You’re nervous,’’ he stated in that low, melodic tone that made everything shift inside her. ‘‘Come here, Corinna.’’
She rushed into his arms, raising her face for his kiss. But he didn’t kiss her. He only held her. He only held her tight, murmuring wordless sounds of comfort, or maybe they were Irish words—she didn’t know. But just at that moment, she fell in love.
The realization robbed her of breath, made her heart stutter once before it raced faster. She slid her hands beneath his tailcoat and around him. Squeezed him as he was squeezing her, as hard as she could.
‘‘There’s nothing to be nervous about,’’ he said soothingly, running his hands up and down her back. ‘‘It’s a lovely painting.’’
She turned her head, laid her cheek against his warm, comforting chest, wishing there weren’t a shirt and waistcoat between them. ‘‘I know.’’
‘‘And you’ve many more paintings at home, do you not? So if the judges don’t agree, they could choose another one.’’
He smelled like starch and soap and man. ‘‘I know.’’ Impossibly masculine man.
‘‘And if they don’t choose another one, there’s always next year. You won’t give up. I know you.’’
She knew him, too. And she loved him. She didn’t think she could tell him—there was so much happening around them, so much else complicating his life. But she raised her face again, hoping this time he’d kiss her so she could tell him without words.
He did.
It was a gentle kiss, not at all like the ones they’d shared before. Their kisses tended to be stormy. But this was calm and slow and soothing—and exactly what she needed.
Tender and caring, his lips slid over hers, taking their time. His tongue swept her mouth, languid and unhurried, luxurious and deliberate, as though tasting her and discovering her and making her feel better were the only things he cared about in the whole world.
She quivered. But not with nervousness now, because he was right: There was always next year, and at the moment this give and take, this lingering caress, seemed so much more important. She lost herself in him, lost herself in the magic of love and all of its promise.
A knock came at the door, and they jerked apart. Sean whirled and opened it. ‘‘Deirdre.’’
His sister blinked, looking between them. ‘‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to interrupt.’’
‘‘No, no.’’ He drew her inside. ‘‘Lady Corinna was just showing me her finished picture.’’
Corinna feared the other woman could see the truth on her face—or rather her lips, which were tingling and felt thoroughly kissed. But if Deirdre could tell, she didn’t let on. Her own lips curved in a faint smile as she walked toward the painting.
‘‘Oh, Lady Corinna, this is absolutely lovely. Tell me about it, will you?’’
Behind Deirdre’s back, Corinna shared one last, lingering glance with Sean, feeling so much better about everything. She was in love, and she knew that mattered more than any painting.
Hugging her new secret to herself, she went to join his sister.
Chapter Twenty-six
ALMOND CAKES
Grinde halfe a pound of Almonds and mixe with halfe a pound of Sugar and Orange or Lemon Water. To this add ten Yolks of Egges beaten and the boiled skins of two Oranges or Lemons grounde fine. Mixe together with stiff Egge Whites and melted Butter gone cold and bake it all in a good Crust.
Good for nibbling during nervous occasions, such as when my daughter brought my first grandchild into the world earlier this year. Oh, my, what a day and night. I think I’d much rather give birth myself!
—Elizabeth Chase, Countess of Greystone, 1736
As was customary, the furniture in Aunt Frances’s Hanover Square home had been rearranged to prepare for the birth of her child. On the ground floor of Malmsey House, a room had been designated as the lying-in chamber, and a portable folding bed had been brought in for the occasion. A larger connecting room provided a gathering place for relations during the labor, and more rooms across the corridor had been outfitted to house the accoucheur—the obstetrical doctor—and the monthly nurse, called such because she not only assisted the accoucheur and attended the mother during the birth, but stayed for a month afterward to care for the baby.
The accoucheur and monthly nurse had arrived yesterday in anticipation of Aunt Frances’s due date a week hence. But Dr. Holmes had apparently reckoned incorrectly, because today, while Corinna and her family nibbled at the almond cakes Juliana had baked and brought, Frances was laboring in the inner chamber.
