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‘‘Who was it from?’’ Deirdre asked from the plush blue velvet chair where she sat reading a book.

He turned to her, thinking she looked prettier than ever. He wouldn’t have said the same when she’d first arrived. Following a decade of trying her best to make her ill-fated marriage work, Deirdre had looked haggard when she’d shown up on Sean’s doorstep. Only twenty-five years old, she’d appeared middle-aged, run-down, and desperate.

After being forced to marry her, John Hamilton had treated her like dirt. Or less than dirt, considering one usually noticed dirt and did something about it. In contrast, Hamilton had completely ignored her while he’d concentrated on one painting after another, coming up for air only to indulge himself with a series of paramours, some of whom he carried on with right under Deirdre’s nose. Tragically, Deirdre had miscarried three months into their marriage, and the two hadn’t shared a bed in all the years since. Deirdre remained childless, while Hamilton, now a highly acclaimed landscape artist, had bastards all over Great Britain.

Sean glanced at the paper ball in the empty fireplace, wishing it weren’t such a warm, sunny day. Had there been a proper blaze burning on the hearth, the damn letter would have been ashes by now. ‘‘It was from Hamilton. Your husband.’’ He all but choked on the final word.

‘‘From John? What did he say?’’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘‘Never mind. I really don’t want to know. I’m done with him.’’

Sean
wished
she were done with him. The reason Deirdre looked so much better these days was she’d met another man and fallen head-over-heels in love. She wanted nothing more than to marry Daniel Raleigh, and Raleigh—a respectable merchant Sean sometimes did business with—wished to marry her. But despite many impassioned pleas, Hamilton had denied her the divorce she sought.

Unfortunately, it was impossible for a woman to sue for divorce. Only a man could do that, and Hamilton had never been the cooperative type.

‘‘He wants me to meet with him at noon,’’ Sean told her. ‘‘At the British Museum. He claims he has ‘something important’ to discuss.’’

Hope leapt into her eyes. ‘‘My divorce?’’

‘‘I doubt it.’’ Hamilton was too selfish to set Deirdre free. ‘‘It sounded more like a favor. What makes him think I’d do him a favor? Me, of all people?’’

She squared her shoulders. ‘‘It doesn’t signify. I’ve no need of a divorce. Daniel wants me to come live in his home, and I have told him I will.’’

Raleigh had a fine house and could provide well for Deirdre. He was a steady man of good character. Sean liked him, and he treated Deirdre like a queen.

But all of that was beside the point. ‘‘Without the benefit of marriage?’’

‘‘I made a mistake, Sean. I’ll be the first to admit that. But should I suffer for it forever? John’s had a hold on me long enough. I’d prefer to marry Daniel than live with him unwed, but sadly that isn’t an option. He’s willing to take me anyway, and it’s time I lived again.’’

‘‘What would Ma say? And Da?’’ For the first time ever, Sean was almost happy they’d died. They’d both have been mortified. Though Deirdre had always been a wild one, this went beyond improper. It was all but unthinkable. ‘‘At some point, you have to grow up. You’ve got a chance for a fresh start here in London. If you want to be well thought of, you need to stop defying society’s expectations.’’

‘‘I’m not part of
society
, Sean.’’

‘‘I’m not meaning in the sense of the upper crust, and well you know it. The public in general, Deirdre, the respectable people. Someday you’ll have children. Don’t you want them to be accepted?’’

‘‘You’re one to speak! As though you’ve never shared a woman’s bed even though you’ve yet to wed. You’ve had mistresses yourself, if you don’t remember.’’

‘‘It’s different for men.’’ She opened her mouth to protest, but he rushed on. ‘‘That may not be fair, but it’s a fact. And I’ve never taken a woman’s innocence, nor slept with one who expected marriage. Who expected anything more than some pretty baubles and fancy new clothes.’’

His mistresses—and he’d indeed kept a few of them— had been actresses and opera dancers all. He’d admit to having gone a wee bit wild himself after escaping Kilburton and his upbringing, but he’d been young, after all, and randy, and there were only so many hours a man could spend building his fortune. He’d often worked late and on a Sunday, but past a certain hour there was really nothing much he could accomplish, no one around with whom to accomplish it.

