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Juliana glanced over and shook her head. ‘‘A handsome devil, though, is he not?’’
A vast understatement. Corinna wanted to rip his clothes off and see the godlike body underneath. ‘‘I met him the other day at the British Museum. When you and Alexandra went off, remember? Another man introduced him as John Hamilton.’’
‘‘John Hamilton, the artist? You said you’d met him, but—’’
‘‘Yes, the artist. But then everything became very confusing, because this man claimed he
wasn’t
John Hamilton, but the other man was instead. And why would John Hamilton be with Lord Lincolnshire?’’
‘‘Lord Lincolnshire collects art,’’ Juliana reminded her. ‘‘Ming vases and paintings.’’
‘‘More to the point,’’ Lady Cavanaugh said, ‘‘John Hamilton is Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew. And his heir. Everyone knows that.’’
Corinna hadn’t. But if John Hamilton was Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew, that explained why the two men were together. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. His protests in the museum notwithstanding, her Greek god
had
to be the elusive John Hamilton. Being a recluse, he’d obviously claimed otherwise in order to retain his anonymity.
But Corinna knew the truth now.
Rising excitement fluttered in her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She’d actually met John Hamilton.
The
John Hamilton, a member of the Summer Exhibition Selection Committee.
A man who could help her dreams come true.
She had only to renew their acquaintance in order to set her future plans in motion. ‘‘Come along,’’ she told her sister, grabbing her hand. She motioned to Lady Cavanaugh. ‘‘I’ll introduce you both.’’

 

Chapter Ten
Lord Lincolnshire held up a hand, interrupting an effusive outpouring of affection from yet another of Lady Partridge’s guests. ‘‘Nephew.’’
‘‘Yes? Do you need something, Uncle?’’ Concerned, Sean moved around the front of the wheelchair, wedging himself between two hovering matrons. ‘‘Some laudanum? Are your limbs paining you?’’ He reached into his pocket for the vial the nurse had pressed into his hands.
‘‘No laudanum. I’d as soon not dull my senses.’’ The earl smoothed the lap robe that covered his legs, looking amused. ‘‘That pretty young lady is calling you.’’
‘‘What pretty young lady?’’
‘‘That one.’’ Lincolnshire motioned with his head. ‘‘The lovely Lady Corinna.’’
Corinna.
Though London was surely home to more than one woman with the name, when Sean looked to where Lincolnshire had indicated, he already knew what he would see.
Shining dark hair, beckoning blue eyes. That air of sensuality that made his fists bunch at his sides to keep from reaching out to touch.
Bloody hell, he
had
met another member of the
ton
.
‘‘Mr. Hamilton!’’ she gushed as she approached, making him realize she’d already called out, ‘‘Mr. Hamilton,’’ several times. Sweet Jesus, he’d known he would forget to answer to his brother-in-law’s name. ‘‘What a pleasure it is to see you again!’’
‘‘Again?’’ Lincolnshire asked.
‘‘I met your nephew in the British Museum,’’ she explained enthusiastically. ‘‘But when I went to introduce him to my sisters, he was gone.’’ She turned to two other women who had followed her. ‘‘Here he is at last, the talented and reclusive John Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton, this is my sister, Lady Stafford, and her mother-in-law, Lady Cavanaugh.’’
Both women curtsied. Lady Cavanaugh looked kind and motherly. Lady Stafford was pretty like her sister, but not nearly as voluptuous. The petite and sprightly type.
‘‘I’m sorry, but I’m not Mr. Hamilton.’’ Sean turned to Lord Lincolnshire. ‘‘Tell them, Uncle.’’
The earl’s eyes danced; clearly he was enjoying this bit of subterfuge. ‘‘Of course you’re Mr. Hamilton.’’ His papery lips curved into a smile as he focused on the three women, making Sean imagine he must have been a bit of a flirt back in the day. ‘‘But he’s
Sean
Hamilton,’’ he told the ladies. ‘‘Sean, not John. My
other
nephew.’’
Never in his life had Sean heard anyone sound less convincing.
Lady Cavanaugh leaned down to give Lincolnshire’s shoulder a sympathetic pat. ‘‘I know you’re not feeling yourself these days, my lord, but you’ve only one nephew.’’
