The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  “You never truly kissed me, you know.”

  “No?” Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. “I thought I kissed you quite thoroughly.”

  “Well, you did. But not … what I mean is …” Annoying man, he knew full well what she meant.

  “Are you quite certain? I couldn’t possibly have forgotten something like that. Perhaps you simply overlooked it?”

  “I doubt that.” She raised her chin, her mouth a scant few inches from his.

  “So you are trying to make me believe I never lowered my lips to yours,” he said as he moved his mouth closer. “And did anything like this?” His lips lightly brushed hers.

  “Blast it all, Richard, you did that.” Obviously she would have to take matters into her own hands. She tossed the hammer aside, ignoring the thud when it hit the roof.

  “Careful, I have no need of yet another hole to—”

  “This is what you didn’t do.” She threw her arms around him and planted her lips firmly on his.

  He hesitated for no more than the space of a heartbeat, then pulled her tighter against him, crushing her breasts to his chest. His lips greeted hers with a hunger that matched her own. Fire shot through her, and she clutched the warm back of his neck. Her mouth opened, and his tongue met hers in an exploration of greed and desire. A plundering born of his need and her own. Her heart raced and her knees weakened and still she couldn’t get enough. He invaded her senses, swept away her substance until she was falling into an abyss from which there was no escape. And no escape needed.

  He pulled away and stared down at her, a bemused expression on his face, as though he too had lost his wits for the span of a few brief moments or the length of a lifetime. His voice carried an odd, unsettled note that belied the teasing nature of his words. “Was that what you had in mind?”

  She struggled to catch her breath and nodded. “Yes, well, something like that.”

  He laughed and kissed her again quickly, then turned her around to face the countryside before she could protest. His arms held her protectively, safely, against the strong length of his body, and she relaxed into the security of his embrace. “Now then, Gillian, look at it all.”

  Rolling hills and meadows stretched into the distance. Copses of trees dotted the landscape. A stream danced in the sunlight.

  “I can see why you love it,” she said softly, moved as much by this man’s affection for the land of his forebears as by the beauty of the setting.

  Endless moments stretched silently between them. A sense of serenity and contentment flowed through her. She could easily stay like this for the rest of her days, here on the top of his world, content in the warmth of his arms.

  “When I stand here, overlooking this place,” he said at last, “I see the past and the present and the future, all bound together by the land and the people who have come and gone and will come and go. And I feel a great responsibility to them all.”

  “Do you?” she murmured.

  “I do. I suspect this tie to this spot of England runs in my blood. My sisters love it as well, yet they don’t see it as I do.” His voice was pensive. “Emma sees the beauty: colors and patterns and textures, lines and spaces, contrasting and complementing. In Becky’s eyes, it’s a countryside rife with possibilities for adventure, although the hoyden has scoured every inch of it and knows it far better than even I.

  “Marianne is convinced it’s not merely our home but the home of fairy folk and all manner of magical creatures, unseen but there nonetheless. And Jocelyn,” he chuckled wryly, “in many ways Jocelyn sees it precisely as it is: sadly in need of a great deal of work. She’s too young to remember when it wasn’t, but I suspect she imagines what it was like and will be again.”

  “And all you need is money,” Gillian said softly.

  She felt his body tense against hers. “Is it?”

  “Well, you do get a wife in the bargain.” She paused, ignoring the unease washing through her. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

  “I would be something of a fool to do that, wouldn’t I?” His arms tightened around her, and he leaned forward to rest his cheek close to hers. “What do you want from me, Gillian?”

  “I …” What did she want? Passion? Excitement? Love? “I don’t really know.” She held her breath. “And what of you, Richard? What do you want from me?”

  “It seems we are well matched, then.” He straightened and laughed softly in the manner of a man who suspects he is the subject of the joke. “I don’t know either.”

  “I suppose you could say, either of us could say, we want nothing more from one another than to share my inheritance,” she said lightly, hoping he’d deny it.

  “Indeed you could say that.” The casual tone of his voice matched her own.

  Disappointment stabbed her, followed at once by irritation with herself. What did she expect from him, anyway? A declaration of undying devotion? An assertion of eternal love? If she was unwilling to so much as suggest such things aloud, how could she expect him to?

  “But perhaps it’s time for a question that actually has an answer,” he said in a matter-of-fact way, as if they’d been discussing nothing more substantial than the prospect of rain.

  “A question with an answer?” She forced a teasing note to her voice. “However will we manage?”

  “However, indeed.” He laughed, and she couldn’t hold back a smile. “So, tell me, Gillian, have you given any more thought to your farfetched, impossible, and more than a little foolish idea?”

  “My what?”

  “Didn’t you say that in addition to the obvious attraction of financial independence you wanted this inheritance because of a far-fetched, impossible, and—”

  “More than a little foolish idea.” She nodded slowly. “I may have said something like that.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  Her mind raced and came up with nothing but the truth. And hadn’t she decided from the start she would be honest with him? Of course, she hadn’t been entirely honest about Toussaint, although Richard had never asked about him, knew nothing, in fact, about the sittings, so she’d never truly lied to him.

