She looked into his eyes and saw the flash of victory before she uttered the words.
“I’ll do it.”
…
A thrill of primitive satisfaction coursed through Brandon.
She’d agreed.
He imagined standing still as Amelia worked. Her eyes intently studying him feature by feature as she painted.
Christ. It was enough to make him grow hard in his breeches and his skin sizzle.
She looked lovely in an azure gown that emphasized the color of her eyes—a deep blue. Her skin was as flawless as porcelain and her glossy hair a unique blend of browns and reds. His fingers itched to remove the pins in her hair and discover if the locks reached past her shoulder blades.
As if she read his thoughts, a spark of annoyance flared from beneath her thick lashes. “It will be a strictly business arrangement.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You will act the perfect gentleman.”
It would take every ounce of willpower he possessed, but he wouldn’t pounce on her. “I will.”
He may fantasize about her in his bed, but he would not act upon his desires. He wasn’t a complete scoundrel. He did not want to ruin her reputation, and he could never offer her marriage. He was an earl with a responsibility to his title, his family, and all those dependent upon him, and he needed to marry a wealthy woman. And as his best friend’s sister-in-law, Amelia was not mistress material.
But he could take pleasure in watching her as she worked. There was passion beneath her surface. He was sure of it. She freely expressed it in her artwork—in the swirling texture and strokes of her brush. If Amelia’s layers of respectability were peeled away to reveal her true essence, he had no doubt that she was a fiery, passionate woman. What if after spending hours alone with him in the intimacy of his study as she worked, she would come to want him?
God’s teeth. His control wouldn’t last.
A hint of hesitation crossed her face. “You must understand why I’m concerned. I’m not like most women. We may have owned a respectable print shop, but that did not stop men from asking if more than the artwork in the establishment was for sale.”
A streak of unexpected fury stuck Brandon. Three women proprietors—especially three beautiful ones—would be considered fair game among men. But he didn’t like the thought of any man making advances toward Amelia.
Bloody hell. What was wrong with him? He’d never been possessive of a woman before. Courtesans, widows, and mistresses had come and gone in his life without regret or thought. So why did it bother him now?
His gaze traveled over her face and searched her eyes. “You can trust me.”
Chapter Four
Amelia presented an ease she didn’t feel as she looked up at Lord Vale. Could she truly trust him? Now that she’d agreed to his offer, doubts had crept in. She wanted tutelage from the master artist, but how on earth was she going to paint Vale without anyone in the house knowing?
“How will we keep it secret?” she asked.
“Don’t worry. There are hidden passageways in the house that no one knows of but myself and my trusted butler. You can travel through one at night after everyone has retired and paint in my study,” he said.
“Secret passageways?”
“Yes.”
Her brow creased. How long had he been thinking of this? “You’ve planned this all in advance, haven’t you?”
“I would be remiss if I had not.”
She scowled at his arrogance “You were so sure I would agree to paint you?”
The corner of his lips pulled into a grin. “I was hopeful.”
She didn’t know what to make of him. He was arrogant one moment and charming the next. “Show me then. Before anyone notices my absence.”
Despite the risks, excitement hummed through Amelia’s veins. The wicked part of her was thrilled at the scandalous agreement. She’d known she could be tempted by sin, but now she understood how easily she could be enticed to thrust caution and reason aside.
Her father, the infamous forger, had been bribed by money. The income he’d earned from his first forgery had been enough to tempt him into permanent immoral behavior.
She was no different. She was tempted, not by money, but by a different form of payment—private lessons from a master painter. She still couldn’t believe her good fortune. Samuel Stirling’s artwork graced the ballrooms of royalty. Many artists would sell their souls to spend an afternoon with him.
Vale escorted her from the portrait gallery, up the grand staircase, and halted outside her bedchamber door. He glanced both ways to ensure they were alone and lowered his voice. “There is a hidden door in the paneling of your room that leads to a passageway. You must take a candle with you because it’s dim. If you follow the passage, it will lead you directly to my private study.”
