Juliana (50 page)

Lady Corinna Chase is a talented painter—who also happens to be a girl. Unfortunately, in London’s art world, that means fewer opportunities and more obstacles. But rebellious Corinna isn’t about to let anything divert her from achieving her dreams. Not even the suspicious behavior of the gorgeous Irishman who’s just moved in next door…

Sean Delaney isn’t who he says he is. Well, he
is
Sean Delaney, but many people have the impression that he’s John Hamilton, a renowned landscape artist (probably because that’s how he introduced himself). The real John may have blackmailed Sean into the deception, but Sean’s going to have to get himself out of it—or risk spoiling not only his sister’s future, his family’s good name, and the enterprise he built from scratch, but any chance he may have with his lovely new neighbor…

Read an excerpt…

The British Museum, London
April 1817

“WE WANT TO
see the Rosetta Stone,” two impatient voices chorused.

For the third time.

“Just a few more minutes,” Lady Corinna Chase promised her sisters, her gaze focused on her sketchbook.

“A few is three,” Alexandra, the oldest, pointed out.

“Or maybe five,” added Juliana, the middle sister.

“But certainly not thirty,” Alexandra went on. “You said ‘a few more minutes’ half an hour ago.”

“And half an hour before that,” Juliana put in.

Corinna was used to ignoring her sisters’ chatter, but the squeak of wheels threatened her concentration. Alexandra was rolling a perambulator back and forth in hopes of soothing Harold, her infant son. Though ladies generally didn’t make a habit of carting their babies around town—most aristocratic mothers happily left their children in the care of wet nurses and nannies—Alexandra had insisted on buying one of the newfangled contraptions, because she rarely let little Harry out of her sight.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
“How can you gaze at statues for so long?”

“I’m not gazing. I’m sketching.” Corinna drew another line, following the curve of the marble figure’s muscled thigh. “And as you see, this is not a statue, it’s a panel. Part of a frieze from the famous Parthenon in Greece, to be exact. And more importantly, the figures carved on it are anatomically correct.”

Which was the reason she’d come, of course. The reason she’d been willing to drag herself out of bed at a preposterous hour to come see the Elgin Marbles. Corinna wanted nothing more than to study human anatomy so she could improve her skill in portraiture. Unfortunately, the anatomy classes at the Royal Academy of Arts were entirely forbidden to girls.

Entirely.

Forbidden.

It was infuriating. Corinna’s fondest wish was to be elected to the Royal Academy, an honor no woman had attained since 1768. Though she harbored no illusions of accomplishing this goal at the tender age of seventeen—for one thing, Academicians were required to be at least twenty-four years old—earning a nomination was a long, involved process, and she hoped to take her first step within a matter of weeks, by getting one of her paintings accepted for the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition.

That was something girls
did
accomplish on a regular basis, although not usually with portraits. Proper ladies painted only landscapes and still lifes—painting people was considered unseemly. But Corinna’s heart lay in portraiture. As she’d gotten older, she’d found herself more and more drawn to the human figure, fascinated by the challenge of capturing a personality on canvas.

But how was she supposed to paint people accurately if she wasn’t allowed to attend anatomy classes?

“We cannot stay much longer,” Juliana said. “I need to make sure everything’s in place for Cornelia’s wedding.” Cornelia, Juliana’s mother-in-law, was marrying Lord Cavanaugh at her home later that evening. “And I want to see the Rosetta Stone,” she added for the fourth time.

“So go see it.”

“And I want to see the gems and minerals,” Alexandra said. “And the jeweled—”

“Go see it all. Go see every rock in the museum.” Corinna flipped a page, refocusing on the nude form of the gorgeous Greek god before her. “I’ll be right here.”

“That would take an hour or more.”
Squeak. Squeak.
“We cannot leave you here in the Elgin Gallery alone.”

“I’m not alone. There are people everywhere.” Too many people, constantly jostling her and blocking her view.

“The Rosetta Stone is in the main building.”

“It’s perfectly proper for two married ladies to cross the museum grounds together.” Unlike Corinna, who was a bit of a free spirit, her sisters seemed always concerned with being proper. “I knew I should have brought Aunt Frances along instead. She’s more patient than either of you.”

“She’s also nine months gone with child,” Alexandra retorted. She sighed. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

“Make that two or three,” Corinna muttered as they left. Hearing the pram
squeak-squeak
away, she smiled. She and the Greek god were alone at last.

Holy Hannah, he was magnificent.

If only she could find a young man who looked like
this
, she’d have nothing left to wish for.