‘‘I may have lost the use of my legs, but I assure you, dear lady, I have not lost my mind along with them.’’ An unapologetic grin spreading on his face, he turned to Sean. ‘‘I’m afraid our ruse didn’t work.’’
‘‘I knew it!’’ Corinna exclaimed loudly enough to wake the dead. Heads snapped around as other guests looked to see what was up. ‘‘You
are
John Hamilton!’’
Sean didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss her or strangle her. Both, he decided as whispers ricocheted around the room.
‘‘John Hamilton?’’
‘‘
The
John Hamilton?’’
The whispers became a buzz. ‘‘John Hamilton!’’
‘‘It’s John Hamilton!’’
Sean moved behind Lincolnshire to prevent the earl from seeing him, and shook his head wildly in an attempt to wordlessly inform Corinna she was wrong. But she only frowned in confusion, and he was too late in any case. A matron was already waddling near, pulling an obviously shy, marriage-aged daughter by the hand.
‘‘Lord Lincolnshire, may I beg an introduction to your illustrious nephew?’’
Another lady seemed to appear from nowhere. ‘‘Is this your heir, Lord Lincolnshire?’’
A third lady shoved in front of her. ‘‘Mr. Hamilton, my Matilda is a diamond of the first water.’’
Lincolnshire puffed up like a peacock, albeit a seated one. ‘‘Our secret is out.’’ Pride was evident in his tone. ‘‘I am pleased to have you all meet the next Lord Lincolnshire. My nephew, Mr. John Hamilton.’’
Sean cringed as matchmaking mamas came out of the woodwork, their eligible daughters in tow. Corinna disappeared, or maybe she was pushed away by the expanding crowd. He spent the next few minutes at Lincolnshire’s side, pondering how to escape this coil while he made small talk with an unceasing parade of all-but-identical insipid misses.
‘‘Sean.’’
Feeling a tug on his tailcoat, he breathed a sigh of relief. ‘‘Uncle, you must be exhausted. Shall we leave? I’ll take you home.’’
‘‘Balderdash. I’ve not felt so energetic in weeks. I wish to see you dance with one of these lovelies.’’
The not-so-lovely mamas started shoving their charges Sean’s way.
‘‘I couldn’t choose,’’ he protested amiably. But he wasn’t feeling amiable at all. What he felt instead was a rising pressure in his chest. The last thing he wanted to do was dance.
His mother had dragged him to many a village
ceili
.
A vicar’s family should be social,
he heard her sweet voice in his memory. But he’d never been a man who enjoyed dancing. Even more to the point, Irish dance parties featured jigs and reels. No ceili band ever played a waltz.
And Lady Partridge seemed partial to waltzes. Or perhaps the musicians she’d hired preferred playing them. Either way, the last dance had been a waltz, and a waltz was playing now, and he’d lay odds a waltz would also come next.
He aimed a smile at Hamilton’s uncle. ‘‘I think I should stay with you.’’
‘‘I think not.’’ One of the earl’s grizzled brows went up. ‘‘I’ve a mind to see you settled before I die.’’
Settled?
Posing as the man’s nephew was bad enough—Sean would go only so far in an effort to placate the old fellow. And a wedding went rather beyond that boundary.
Miles
beyond that boundary.
And then he remembered.
‘‘I’m quite settled already. I’m married, if you’ve forgotten.’’ The real Hamilton was married, after all. Had he
not
been married—to Deirdre—Sean wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place. ‘‘I’ve been married for ten long years.’’
Audible sighs could be heard from all the females.
‘‘Ah, yes,’’ Lincolnshire mused. ‘‘I’d forgotten about that. And I’ve never seen your wife in all that time.’’
The old man hadn’t seen Hamilton in all that time, either, but Sean wouldn’t be the one to remind him. ‘‘Deirdre is a wonderful lady.’’
The earl’s forehead furrowed. ‘‘I seem to recall rumor has it you two don’t rub along.’’
‘‘To the contrary,’’ Sean assured him. ‘‘The two of us rub along grandly.’’