“Does each guest chamber have a secret door?” she asked.
“No. Yours is the only one with access to the passage.”
No wonder Vale had insisted she occupy this room alone. He’d known he could convince her to accept his offer. He was attractive and unscrupulous enough to tempt any woman.
He had stepped close to her, and although they weren’t touching, she was highly conscious of the solidity and size of him. If she turned from the door, she’d be pressed against him.
Footsteps sounded on the landing down the hall. Amelia sucked in a breath. “Someone’s coming.”
“I will show you another time when it’s safe. Meanwhile, make a list of the supplies you will need and hand it to my butler.” He turned to leave.
“Wait!” she whispered as loudly as she dare. “My paints and brushes—”
“All will be delivered. Leave it to me.”
…
That evening, dinner was an exercise in frustration.
Amelia was seated between Lord Vale’s sisters, Caroline and Helen. Vale occupied the head of the table and the dowager was seated to his right. The rest of the house party guests were expected to arrive later in the week, including the marquess, Lady Helen’s betrothed, and the Duke of Townsend’s family.
Amelia stole glimpses at Vale. He looked exceptionally handsome with a royal blue jacket, a cream-colored brocade waistcoat, and a snowy cravat. She should have had her fill of excitement after selling her sole forgery years ago. The threat of discovery and imprisonment should have been enough stimulation and danger to last a lady a lifetime. But she must not be an ordinary woman. She was brimming with anticipation to begin painting him.
Vale motioned for dinner service to commence and half a dozen footmen began serving the meal. The food was plentiful and delicious, the wine smooth and expensive.
Lady Helen sipped her wine and set down her glass. “Amelia has graciously gifted me one of her beautiful landscape paintings.”
The dowager looked at Amelia. “I didn’t know you painted.”
Amelia swallowed a spoonful of her first course, a delicious turtle soup. “I enjoy painting as a pastime, my lady.”
She fought the urge to squirm in her seat beneath the dowager’s shrewd eyes. Eliza had mentioned that Lord Vale’s grandmother was a formidable woman, and from her stiff posture and shrewd stare, Amelia could understand why.
“The painting isn’t finished yet, and it’s already a masterpiece in my opinion,” Helen said.
“Truly?” Vale said, drawing attention to him at the head of the table. “I’d like to see it when it’s finished.”
His lazy smile caused the air to leave her lungs. She set down her spoon. A footman immediately stepped forward to take her bowl.
The dowager cleared her throat from across the table and drew Amelia’s attention. “Painting, needlework, and the pianoforte are all encouraging activities for young ladies.”
“I think it’s a lovely engagement gift. I wish I had such talent,” Caroline said.
Eliza smiled. “Amelia is the only one of us who can paint. She’s gifted.”
Chloe spoke up.
“It’s true. She works wonders with her oils and brushes. I often tease her that she will have to teach me someday.”
Huntingdon nodded. “As an art critic, I wholeheartedly agree.”
Amelia met her brother-in-law’s amused grin. Thank goodness he didn’t mention how he’d first learned of her artistic talent. Her forgery had been so meticulous it had almost fooled him.
“Your reputation as an art critic is renowned, Lord Huntingdon,” the dowager said. “Perhaps you can recommend a portrait painter to capture my grandson’s image to add to Rosehill’s gallery. I’ve been asking him for over a year to have his portrait completed.”
“There are many fine artists to pick from in London,” Huntingdon said. “The Royal Academy has a list of accomplished portrait painters.” Huntington shot Vale a dark look that made Amelia squirm in her seat. She was quite certain her brother-in-law didn’t know of her agreement with Vale.
The dowager turned to Vale. “You should take Huntingdon’s advice.”
Amelia’s heart pounded so strongly it was a wonder the dowager didn’t hear it across the table.
Vale raised his glass. “Never fear. I’m working on it.”
