The man did have a point. Although Sean was taller, they both had dark hair and green eyes. And Lincolnshire hadn’t seen Hamilton in twenty-seven years. No doubt Sean
could
pull it off.
Except he couldn’t.
‘‘Regardless that I know all those things, your uncle will never believe me. He’ll never believe I’m an artist. I’m color-blind, which you seem to have conveniently forgotten.’’
Hamilton laughed. ‘‘People don’t question such details. The old man will believe whatever you tell him. He’s ill and dying—and hell, even another
artist
will believe you’re an artist. I’ll bet you,’’ he challenged, opening the flimsy door to the Elgin Gallery. ‘‘I’ll bet you I can convince another artist that you’re an artist, and if I can, your forfeit will be to carry out my plan and thereby secure your sister’s divorce. If I fail, I’ll grant Deirdre the divorce as my forfeit. Take it or leave it, Delaney.’’
Before Sean could protest any further, Hamilton pushed him toward a young woman busily sketching.
Chapter Three
If only she could find a real man who looked like
this
, Corinna mused as she sketched another Greek god, life would be downright blissful.
Not that she was interested in wedding anytime soon, much to her brother Griffin’s chagrin. He wanted nothing more than to marry her off, to have her—his last unwed sister—out of his house and off of his hands. To make her someone else’s responsibility.
To that end, he’d insisted on shoving her toward eligible men at all the balls this year. He’d also been dragging her to Almack’s and every other social event on the calendar. The Season had been under way but a few weeks, yet she felt as though she’d met more men this month than the rest of her life combined.
It was annoying, to say the least.
She did enjoy balls, and she also liked men, of course. She’d especially liked kissing the few who had managed to get her alone. Although artists were supposed to be passion-filled creatures, she’d sadly lacked passion in her life until recently. Her grandmother, father, mother, and eldest brother had died in succession, keeping her from socializing for four long years. Now that she’d finally experienced some passion, she’d found men’s lips to be softer and warmer than she’d expected, and the closeness had proved positively exhilarating. Enjoyable, indeed.But right now her art was more important than any search for love.
Unless she were to find one of these Greek gods . . .
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she used her pencil to shade the fascinating muscles on the god’s perfect, bare, toned chest. Then she looked up, suddenly spotting two gentlemen heading in her direction. As though some higher power had read her mind and sent him to fulfill her fantasy, the taller one seemed to her a Greek god come to life.
Flipping to a new page, she started sketching the real man instead of the stone replica. Quickly, before he disappeared from view.
His angular, sculpted face was framed by crisp black curls that grew long at the back of his neck . . . long enough to make a woman’s fingers itch to comb through them. His eyes were the greenest she’d ever seen. Unfortunately, he was rather more clothed than the marble gods, but having sketched quite a few of them, she fancied she could imagine what he looked like beneath his well-made but conservative trousers, waistcoat, and tailcoat. Her pencil outlined broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips—
She froze midsketch as the two men walked right up to her.
‘‘Good afternoon,’’ the shorter one said.
Like the taller man, he was dark-haired and green-eyed and good-looking. And he was much more fashionably dressed. But all in all, she decided, not nearly of the same Greek-god caliber.
Still, she swallowed hard. She wasn’t accustomed to handsome gentlemen introducing themselves. Good manners dictated they ask permission of a young lady’s chaperone, who would then provide the introduction.
She might have kissed a few men, but none who hadn’t gone through the proper channels to meet her first.
‘‘Good afternoon,’’ she returned guardedly. ‘‘Mr. . . . ?’’
‘‘Delaney,’’ he said smoothly. ‘‘Sean Delaney, at your service. And this,’’ he added, indicating the taller man, ‘‘is my good friend Mr. John Hamilton. Having noticed you sketching, he wished to be introduced to a fellow artist. You’ve heard of him, I presume?’’
Had she heard of him? Corinna’s sketchbook and pencil fell to the floor as her jaw dropped open.
Everyone
had heard of John Hamilton, the renowned, reclusive painter of landscapes. She turned to him, positively stunned. Her Greek god was John Hamilton—John Hamilton!—and he’d requested an introduction. To
her
, Corinna Chase, possibly the most
un
renowned artist in all of London.
