And there she stopped short.
The paintings taunted her. Hidden paintings, dozens of them stacked leaning against the walls. Portrait after portrait, none of them quite right.
She’d spent a decade and more learning to paint still lifes and landscapes. Practicing, persevering, perfecting. Eventually she’d begun putting people into her scenes, figures strolling or laboring or simply lounging in the background. But that hadn’t proved enough, hadn’t satisfied her dreams.
She’d always wanted to paint real portraits, detailed studies of people. She all but
burned
to paint portraits, and last year she’d put all other sorts of painting behind her.
She walked closer and flipped canvases, bringing the candle near to scrutinize the year’s many efforts. Her maid. Alexandra and Juliana. Alexandra and baby Harry. Juliana alone, her shoulders bare, her skirts hiked up to expose one scandalous, naked knee.
Juliana, the dear, had obligingly posed for Corinna in the buff. Rigidly, self-consciously nude. Unfortunately, Corinna had been unable to
paint
her sister nude, as the sight of such a work of art would have driven Griffin out of his mind.
And none of the paintings were good enough.
Sighing, she leaned them back against the wall. She knew she had it in her to produce a fine portrait. She’d long since mastered all the things she could easily study—the face, the hair, the clothing, the hands—and she portrayed her subjects’ expressions with unfailing insight.
But when it came to the body, she found herself frustrated every time. The people looked stiff and unnatural, not altogether surprising, given they’d looked stiff and unnatural when they’d posed. Corinna’s maid and sisters could never seem to sit still for long, and sketching them had never proved as helpful as she’d wished.
Not to mention her maid and sisters were all female. Men were formed differently, and since half the world’s population was male, Corinna intended to paint them, too. But barring her brother—who so far had been uncooperative—where on earth was a gently bred lady supposed to find a male model?
Well, perhaps sketching the Elgin Marbles had done the trick, she reminded herself, lifting her chin. At least
they
had held still for hours.
Squaring her shoulders, she returned to her room and summoned her maid to help ready her for bed. But then she found she couldn’t relax. She rarely rose before noon, because she retired late as a habit. Although painting by candlelight rather than sunlight could sometimes prove challenging, the night hours were quiet, almost mystical, the very best time for creativity.
It was too early to fall asleep.
She pulled out a small book tucked under her bed, the second volume of
Celia in Search of a Husband
by Medora Gordon Byron. Smiling, she cradled it in her hands. A Minerva Press novel, a torrid romance, bound as usual in cheap marble-patterned paper.
Other than painting, reading Minerva Press novels was Corinna’s favorite, most secret escape.
She bought them in secret, too. Most fortunately, a bookseller’s shop sat next door to the colorman’s shop where she purchased her art supplies. Her maid or a footman generally accompanied her on these excursions, since no one in the family had the patience to wait for hours while she chose the perfect oils and tints. Which was a good thing, since that meant they never saw her go into the bookshop afterward, either.
The last thing she wanted was her family discovering she reveled in such unrefined literature. Her sisters would be properly scandalized—or else they would tease her mercilessly. And Griffin would doubtless be pleased; he’d say it proved she pined for love and a husband.
She could do without any of those reactions.
To make doubly sure there was no risk of discovery, after reading a Minerva Press novel she always donated it to the circulating library. That way other women could enjoy them. She had no need to ever reread them herself, since she was afflicted—yes,
afflicted
—with the capability of remembering everything she’d ever read.
Word for word.
The printed pages simply appeared in her mind, and random sentences popped into her head at the oddest, most inconvenient moments. It was annoying beyond end. Almost annoying enough to make her stop reading.
But only almost. She set the candle on her bedside table and opened the book with a happy sigh.
Celia was rather amusing. Though the woman proclaimed loudly and often that she wanted a husband, she discarded men left and right, as though they were so many used handkerchiefs. On page 183, Celia sighed ‘‘mentally,’’ according to the author.
Corinna often sighed silently, too.
Am I rigid?