As she had been for half a day already.
Corinna had been forced to rush this morning to get her paintings sent to Lady A’s house before coming here to be with Aunt Frances. Along with the portrait, she’d chosen all her best landscapes and a few of her favorite still lifes. At least waiting for the birth was keeping her from fretting over whether she’d made the right selections.
Well, a little bit, anyway.
Hearing more moans and murmurs through the door, she winced. ‘‘How long is this going to take?’’
‘‘It hasn’t been that long.’’ Alexandra smiled down at her infant son. ‘‘If you’d attended Harry’s birth, you’d know that.’’
Alexandra had delivered in the wintertime, at Hawk-ridge House in the countryside. Two weeks early, a full week before her sisters had planned to arrive. Her accoucheur had miscalculated, too, and at the moment, Corinna was grateful for that. The thought of Alexandra groaning like Aunt Frances made her want to groan herself.
‘‘Oh, damn,’’ Griffin suddenly said.
‘‘What is it?’’ Corinna asked. Had he heard something through the door that she hadn’t? Something bad? Something dire?
‘‘It’s nothing,’’ he said. ‘‘I just forgot something.’’ He rose and went over to a little desk in a corner of the room, where he started pulling drawers open. ‘‘I need to send a message.’’
Juliana rose, too, and found paper and quill for him. ‘‘It seems this is taking forever,’’ she said, looking rather pale as she returned to her seat. ‘‘James, maybe you should help.’’
‘‘I don’t deliver babies,’’ her physician husband said for the fifth time. ‘‘But there’s no need to fret. Dr. Holmes is the best.’’
‘‘He could take some measures,’’ Griffin muttered as he scribbled.
‘‘It’s usually better not to intervene as long as the labor is making progress. What would you have him do?’’
‘‘Bloodletting, perhaps.’’
‘‘James does not believe in bleeding,’’ Juliana said quickly. Juliana hated the sight of blood. She said it made her sick to her stomach.
Griffin folded his letter and started scribbling again, adding the direction to the outside. ‘‘Then maybe forceps.’’
‘‘The use of forceps,’’ James said, ‘‘can result in tearing the mother.’’
‘‘I don’t want to hear this,’’ Corinna said. The sight of blood didn’t bother her, but her stomach was turning anyway with all of this talk. She didn’t want to see Aunt Frances bled, and the thought of forceps was equally upsetting. But something needed to be done, because she didn’t think she could listen to what was coming from behind the closed door a moment longer.
‘‘Are you all right?’’ Juliana asked her.
‘‘I’m fine. I just never want to give birth.’’
Everyone laughed. But this was no laughing matter. She was never going to tell Sean she loved him, because what if he wanted to get married? And though Griffin probably wouldn’t assent, what if he did? She could end up wedded and bedded and moaning and groaning behind a birthing room door herself.
A particularly piercing scream came from the room beyond, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
‘‘It’s worth it,’’ Alexandra said softly, still smiling down at her child.
‘‘I think I’ll stick to producing pictures,’’ Corinna muttered.
‘‘Your husband may not agree with that,’’ Griffin said, rising from the desk. He strode toward the room’s door. ‘‘I’ll be right back. I need to give this to a footman to have it delivered.’’
I believe all men are deceitful
, Corinna remembered Amanda saying in
Children of the Abbey
. Well, her brother was not deceitful. Oh, no, he was perfectly straightforward. He was determined to marry her off, and there was nothing the least bit deceitful about the way he was going about it. To the contrary, he regularly announced it to the world.
Your husband may not agree with that.
Corinna was yelling at him in her head, deciding just what words to use to make it clear to him, once and for all, that she wasn’t looking for a husband in the first place and wouldn’t accept one who didn’t support her art career in any case—when the moaning and screaming suddenly stopped.
Corinna’s breathing stopped, too. ‘‘Do you think Aunt Frances is . . . ?’’
She couldn’t bring herself to utter the word
dead
. And evidently no one else could, either, because a tense silence flooded the room.