London had proved dazzling those first few years. Huge and vital and seductive. He’d enjoyed the theater, and yes, he’d found himself attracted to some women up on the stage. Since he wasn’t a man who liked to share, he’d provided them housing, made them his mistresses in exchange for temporary fidelity. But it had been years—two years or more, he suddenly realized— since he’d had that sort of arrangement. He’d lost his taste for that life, for those shallow, unemotional relationships.

He’d grown up. And it was time Deirdre did, too.

Rising, he strode to the fireplace, snatched out the crumpled paper, and smoothed it on his rosewood desk. ‘‘I’ll meet with Hamilton. We’ll work this out. I just have time to get to the British Museum by noon—’’

‘‘No. Don’t.’’ His sister leapt from her chair to grab his arm. ‘‘You’ve other plans for today.’’

‘‘Nothing that matters as much as this.’’

‘‘I’ll not have you begging on my behalf. It’s pointless and humiliating.’’

‘‘While your living in sin won’t be?’’ Sean shook his arm to dislodge her hand. ‘‘I’m going, Deirdre. You cannot stop me.’’

Gritting his teeth, he summoned his curricle and headed for the city . . . praying that, instead of a favor, ‘‘something important’’ would turn out to be the divorce that would solve his sister’s problem.

Chapter Two

‘‘I have a problem,’’ Hamilton announced without preamble when Sean stepped into the museum’s lobby. ‘‘I wish your help with it. I wish to view the newly arrived Elgin Marbles.’’

‘‘That presents no problem at all,’’ Sean said dryly, gesturing toward the back of Montagu House. ‘‘We need only to walk through here and outside toward the new temporary Elgin Gallery.’’

Never one to respond to humor, the artist slanted him a peeved glance as he fell into step beside him. ‘‘My uncle, Samuel Hamilton, the Earl of Lincolnshire, is dying.’’

‘‘My condolences,’’ Sean said automatically before wondering if the man even cared. Hamilton looked cheerful enough, considering his usual bad temper. In contrast to Sean’s own black suit and white shirt, he was dressed in colorful, flamboyant style. Though his cravat appeared brown, Sean suspected it was bright red or green. ‘‘And your problem is?’’

‘‘I’m Lincolnshire’s heir, and he’s not seen me for many years. Not since I was a babe in arms, in fact. He wishes to get to know the man who is about to inherit his title and estates.’’

‘‘I find that unsurprising,’’ Sean said as they stepped outdoors.

Hamilton’s failure to see his uncle despite regular visitsto London was no surprise, either. Deirdre’s husband was nothing if not reclusive.

Although the man’s paintings commanded outrageous sums, few collectors had actually met him. Once a year he slipped into town, served as a judge on the Royal Academy committee that chose the pieces to be displayed in the annual Summer Exhibition, renewed his ties with colleagues, and slipped out again—without ever pandering to his patrons.

He claimed that keeping to himself—with the exception of female companionship, one should understand— was necessary in order to maintain his artistic vision. Sean, however, had always attributed this behavior more to temperament: a combination of sheer orneriness and a twisted delight the man took in concealing himself from the public.

‘‘And the problem with that is?’’ he repeated as they trod the path toward the new building, which Sean’s experienced eye told him was nothing but a large, prefabricated shed. ‘‘Go see the man, if that’s what he wants.’’

‘‘He doesn’t want to just
see
me. He’s demanded I come stay with him through his final days. He claims that should I fail to arrive posthaste, I should expect to inherit the title and entailed estate and nothing else. He will leave the rest of his holdings to charity.’’

‘‘Sounds fair enough to me. How long is he expected to live?’’

Before the door to the Elgin Gallery, Hamilton stopped. ‘‘A week or two,’’ he spat.

A week or two during which the selfish cur would be deprived of his hedonistic lifestyle. ‘‘So go stay with him. Sweet Jesus, Hamilton, it won’t kill you.’’ Disgusted, and knowing this was not a good time to bring up his sister’s divorce yet again, Sean turned on a heel to leave.

‘‘No.’’ Hamilton moved to block his way, stopping him with an outstretched hand against his shoulder. ‘‘I’ve a once-in-a-lifetime chance to paint the legendary waterfall on Lord Llewelyn’s estate in the Tanat Valley. Lady Llewelyn has extended an invitation. It came in the same mail with the demand from Lincolnshire. I’m leaving before nightfall.’’

