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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