Celia wondered.
What woman of real feeling would trust her peace to the keeping of a libertine? It may prove the vanity of love to believe that we could fix the heart hitherto unprincipled, but a trusting woman must meet, in the creature of her choice, either the idol of her hopes or certain disappointment in her connubial happiness—for here is no medium.
Exactly, Corinna thought with a sigh. A mental sigh, of course. One could not fix an unprincipled man, no matter how much she loved him, and what were the chances of her meeting her idol? Certain disappointment was much more likely, which was why she, a woman of real feeling, was
much
better off putting her faith in her art.
Chapter Nine
Lady Partridge lived in a small mansion at the edge of Mayfair. On Saturday night, the line of carriages stretched for blocks. Sean figured he could have inspected two properties and negotiated three deals by the time he and his ‘‘uncle’’ made their way to the front.
Two footmen reached in for Lincolnshire, who had spent most of the wait dozing. He glanced at Sean as they helped him hobble out. ‘‘You look a bit sober, eh?’’
‘‘I beg your pardon, sir? I should think so.’’ Sean watched the footmen settle the earl in an amazing contraption. A typical dining room chair with a caned back and an upholstered seat, it had two huge wheels attached to its sides and a smaller wheel centered behind. ‘‘I am not an inveterate drinker, I can assure you.’’
Indeed, to the contrary—and to Deirdre’s unending amusement—Sean seemed the only Irishman alive who couldn’t hold his liquor.
‘‘Downed a toddy myself before leaving,’’ the earl said as one of the servants lifted his feet while the other unfolded a small, upholstered shelf for them to rest upon. ‘‘A swallow of spirits never hurt a fellow, should you ask me. But I plan to stick around long enough to get to know you, yet you look to be dressed for a funeral. Not mine, I hope.’’
‘‘Certainly not yours, sir.’’ Sean shook out a blanket and settled it on the earl’s lap to hide his swollen legs. Lincolnshire was a rather slight fellow in general, but his lower extremities would fit a man thrice his size. When Sean had seen them uncovered earlier this evening, he’d winced. ‘‘I’m afraid, however, that I’ve not spent much time at balls.’’ He’d never been to a ball, as a matter of fact, so he’d had to guess at the proper garb. ‘‘Is something wrong with what I’m wearing?’’
‘‘Not wrong, no. Just drab for such a festive occasion.’’ Lincolnshire himself was decked out in peacock blue and gold. ‘‘A little color wouldn’t be amiss.’’
‘‘Ah, I see,’’ Sean said as he moved around to push the chair. ‘‘But I’ve a decided preference for black and white.’’
In truth, he
always
wore black and white. He’d learned early that to do otherwise meant risking mismatches often found humorous. Since he had nothing but black and white in his wardrobe, he was relieved to find his choice suitable if not stylish.
As he wheeled the man toward the door, a tall proper butler opened it. Sounds of music drifted out. ‘‘Your name, sir?’’
‘‘Lincolnshire,’’ Lincolnshire barked. ‘‘And my nephew, Mr. Hamilton.’’
‘‘My lord Lincolnshire, do please come in.’’ Judging from the butler’s tone, if Lincolnshire had been a dog, the man would have petted him. ‘‘Lady Partridge left instructions to be notified the very moment you arrived. This way, if you will,’’ he added, motioning Sean along.
But Sean couldn’t push the chair in the direction indicated. In fact, he couldn’t push it anywhere at all. It seemed Lord Lincolnshire had barked his name a little too loudly, because people began streaming into the Partridge foyer, all but trapping the two of them in place.
‘‘Lord Lincolnshire!’’ An aging matron took the old man’s hands. ‘‘It’s positively delightful to see you!’’
‘‘I’m delighted as well, Lady Fotherington. May I introduce my long-lost nephew, Mr. Sean Hamilton? He’s like a son to me.’’
Sean tensed, waiting to be called a fraud, but the woman focused on him only briefly. ‘‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,’’ she said politely, displaying no interest in him at all.