  “Gillian?”

  “Well, what I’ve thought … that is, what I’ve decided to do …” According to Emma, Richard wasn’t going to like this one bit. He would have to be told sooner or later, although she much preferred later. Perhaps it would be best not to tell him everything at once. To ease him into the idea gently. She gathered her courage and braced herself for his reaction. “I want to provide a place, room and board, for promising artists so they can concentrate on their work instead of merely surviving from day to day.”

  She cringed and waited. He was quiet for a long moment. She longed to turn and see his face, but she forced herself to keep still.

  “Room and board,” he said slowly. “A kind of orphanage for adults. How intriguing.”

  She whirled in his arms and stared up at him. “Do you really think so?”

  “I do.” He nodded, his brow furrowed with thought. “It would be the answer to a prayer for many with a great deal of talent who have no choice but to abandon their muse to turn their attention to keeping body and soul together.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” she said eagerly. “I propose to buy a building, a large house or mansion, perhaps a hall or an old abbey in the country—”

  “No, no, the country won’t work at all.” He shook his head. “The market is in London. The academy, the galleries, the dealers, even the critics.”

  “Very well, the city it is, then. It shouldn’t be difficult to find the kind of house I have in mind.” Relief coursed through her. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you approve of the idea.”

  He chuckled. “I doubt Lady Forester will approve. This proposal of yours will mean far fewer artists to choose from when it comes to the kind of patronage she’s always been fond of.”

  “Oh, Lady Forester won’t mind at all. To my knowledge, she’s never been pa
rticularly interested in sponsoring women anyway.” The words were out of her mouth before she could catch herself.

  “Women?” He frowned down at her. “What do you mean, women?”

  “Didn’t I mention that?” Gillian said brightly.

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Oh. Well …” So much for easing him into the idea. “I intend for this facility to be strictly for the support of female artists.”

  “What kind of female artists?” His words were measured, and he released her.

  She stepped away from him and the edge of the roof. If they were going to discuss this now, and apparently they were, she was not about to do battle tottering on the brink of a physical precipice as well as a verbal one. “Serious female artists.”

  “There are no serious female artists.”

  “I have encountered a few in recent years. Not many, I admit, but—”

  “And have you ever stopped to consider why there are not many?”

  “Why yes, I have. I have given it a great deal of thought.” Annoyance surged through her. “Women, no matter how talented, are simply not taken seriously.”

  “Gillian, my dear, there is a reason for that.” His voice carried a tolerant note, as if he were trying to explain something very basic to a very small child. Or to someone incredibly stupid.

  “Is there?” She struggled to keep her voice level. “Oh please, Richard, do tell me more.” He didn’t seem to note the sarcasm in her voice. Surely if he had, he would have tempered his smug attitude.

  “Women are suited for dabbling in watercolors or perhaps charcoal sketches. I will go so far as to say I have heard of one or two who have a fair hand at miniatures, but that’s the extent of it.”

  She stared at him in stunned disbelief. Emma had warned her about his attitude, but she’d never expected him to be quite so, well, pompous.

  “Even Emma realizes as much. I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, but she paints. Watercolors, of course. Oh, certainly she was interested in more serious work once, but she has accepted the wisdom of my advice on this subject.”

  Gillian clenched her fists. “Has she?”

  “Indeed.” He smiled condescendingly. “Women simply don’t have the temperament for oils, for legitimate art.”

  “Why, Richard, I had no idea,” she smiled pleasantly. “I never so much as suspected you were quite so narrow-minded, sanctimonious, and, well, silly.”

  Richard’s eyes widened. “Silly?”

  “Don’t forget sanctimonious and narrow-minded.”

  “I doubt I shall ever forget sanctimonious and narrow-minded.” He drew himself up and stared down at her. “I have been called many things in my life, indeed I have called myself many things, but never sanctimonious and narrow-minded.”

  “Then I expect I should offer my congratulations on achieving new levels of smug male superiority.”

  “Well, men are super—” He stopped abruptly. Apparently his superior male intellect was at last understanding precisely what he was facing.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Men are what?”

  “Men are …” Indecision crossed his face. Finally he rolled his eyes and heaved a resigned sigh. “Sanctimonious and narrow-minded.”

  She bit back a smile. “And?”

  “Deeply repentant.” He swept an exaggerated bow. “A thousand apologies, madame.”

  “And?”

  “And”—he studied her cautiously—“what?”

  “And wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “About women and legitimate art.”

  “I am sorry, Gillian, as to my high-handed manner, but,” he said shaking his head, “on the subject of the suitability of women for serious work,”—he bent over and picked up the hammer—“I’m not wrong.” He started toward the door.