Sean glared down at his brother-in-law’s hand until the man dropped it. It was common knowledge that Lady Llewelyn was Hamilton’s latest paramour. The nerve of the rotter, abandoning his dying uncle for a sexual liaison when he refused to sleep with his own lovely wife. ‘‘I suppose Lord Llewelyn will be conveniently absent.’’

‘‘Abroad,’’ Hamilton confirmed. ‘‘And neither he nor his ancestors have ever allowed any artist to paint the falls. Furthermore, it’s spring, the season when their volume is greatest. This very month of April, in fact, is said to be when the monk and the lady are most likely to appear. If I can capture them in paint, it will prove the coup of a lifetime.’’

‘‘The monk and the lady?’’

‘‘A monk in his long robes, the Guardian of the Falls, said to materialize in the pattern of rushing water. And the Lady of the Waterfall. She’s said to peek out from behind the towering gush, her body concealed in flowing skirts, her face hidden by her long hair—’’

‘‘You believe this blarney?’’ Sean interrupted. ‘‘This utter nonsense, the stuff of fairy tales?’’

‘‘You don’t? You’re Irish, for God’s sake. You have to believe in the fairies.’’

Sean snorted. Hamilton didn’t want to see fairies appear in waterfalls. He wanted to see Lady Llewelyn’s clothes
dis
appear in his bed. ‘‘Your uncle needs you, Hamilton. Paint the falls another time.’’

‘‘There won’t
be
another time. Llewelyn refuses to grant access, and he hasn’t left the country in years.’’

Why the hell was the man coming to
him
with this damned problem? Sean had a knack for making money, not plucking solutions out of thin air. ‘‘If that’s the way you feel, you’ll have to forgo Lincolnshire’s unentailed holdings.’’

‘‘Lincolnshire’s unentailed holdings comprise the bulk of his substantial fortune.’’

‘‘And doubtless you intend to keep every penny. There’s nothing I can do for you, Hamilton. You’ll have to postpone your journey to the Tanat Valley.’’
And live without your ladylove for up to fourteen long days
, Sean added silently. ‘‘Your uncle’s expected to survive only a week or two. If Llewelyn’s abroad, he’ll be gone much longer than that.’’

‘‘But there are a mere six days left in April, and even traveling without pause, it will take two of them for me to get to Wales. Maybe three. And there
is
something you can do for me.’’ Hamilton fixed him with a cold stare. ‘‘I want you to go to the old man, introduce yourself as John Hamilton, and live with him until his death.’’

Aghast, Sean gaped at him for a few moments, mainly because it took him that long to force closed his slack jaw. ‘‘I suggest you find someone else to do you this favor. Perhaps someone who actually likes you. Why the devil should I, of all people, do this—or anything—for the man who ruined my sister’s life?’’

‘‘Why?’’ A sly glint came into Hamilton’s lazy-lidded eyes. ‘‘I’ll tell you why: because if you cooperate, I’ll grant Deirdre her precious divorce. And because if you don’t, I won’t. Ever.’’

It took a while for Sean to reclaim his breath. Hamilton was offering him exactly what he wanted . . . if only he’d do something he found absolutely abhorrent.

Since pointing that out would likely strengthen the cur’s resolve, Sean chose another tack. ‘‘You’ll soon be an earl,’’ he said coolly. ‘‘You’re going to need a legitimate heir to carry on the line. With or without my cooperation, you’d best divorce Deirdre and remarry.’’

‘‘Siring an heir will prove no problem.’’ Hamilton waved one smooth, pale hand. ‘‘I shall simply make your sister move back in with me until she bears me a male child.’’

Though that would be devastating for Deirdre, Sean knew she’d have to comply. The law was clear: A man had the right to compel his wife to live wherever he pleased. And forcing a woman to do her ‘‘wifely duty’’ . . . well, the term said it all.

Duty would never be considered rape.

‘‘Only you can pull off this deception,’’ Hamilton continued, pressing his advantage. ‘‘You’re the one man on earth who not only looks somewhat like me but also knew my father, my mother, our estate in Ireland . . . in short, everything my uncle would expect you to know.’’

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