Apparently his secret was safe. He didn’t know any members of the
ton
, he reminded himself, glancing around at the growing gathering. And none of these people knew him.
There was no cause for worry.
‘‘Lord Lincolnshire, how are you feeling?’’ the woman asked.
‘‘As well as can be expected. And how is your son?’’ Lincolnshire squeezed her hands. ‘‘Well as well, I hope?’’
‘‘Oh, he’s very well indeed, thanks in no small part to your assistance.’’
‘‘ ’Twas but a trifle, my lady, I assure you.’’
A young gentleman laid a hand on Lincolnshire’s shoulder. ‘‘Is there aught I can do for you, my lord? After all, there’s so much you’ve done for me.’’
An older, taller man sighed. ‘‘Who will bring toys this Christmas for the children at the Foundling Hospital?’’
‘‘Who indeed?’’ Tears tracked down a middle-aged lady’s cheeks. ‘‘We’re going to miss you, Lord Lincolnshire. Mightily.’’
One after another people arrived, crowding the foyer to pay their respects to the dying Earl of Lincolnshire. Men sighed and women cried, young and old alike sharing their memories, expressing their affection, declaring their sorrow.
And over and over, most touching of all, proclaiming their utter desire to see him leave the world a man content.
‘‘We would do anything for you, my lord.’’
‘‘Anything.’’
‘‘Anything to make your last days easier.’’
‘‘Anything to please you.’’
‘‘Anything at all . . .’’
Corinna was dancing with a thoroughly boring man— the latest in a string that proved Griffin hadn’t the slightest idea what she was hoping for in a husband—when she noticed her old neighbor Lord Lincolnshire enter the ballroom.
Well, try to enter, she mentally amended. He was making excruciatingly slow progress, surrounded as he was by adoring people, all of whom seemed to be clamoring to capture his attention at once. Propped up in a cane-backed wheelchair, he looked happier than she’d imagined a dying man could possibly be.
The sight warmed her inside. If anyone in the world deserved happiness, it was Lord Lincolnshire. Watching him glance up and back, she smiled when she saw him aim an elated grin at whoever was pushing the chair. Her gaze followed his, focusing on the man behind him.
And her heart stuttered.
That crisp, overlong black hair. Those emerald eyes. That angular, sculpted face.
Her Greek god.
She’d never finished the drawing of him she’d begun in the Elgin Gallery. He’d left too soon. She’d actually tried painting him today—she’d decided she wanted him in her portrait—but she’d found herself unable to recall enough detail. Eventually she’d concluded she’d have to choose another subject and glumly painted over her efforts before dressing for tonight’s ball.
Her canvas once more had a plain white oval where there should be a face. And now her fingers itched for a pencil.
She hadn’t expected to see him ever again. He’d certainly never appeared at a society event before this. What was he doing here? How had he come to be with Lord Lincolnshire, pushing the dear old earl in a wheelchair?
‘‘Whom are you staring at?’’ her partner asked.
She’d forgotten the dratted man. Indeed, she was suddenlythankful her mother had forced her to dance lessons those countless times when she’d protested she’d prefer to paint. All of that practice had allowed her to continue dancing by rote when she hadn’t been paying attention. ‘‘I was watching Lord Lincolnshire. I’m so glad he managed to attend tonight. Might you know that gentleman with him? I’m wondering if he could be the artist John Hamilton.’’
‘‘I’ve not seen him before, but I seriously doubt he’s John Hamilton. John Hamilton never appears in public.’’ The music came to an end, and the man bowed. ‘‘Thank you for the dance, Lady Corinna.’’
‘‘My pleasure,’’ she assured him, smiling distractedly.
Thinking Juliana knew everyone, after curtsying Corinna looked around and found her sister conversing with her mother-in-law, the new Lady Cavanaugh.
‘‘Might either of you know that man accompanying Lord Lincolnshire?’’ she asked, barging right in.