…
Late that night, Amelia was curled in an armchair studying the pages of her sketchbook. The older scenes were from her window during their brief stay in St. Giles. The images were disturbing and deeply affecting. One in particular always tugged at her heart—a young mother begging on the corner, her face gaunt from sacrificing too many meals to feed her young children. Amelia often wondered what had become of her. Was she alive? Had her children survived? The sketch was one that Amelia had vowed to paint and display for a future exhibition. She scrawled her name on the bottom of the sketch in bold, black letters, just as she planned to sign it after she’d painted it.
Amelia Somerton.
Not Henry Crowley, or Evan Townsend, or Donald Marshal. Or any of the other names she’d used in the past.
She turned to the end of the book, and a single candle illuminated her most recent work, a rough sketch of Lord Vale’s handsome face. She’d captured a knowing glint in his eyes, a lazily seductive glance that had upset her balance more than once.
A soft knock on her bedchamber door startled her. She set her sketchbook aside, donned her night rail over her nightgown, and cracked the door to find the flesh-and-blood model of her sketch standing in the hall.
“I saw the candlelight beneath the door. I’m glad you’re awake,” he said.
Her brow furrowed, and she peeked around him. “Is something amiss with Chloe?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I thought to show you the secret passageway,” he said.
“Now? It’s well past midnight.”
“All the guests are asleep. It’s the perfect time.”
Perfect for him. He was fully dressed, from jacket and waistcoat to shined Hessians. He looked like he was ready for a ride in the country. Amelia was dressed in her nightclothes. Even though the fabric covered every inch of her skin, from the high neckline and long sleeves to her slippered feet, she still felt exposed.
“I’m not sure this is the best time to—”
“There’s no better opportunity.” He stepped inside and closed the door. “Your sister watches you like a hawk. My grandmother misses nothing.”
Amelia backed up a step.
“You’re not afraid, are you?” he asked.
Now that he was inside her bedchamber with candlelight flickering across his face, she had second thoughts. Could she do this? Could she be alone with a man for hours each night and paint him? She didn’t fear physical harm from him. Her instincts told her she would be safe with him. But there were other disconcerting factors—a fluttering at the back of her neck and the wild beating of her pulse when he looked at her. And the way her heart seemed to rush to the spot on her hand or arm every time he briefly touched her.
“Let me show you the passageway. If you have second thoughts, you can back out of our arrangement. I’ll send a message straightway to Stirling at the Royal Academy that I am no longer in need of his services,” he said.
At the mention of the master painter, Amelia shook her head. “No. Show me.”
Art lessons were a once in a lifetime opportunity and she couldn’t let propriety or discomfort get in her way, no matter how highly attractive she found her subject.
A second passed, then two, before Vale nodded. He carried his candle to the chest of drawers and held the light close to the paneled wall.
Amelia bent to look where he was indicating. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look close. Here.” He pointed to the molding at the base of the wall.
She saw it then. A small crack that was nearly invisible with the paint.
“If you press the lever by the molding, you will hear a click and the door will open,” he instructed.
Amelia ran her fingers across the molding until she felt a small lever. She pressed down and felt a latch release at the same time she heard a click. A door opened in the paneling, and darkness met her eyes.
Vale held up his candle, and the glow lit a passageway. “The passage leads directly to my study. Follow me.”
Amelia reached for her own candle and followed behind him. Candlelight flickered off the corridor’s walls and the hair on her nape stood on end. “How far is it?” she whispered.
“We’re almost there.”
She’d never liked small spaces and the corridor was dim and cramped. A trickle of sweat beaded between her breasts. Reaching out, she pressed a hand against his jacket between his shoulder blades. His strength and warmth beneath her palm kept any panic at bay.
“We’re here.” He lowered the candle to show her another lever to press. A door sprang open, and she followed him into a room.
She took a deep breath and blinked as her eyes adjusted from the dimness in the corridor to the brightly lit room.