  She hurried after him. “You won’t even consider the possibility?”

  “No.”

  “Whyever not?”

  He stopped, blew a long resigned breath, then turned to face her. He settled his back against a chimney and absently tapped the handle of the hammer in one palm, looking for all the world as if he was about to begin a debate in which he had no doubts as to the merits of his argument and no intention of listening to an opposing point of view.

  “Marianne is convinced fairies live on the estate. Becky thinks that’s complete nonsense. However, she harbors a secret belief that not only can she talk to Henry but, given enough attention, Henry will one day speak back.”

  “What does that have to do—”

  “I am trying to make a point. To continue: Jocelyn has no doubts whatsoever that she is destined to marry at the very least a duke and possibly a king.”

  “And what does Emma believe?” Gillian said, intrigued in spite of herself.

  “Emma is far too practical to believe in anything she can’t see or hear. As am I.” He shook his head. “I will admit, given Jocelyn’s determined nature, she could well marry a king. But I have neither encountered fairies nor heard Henry say a single word. And I have never seen the art of a woman that is equal to that of a man. I seriously doubt I ever will.”

  “Perhaps you simply haven’t looked.”

  “Perhaps. However, I consider myself rather well acquainted with the work of modern painters.”

  “I thought you told me you didn’t know a great deal about art?”

  He shrugged. “False modesty.”

  “It must be quite difficult, concealing your superior male qualities behind a mask of feigned humility.”

  “Why, Gillian, it’s that very ability that makes us so superior,” he said loftily, then softened his words with a teasing grin.

  She should have realized from their first meeting that he was not merely an astute observer when it came to art. His comments were far too perceptive and knowledgeable for someone with nothing more than a passing interest. Now that she knew he had once painted himself, his opinions were at least based in substance. Inaccurate though they may be.

  “So you don’t accept what you haven’t seen with your own eyes.” She chose her words with care. “What if I could prove you wrong?”

  “Admittedly, Gillian, it’s conceivable that you could dredge up a female or two, even half a dozen, whose work is passable—possibly even acceptable. And I would gladly concede that in those instances I am wrong. But that changes nothing. In the scheme of the world as a whole the place of a woman is not before an easel. The life of an artist, especially one who has not achieved any measure of success, is extremely difficult.”

  “Which is precisely why I wish to help—”

  “And precisely why that help should not be wasted on those who cannot possibly gain from it.”

  “Wait just a moment, Richard.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “First you tell me women are not suited for serious work, then you tell me even for those who are, there is no place for them.”

  He nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what?”

  “Exactly my point.” He smiled in an all too patronizing manner. “Even if I am wrong about the abilities of women, and I daresay I’m not, but if I were there is still simply no place for them in the world of art.

  “Regardless of any potential talent, you know as well as I do—you even admitted it yourself a moment ago—they are not taken seriously and never will be simply because they are women.”

  She drew her brows together and glared. “Well, that reeks.”

  He shrugged. “It’s the way of the world.”

  “Disregarding ability and skill and intelligence just because someone had the misfortune to be born female makes no sense whatsoever.” She paced back and forth in front of him.

  “Possibly, but—”

  “It’s totally and completely unfair. Talent should be nurtured, recognized, and rewarded regardless of where it’s found.”

  “Ideally, but—”

  “And to discard the potential of fully half the population without so much as minima
l consideration is stupid.”

  “It is?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “This is not funny, Richard, not one bit.” She halted and leveled him an irritated look.

  “Of course not,” he said solemnly, but laughter danced in his eyes.

  “You are so infuriating.” She stepped toward him and shook her finger. “You wouldn’t find this even remotely amusing if the situation were reversed. If we were discussing … I don’t know.” What was it his sister had said about their father putting an end to Richard’s painting? No way for a future earl to spend his time? “What if the issue wasn’t the abilities of women or their positions in life but that of titled noblemen?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly.

  “What if we were talking about the talent of earls not being valued simply because they’re earls?” She poked her finger at his chest. “What if we were talking about you?”

  Chapter 13

  “About me?” Richard’s words were measured, his voice cool and slightly amused. “That’s rather far fetched, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is.” Apparently Emma was right about Richard’s reluctance to speak of his own painting no matter how long ago it was. What else could put such an odd look in his eye? “It’s just an example to point out that you’d hardly find it so very humorous then.”

  “Actually, I would and I do.” He caught her hand. “My compliments, Gillian, you understand completely. Society has certain expectations of us all, regardless of whether we are women or merely earls. In this instance, there’s little difference. Whether by a female or an earl or a prince for that matter, such work would be seen as inconsequential and given no serious consideration.” He pulled her finger to his lips and kissed it. “As I said, it’s how the world is.”

  “Well, I don’t like it one bit.”

  “I can certainly understand that.” He kissed a second finger, then turned her hand and kissed her palm.

  Shivers washed through her. “What are you doing?”