Not that she had the slightest intention of wedding anytime soon, much to her brother’s displeasure. Griffin 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 been dragging Corinna to balls and to Almack’s and to every other social event on the calendar, for the express purpose of hurling her at every eligible gentleman he could find. The season had only been underway a few weeks, and already she was grumbling more than Juliana had all of last year.

Griffin really
did
take all the fun out of it.

She was fond of dancing, and she also liked gentlemen, of course. Especially the ones who’d managed to get her alone for a stolen kiss, behind a potted palm in a ballroom or in a dark corner on a terrace. But those had been few and far between this year—her brother was a much more vigilant chaperone than dear, oblivious Aunt Frances.

Artists were supposed to be creatures of passion, were they not? Well, Corinna’s life seemed to be sorely lacking in passion. After the shattering consecutive deaths of her father, mother, and eldest brother kept her hidden away in mourning through much of her adolescence, she’d emerged a fresh-faced sixteen-year-old eagerly anticipating her first season. Anticipating glamour, gaiety, novelty, intrigue, and most of all, passion. And when she’d finally made it to London, finally come out in society, finally experienced her first kiss, it had all been…

Rather pleasant.

But that was all.

So excuse her if she was in no great hurry to put aside her grand, exhilarating, ambitious artistic dreams in favor of the
rather pleasant
pastime of finding love.

Especially since, now that Corinna was seventeen and the last unmarried sister, Griffin was making it
rather annoying
.

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she was using her pencil to shade the fascinating muscles on the god’s toned bare chest when something caught her eye. Glancing up, she spotted two young gentlemen heading in her direction. Not an unusual sight—the gallery was crowded with people—but something about these gentlemen held her interest. Actually, it was just one of the gentlemen. The taller one.

The one who bore a striking resemblance to the Greek god she’d just been sketching.

Flipping to a new page, she started sketching him instead. Quickly, before he disappeared from view.

His angular, sculpted face was framed by crisp black hair that grew long at the back of his neck. His eyes were the greenest she’d ever seen. Sadly, he was somewhat 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 smart but conservative trousers, waistcoat, and tailcoat. Her pencil outlined broad shoulders—

She froze midsketch as the two gentlemen walked right up to her.

“Good afternoon,” the shorter one said.

Like his taller companion, 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 godly caliber.

Still, she felt flustered. She wasn’t accustomed to handsome young men introducing themselves. Good manners dictated they ask permission of a young lady’s chaperone, who would then provide the introduction.

Of course, Corinna’s chaperones were currently off who knows where, looking at rocks.

“Good afternoon,” she returned guardedly. “Mr.…?”

“Delaney,” he drawled. “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 greet a fellow artist. You’ve heard of him, I presume?”

Had she heard of him? Corinna’s sketchbook and pencil fell to the floor.
Everyone
had heard of John Hamilton, the young renowned and reclusive painter of landscapes.

She turned to him, positively stunned. Her Greek god was John Hamilton—John Hamilton!—and he wanted to meet her.
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 fallen supplies. He straightened and, with a roll of his gorgeous green eyes toward Mr. Delaney, handed the items to her. “I’m sorry, but I’m not John Hamilton.” His lilting voice was distracting. The melodic Irish accent 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 fellow dolefully shook his head. “There’s no need to hide your identity from this charming young lady.”

“It’s
your
identity, and you feel the need to hide it from everyone.” The Irishman drew a line in the air that traced his companion from head to toe. “You’ll note he’s the one dressed with artistic flair,” he pointed out to Corinna before brushing at his own plain black clothes. “I’m 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 felt like a tennis ball bouncing back and forth between the two players. 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 recall that 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’m here sketching the marbles to learn anatomy so I can improve my technique for portraits. It’s my fondest hope that one of my canvases will be selected for this year’s Summer Exhibition.”

“I’m certain Mr. Hamilton will vote for it,” the shorter one 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’m
not
Hamilton.”

“Pshaw.” His friend waved a smooth, graceful hand. “He’s—”

“Corinna!” She looked away to see her sisters and the pram squeaking their way toward her. “I’m sorry we took so long,” Alexandra said. “Are you finished yet?”

Corinna beckoned them eagerly, certain Juliana would discern which fellow was John Hamilton. An inveterate meddler, Juliana could ferret out any secret. “I’d be pleased for you to meet Mr. Hamilton,” she said, turning back to the gentlemen.

They were gone.

Lifting sweet little Harry from the pram, Alexandra frowned. “Mr. Hamilton?”

“The landscapist, John Hamilton. He was just here.” Corinna scanned the crowded gallery, to no avail. “He’s gorgeous. Or perhaps it’s his friend who’s gorgeous, or his brother-in-law—“

“Whatever are you on about? Everyone knows 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.”

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