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paint swiped with turpentine. ‘‘Well, then, I will certainly go to bed,’’ she said sarcastically, thinking she hadn’t decided whom she wanted to paint, anyway.

    ‘‘I’m glad to hear it,’’ Griffin said, evidently missing her sarcasm. ‘‘By the way, I need to leave Sunday morning, and I probably won’t be back until Thursday. I won’t be able to take you to Almack’s on Wednesday night.’’

    ‘‘What a pity.’’ Day after day of painting without interruptions, while he was busy dealing with some problem at Cainewood or whatever. Though she vaguely wondered what he was going to do, she didn’t want to prolong this discussion. ‘‘That’s too bad, Griffin,’’ she said, hiding a smile. ‘‘Good night.’’

    Looking forward to the week ahead, she hummed as she cleaned up and put everything away. Then she went upstairs to her room, lit a candle from the fireplace, and ducked into her dressing room to grab a nightgown.

    And there she stopped short.

    The paintings taunted her. Hidden paintings, dozens of them stacked leaning against the walls. Portrait after portrait, none of them quite right.

    She’d spent a decade and more learning to paint still lifes and landscapes. Practicing, persevering, perfecting. Eventually she’d begun putting people into her scenes, figures strolling or laboring or simply lounging in the background. But that hadn’t proved enough, hadn’t satisfied her dreams.

    She’d always wanted to paint real portraits, detailed studies of people. She all but burned to paint portraits, and last year she’d put all other sorts of painting behind her.

    She walked closer and flipped canvases, bringing the candle near to scrutinize the year’s many efforts. Her maid. Alexandra and Juliana. Alexandra and baby Harry. Juliana alone, her shoulders bare, her skirts hiked up to expose one scandalous, naked knee.

    Juliana, the dear, had obligingly posed for Corinna in the buff. Rigidly, self-consciously nude. Unfortunately, Corinna had been unable to paint her sister nude, as the sight of such a work of art would have driven Griffin out of his mind.

    And none of the paintings were good enough.

    Sighing, she leaned them back against the wall. She knew she had it in her to produce a fine portrait. She’d long since mastered all the things she could easily study—the face, the hair, the clothing, the hands—and she portrayed her subjects’ expressions with unfailing insight.

    But when it came to the body, she found herself frustrated every time. The people looked stiff and unnatural, not altogether surprising, given they’d looked stiff and unnatural when they’d posed. Corinna’s maid and sisters could never seem to sit still for long, and sketching them had never proved as helpful as she’d wished.

    Not to mention her maid and sisters were all female. Men were formed differently, and since half the world’s population was male, Corinna intended to paint them, too. But barring her brother—who so far had been uncooperative—where on earth was a gently bred lady supposed to find a male model?

    Well, perhaps sketching the Elgin Marbles had done the trick, she reminded herself, lifting her chin. At least they had held still for hours.

    Squaring her shoulders, she returned to her room and summoned her maid to help ready her for bed. But then she found she couldn’t relax. She rarely rose before noon, because she retired late as a habit. Although painting by candlelight rather than sunlight could sometimes prove challenging, the night hours were quiet, almost mystical, the very best time for creativity.

    It was too early to fall asleep.

    She pulled out a small book tucked under her bed, the second volume of Celia in Search of a Husband by Medora Gordon Byron. Smiling, she cradled it in her hands. A Minerva Press novel, a torrid romance, bound as usual in cheap marble-patterned paper.

    Other than painting, reading Minerva Press novels was Corinna’s favorite,