Three rows of bookshelves lined with supple leather volumes graced one wall. A large pearwood desk occupied the wall opposite a stone fireplace with a coal grate. The desk was covered with papers and a wooden globe rested on an end table.
But it was the two canvases on easels in the corner that caught her eye. A smaller canvas was for the Aelbert Cuyp landscape. The larger one, measuring five feet tall and three feet wide, was the exact dimensions for a portrait that she’d scrawled on a note and handed to his butler. Her wooden box of art supplies rested on an end table close by the canvas.
“Are they acceptable?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You can work here each night after the guests retire. No one but my butler and most trusted staff enter here. I often work late at night and they are used to my unconventional work habits.”
In the brightly lit room, Amelia’s concerns vanished. She could easily paint here for hours without threat of discovery.
“I have one question,” she said. “What was the secret passageway used for? Were the past earls of Vale involved in espionage on behalf of the Crown?”
His lips twitched in amusement. “Hardly such a noble cause. My great grandfather was profligate and his mistresses often visited Rosehill. The secret passageway was a convenient means for his lovers to come to him. I’m certain the tales have been exaggerated, but the corridor speaks for itself. Only a handful of people have ever known of its existence.”
She hadn’t expected such an explanation. She’d imagined spies and noble, self-sacrificing men taking risks on behalf of their country. Not the illicit affairs of an old earl.
She motioned toward the door hidden in the paneling. “Then why does the passage lead to the study and not the master bedchamber?”
His smile turned up a notch. “Because my great grandmother, the countess, would have heard everything.”
“Oh.” Amelia’s face grew warm. Whatever answer she had expected it wasn’t that. A sudden thought occurred to her, and she eyed him with newfound knowled
ge. “You won’t be making any visits through the passage into my bedchamber.”
His placed his hand across his heart. “My vow as a gentleman. I’d never visit a lady’s bedchamber unless I’m invited.”
Heavens. The way he said it suggested he was often invited. Amelia felt a rush of heat across her skin. She hadn’t even started to paint him and she was thinking scandalous thoughts. She needed to maintain all boundaries.
Arching an eyebrow, she glared at him. “Since that will never happen, I will begin working tomorrow night, my lord.”
…
After Amelia departed through the secret passageway to return to her bedchamber, Brandon remained in his study. He poured himself a glass of brandy and propped his booted feet upon his desk. Papers, ledgers, and reports littered the surface, reminding him of all his duties and responsibilities. He didn’t want to think of the work he had yet to accomplish at the textile mill. He’d rather think of pleasurable things.
He closed his eyes, savoring the fine alcohol as images of Amelia in her nightclothes flashed through his mind. The wholesome white linen had covered every inch of her skin from its high neckline to its embroidered sleeves and hem, but a woman had never looked more tempting to him. He’d experienced his share of females, widows and courtesans, but none had attracted him as strongly as Amelia Somerton.
He imagined untying the bow of her nightgown at her neck and revealing the smallest amount of creamy flesh. He felt himself harden just thinking about removing the pristine cloth. When she stepped before the candlelight, he could make out the shape of a slender leg through the material.
Holy hell. He should be thrilled she’d agreed to copy the Cuyp landscape. He was counting on the money from the sale of the original painting. But he was surprised at how much he was looking forward to sitting for his portrait. He’d have a chance to watch her as she studied him and worked. Her blue eyes would travel over his body inch by inch as she painted. The thought was enough to heat his skin and harden him further. It would be a tantalizing escape. He wouldn’t have to think of his troubles, only the pleasure of spending time alone with a beautiful woman he desired.
She claimed she had no interest in an illicit liaison. But he had caught her sidelong glances when they were in her bedchamber and later in his study. She had watched his lips move, had glanced at his shoulders, his chest. On some deeply buried level, Amelia Somerton desired him. The thought heightened his lust.
Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons) Page 4