Someone snorted, and a few other bystanders murmured, evidently recalling the same rumors. Or, more likely, rumors of the artist bedding countless women. Well, Sean supposed, it wasn’t all that surprising to find Hamilton’s reputation preceded him. Some of the man’s bastards probably resided right here in London.
‘‘Where
is
your wife?’’ Lincolnshire asked.
‘‘In the countryside,’’ Sean told him, not actually stretching the truth. Though Hampstead lay but four miles northwest of Charing Cross, many Londoners did consider it ‘‘way out in the countryside.’’ Which was precisely why he’d bought his house there. While he needed to be close to the City, he had no wish to live in it. Having been brought up amid wide-open spaces, he preferred not to be hemmed in.
‘‘In the countryside,’’ Lincolnshire repeated, and sighed, a protracted sound positively flush with disappointment. His gaze turned wistful, the soft, yearning gaze of a puppy dog. ‘‘I do understand. But since I can no longer dance myself, I was so hoping to see you in my stead.’’
The current waltz ended, and sudden silence pervaded the ballroom.
‘‘Dance for him,’’ a woman coaxed.
Her daughter smiled. ‘‘Make him happy.’’
The music—another waltz, naturally—restarted. ‘‘It’s just a dance,’’ someone else said.
The crowd seemed to press closer. ‘‘Lord Lincolnshire wants to see you dance.’’
‘‘Humor him, will you?’’
Although attempting a waltz was sure to prove humorous indeed, Sean felt his resolve disintegrating under the assault. The damn earl was making puppy-dog eyes. What the devil was a man supposed to do?
One of the identical insipid misses gazed up at him beseechingly. ‘‘Don’t you
want
to make Lord Lincolnshire happy?’’
‘‘Oh, very well,’’ he gritted out. ‘‘One dance.’’
Then he turned on a heel and headed straight for Corinna.
As he elbowed his way through the crowd, Corinna’s startled gaze met his, and it seemed as though a fist grabbed him in the gut. Half of him wanted to wring her neck for interfering; the other half wanted to drag her into his arms.
He settled for snatching her hand and pulling her toward the dance floor.
He threaded them between other couples to the center, enduring bumps from various dancers along the way. It seemed a whirling obstacle course. But at least here he wouldn’t be on display.
He turned her to face him. ‘‘I hope you can lead.’’
She looked a little dazed, standing still with everyone moving around her. ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’
‘‘Thanks to you, I’ve been commanded to dance. And I’ve never waltzed in my life.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ She smiled, a rather sheepish smile that made the fist inside him twist. ‘‘I confess I’ve been accused of leading before. I fear it’s one of my bad habits.’’
‘‘ ’Tis glad I am to hear it.’’
Mimicking the other dancers, he wrapped an arm about her waist and grasped her gloved right hand. She began to move, keeping her body tense so that he moved with her.
Not very gracefully, but they moved.
‘‘May I sketch you sometime?’’ she asked.
‘‘Sketch me?’’ he echoed, amazed to find them actually swirling among the other couples. He stumbled, but managed to keep upright. ‘‘I think not.’’
‘‘Never?’’
‘‘Ever,’’ he reiterated, treading on her toes.
A wee ‘‘Eek!’’ escaped her tempting lips, but then she gave him another smile. An understanding one this time. Not that it had any less of an effect on him. It was a wonder she didn’t react to the naked desire he suspected was evident on his face, but it was probably best that she was oblivious to it.
‘‘Very well,’’ she said on a sigh. ‘‘I suppose you’re too busy with your own art to sit for someone else.’’
She was exasperating. ‘‘You’re ruining my life.’’
‘‘How so?’’ she asked. ‘‘I’ve done you a favor, Mr. Hamilton. Society is all aflutter to finally meet Lord Lincolnshire’s famous, mysterious nephew. They’ll pay even more for your paintings.’’
He leaned improperly close, catching a whiff of a light, floral scent with something odd layered underneath it. Paint, maybe. ‘‘I’m not an artist,’’ he hissed in her ear. ‘‘I’m Sean Delaney, not John Hamilton.’’
She drew back, making them lurch, and the look she gave him was uncomfortably close to a smirk. ‘‘I haven’t heard you say that in front of Lord Lincolnshire.’’

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