‘‘Mr. Hamilton,’’ she gushed, ‘‘I cannot tell you how much I admire—’’
‘‘Please stop,’’ he interrupted, bending to scoop up her supplies. He straightened and, with a roll of his gorgeous emerald eyes toward Mr. Delaney, handed the items to her. ‘‘I’m sorry, but I’m not John Hamilton.’’ His lilting accent was distracting. The deep, melodious Irish voice didn’t quite mesh with the Greek physique. ‘‘I’m Sean Delaney. And I’m afraid my brother-in-law here—the
real
John Hamilton—has a horrible sense of humor.’’
‘‘Now, Hamilton.’’ The other man dolefully shook his head. ‘‘There’s no need to hide your identity from this charming young lady.’’
‘‘It’s your identity in question, and you hide it from everyone.’’ The Greek god drew a line in the air that traced the other man from head to toe. ‘‘You’ll note he’s the one dressed in artistic style,’’ he pointed out to Corinna before brushing at his own, much plainer clothes. ‘‘I am merely a common man of business.’’
‘‘Please forgive Mr. Hamilton.’’ Mr. Delaney—or perhaps he was Mr. Hamilton—raised a brow toward Corinna. ‘‘He’s much too self-effacing.’’
‘‘Blarney!’’ the Greek god shot back. ‘‘You’re a dunce, Hamilton.’’
Corinna had observed a tennis match once, and she now felt like that little ball bouncing back and forth between the two men. She didn’t know which one to believe. But since she didn’t expect to see either of them ever again, she figured it didn’t signify.
While they’d volleyed, she’d regained her senses enough to remember Mr. Hamilton was a member of the committee that chose artwork for the Summer Exhibition.
That
was what truly mattered.
She clutched her art supplies to her chest. ‘‘I’m an oil painter myself,’’ she told both of them, praying one really was John Hamilton. ‘‘I am here sketching the marbles to learn anatomy so I can improve my technique for portraits. It is my fondest hope that one of my canvases will be selected for this year’s Summer Exhibition.’’
‘‘I am certain Mr. Hamilton will vote for it,’’ the shorter man assured her gravely.
‘‘I will not.’’ The Greek god’s fists were clenched, and his Irish lilt came through gritted teeth. ‘‘I mean, he won’t. Or perhaps he will, but I am
not
Hamilton.’’
‘‘Pshaw.’’ The other man waved a smooth, graceful hand. ‘‘He’s—’’
‘‘Corinna!’’ She looked away to see her sisters hurrying near, the pram squeaking its way toward her. ‘‘I’m sorry we took so long,’’ Alexandra said. ‘‘Are you finished yet?’’
Corinna smiled in relief, certain Juliana would figure out which man was John Hamilton. The meddler in the family, Juliana had a skill for weaseling out secrets. ‘‘I’d be pleased for you to meet Mr. Hamilton,’’ she started, turning back to the men.
They were gone.
Lifting her sweet baby boy from the pram, Alexandra frowned. ‘‘Mr. Hamilton?’’
‘‘The landscapist, John Hamilton. He was just here.’’ Corinna scanned the crowded gallery, to no avail. ‘‘He looks like a Greek god. Or perhaps it’s his friend who looks like the Greek god, or his brother-in-law—’’
‘‘Whatever are you babbling about? John Hamilton never appears in public.’’ Looking sympathetic, Juliana touched her arm. ‘‘I think we should go. I must get home well before my mother-in-law’s wedding, and in any case, you’ve clearly been sketching too long.’’
Back outdoors, Sean hauled Hamilton toward Montagu House, one hand clenched on the man’s upper arm.
‘‘It’s a shame women cannot study anatomy,’’ Hamilton remarked as though they were on a leisurely stroll, ‘‘because sketching statues is not going to help her learn anything.’’
‘‘Is that so?’’ Sean gritted out.
‘‘I’ve yet to see a portrait painted by a woman that was any good, and I never expect to, so I seriously doubt I will vote for that female’s painting.’’
Sean had no wish to continue this conversation. In fact, he’d gladly pay a thousand pounds to avoid ever speaking with Hamilton again. But he felt sorry for the woman in question. ‘‘What if her picture
is
good? Will you still refuse to vote for it simply because it was painted by a lady?’’
‘‘Of course I wouldn’t. Point of fact, I wouldn’t be aware a female painted it, since I never seek signatures before I vote. Most of the Summer Exhibition judges take an artist’s status into consideration, but I believe each work should stand on its own. Regardless of what the other Academicians think, I maintain that a painter’s identity should never influence a judge’s opinion.’’
It was the most reasonable statement Sean had ever heard leave Hamilton’s lips. Surprisingly reasonable. Until the rotter added, ‘‘But I’m certain her paintings will not be any good, because she’s never studied anatomy.’’
‘‘She might surprise you,’’ Sean shot back. ‘‘You shouldn’t be so judgmental. You might vote for her painting and later on have to eat humble pie.’’
‘‘I doubt it,’’ Hamilton said blandly. ‘‘We failed to learn her name, so in the unlikely event I ever did vote for one of her works, I’d never know it, would I?’’
‘‘Corinna.’’
‘‘Pardon?’’
‘‘Her name is Corinna. Not that I learned it in the course of your shoddy introduction. Another woman called her Corinna as I was dragging you off.’’ Her lovely face swam into his memory. ‘‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’’
‘‘You had no right to drag me off.’’ Hamilton wrenched his arm from Sean’s hand and pulled open the door to Montagu House. ‘‘Who is beautiful?’’
‘‘Corinna,’’ Sean repeated as he followed him inside.
Wide blue eyes and gleaming dark hair. Sean had never been a fanciful sort of man, and he damn well didn’t believe in love at first sight or any of the other nonsense poets regularly spouted. But something about her had seemed to crawl under his skin and clutch him low in the gut. Something had made him bunch his fists to keep from reaching to touch her. Something had made him want to kiss her.
He remembered her biting her plump lower lip, and how he’d been tempted to bite it himself.
‘‘There’s something about her . . . she’s very sensual.’’
‘‘Sensual? I didn’t notice,’’ Hamilton said, and while Sean was wondering how an artist could be
that
unobservant, he added, ‘‘I won the bet,’’ in a smug tone.
‘‘You did not. She didn’t believe I was you.’’
‘‘She didn’t know what to believe. Which means I won. I succeeded in convincing her you may be an artist.’’
‘‘Blarney.’’
Hamilton shrugged. ‘‘Whether you agree or not doesn’t signify. You’ll still pretend to be me for Lincolnshire’s sake if you want to see your sister divorced.’’
‘‘I believe you’ll want to rethink that demand. When society discovers you deceived your uncle for your own gain, your reputation will be torn to threads. Your stellar art career will end in shame.’’
‘‘Blarney,’’ Hamilton mimicked in disdain. ‘‘No one will ever find out. Lincolnshire is incapacitated and housebound. Furthermore, he’s a heartless blackguard, so who the hell would give a care whether he’s hoaxed? He banished my family to the backwoods of Ireland when we should rightfully have been living the high life in London.’’
It was a litany Sean had heard practically since birth, not only from Hamilton himself but from both of the man’s parents. They’d been none too happy to find themselves living among Irish rabble, but they’d been given no choice. Lincolnshire had ordered his younger brother to oversee his foreign interests, and the man had had no other means, short of lowering himself to common labor, to support his wife and child. He’d wanted to be a deacon or dean or archbishop, but Lincolnshire had refused to pull the necessary political strings. He’d been willing to serve in the military, but Lincolnshire had refused to buy him a commission.
Who was going to complain if such a heartless old man’s nephew tricked him?
Sean stood in the museum’s busy lobby, fighting his better judgment. Though he’d normally refuse to lie to a dying man—or to any decent man, for that matter— perhaps the mean old earl had it coming. But more than that, Sean loved Deirdre. He didn’t want to see her forced back to Hamilton’s bed or living in sin with Daniel Raleigh. And he knew that if he didn’t agree to Hamilton’s plan, the self-centered cur would never free his sister.