Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons)

by Tina Gabrielle

  “What about the other brother, Lord Weston?” Chloe asked.

  “He’s the opposite and quite serious about political issues and events in Parliament. I find him tedious at best. My head spins after ten minutes in his company,” Minerva said.

  Lord Weston sounded like an intelligent gentleman to Amelia. But clearly that was not the type of man who could hold Minerva’s interest.

  Minerva leaned close and lowered her voice. “I have a secret. I’ve hope to steal time alone with Lord Vale during the house party.”

  Amelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was clear Lady Minerva had designs on Lord Vale. What wasn’t clear was how he felt about the duke’s daughter. From what Amelia had experienced, Minerva was pretentious, spoiled, and not highly intelligent.

  Caroline smiled mischievously and looked at Amelia and Chloe. “Ooh. A secret meeting of sorts. I approve. Nothing illicit ever happens at Rosehill.”

  Amelia sucked in a breath, then forced herself to breathe. If only you knew.

  …

  Later that evening, Brandon adjusted his cravat and looked into the drawing room. The Duke of Townsend stood by the fireplace mantle and sipped his drink.

  “You have fine spirits, Vale,” the duke said.

  “The whiskey was my father’s favorite.” Brandon poured his own glass from a crystal decanter on a nearby sideboard. Of all his father’s faults, stocking Rosehill with fine liquor was not one of them. The wine cellar contained dozens of bottles of fine wine, expensive brandy, and whiskey.

  The duke raised his glass. “To the old earl.”

  Brandon sipped his drink. His father and the duke had been friends since attending Eaton as boys. Brandon had heard stories of their youthful antics for years. But the stories had ended upon both men inheriting their titles. Thereafter, the duke had matured and discovered a head for business whereas his father had not.

  “It’s good to be here. I’ve always preferred the country to the city. Never did like the crowded and overheated ballrooms or the endless parties and soirees of the Season.” The duke glanced toward his wife in the corner of the drawing room. “Unlike the duchess.”

  “Ah, she didn’t want to attend the house party?”

  The duke snorted. “Hardly. This was one trip to the country she was eager to make.” The duke’s thin lips curled at the corners, the closest thing Brandon had ever seen resemble a smile on the man’s weathered face. “My daughter, Minerva, has something to do with the duchess’s eagerness, of course.”

  Brandon raised his glass and swallowed. He didn’t need to bring up the loose agreement between his father and the duke. The fact that his grandmother kept badgering Brandon to act upon it by proposing marriage to Lady Minerva was bad enough. The duke was a shrewd man, and he must suspect Brandon’s money troubles. Yet he still wasn’t opposed to the match. The duke had more money than he could spend in a lifetime, and he knew Brandon wasn’t a spendthrift like his father.

  He also knew his daughter was not a beauty.

  Brandon hadn’t seen the duke’s daughter for months, and he’d hoped he’d feel differently about her when she arrived at Rosehill. But he hadn’t. True, she wasn’t very attractive, but that could be overlooked. It was her annoying tendency to gaze up at him like he was the sun and the stars. Not to mention her lack of intelligence. He understood that someone may not like all of Shakespeare’s works, but to find every one dreadfully boring?

  And Hamlet happened to be his favorite.

  The drawing room door opened and the remaining ladies entered the room. Caroline and Helen looked lovely in pale pink and violet gowns. Lady Minerva was dressed in a cream gown with layers of silver tissue and a rounded bodice that emphasized her large breasts. But it was the last lady to walk into the drawing room who captured Brandon’s gaze.

  Amelia turned heads in a simple gown of emerald silk. Unlike the dress she’d worn to his study the first night, the fine quality silk hugged her curves. From the first moment he’d seen her over a year ago at the Peacock Print Shop, she had enchanted him. He’d wondered for a long while if his interest would wane when he saw her again, but it was stronger than before.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he started walking away. “Pardon me, Your Grace.” He strode to Amelia’s side. She was standing in the corner talking to Caroline, Minerva, and Huntingdon’s sister, Lady Sara.

  He bowed deeply. “Good evening, ladies. You all look lovely.”

  His gaze lingered on Amelia, and he envisioned her in her work gown as she’d sketched him with charcoals the previous evening. She’d appeared beautiful to him then, but tonight, she looked exquisite with her hair in an elegant coiffure with loose curls surrounding her heart-shaped face. Tendrils of red glinted in the strands from the dozens of candles in the chandeliers.

  Minerva stepped between the two. “I’ve seen some of Rosehill, my lord. Is it true it has twenty guest suites and four wings? And that it has a half dozen working fountains?”

  Dragging his gaze away from Amelia, he forced himself to smile. His head spun as he focused on Minerva’s lips. The last time he’d seen her, she’d spoken too rapidly and too much. Matters were unchanged.

  He decided to answer the last question first.

  “Counting the one by the twin gazebos, Rosehill has ten working fountains,” he said.

  “Will you show them all to me?” Minerva asked eagerly.

  A tour of the gardens with the duke’s daughter was not a task he relished. At least not with her. He’d love to walk Amelia around the gardens and show her the unique trees and plants and decorative fountains on Rosehill’s grounds.

  He was saved from answering when his butler, Smithson, finally entered and announced that dinner was served. Brandon was relieved to escort his sisters into the dining room. Minerva and the duchess were escorted by the duke. But Brandon’s relief was short lived when Newchester’s younger brother, Lord Emmett, offered Amelia his arm.

  Rules of etiquette had to be followed. His grandmother the dowager sat closest to Brandon, along with the duke and duchess and Lady Minerva. Then came the rest of the titled guests. Which left Amelia and Chloe seated farthest away from the head of the table.

  Brandon knew the Marquess of Newchester’s younger brothers from both White’s and Brook’s. Brandon liked Newchester and approved of the match between the marquess and his sister, Helen. As for the marquess’s brothers, he had mixed feelings. Weston was studious and serious and always spoke of upcoming bills sponsored in parliament. Emmett was an arse who gambled and drank far too much. He reminded Brandon of his own father. He’d never minded either man in the past. He’d talked politics with Weston and drunk with Emmett.

  But it was the way Emmett was staring at Amelia—like it would take great effort to tear his gaze from her—that made Brandon’s blood boil.

  Sandwiched between the duchess and the dowager, he struggled to fake interest in the never-ending stream of mundane topics they discussed. His gaze kept straying to the far end of the table.

  Blast. Emmett leaned close to Amelia as he spoke, his hand brushing her arm below her sleeve.

  “As I was saying, my lord, Minerva has taken to the pianoforte.”

  “Pardon?” Brandon turned his attention to the duchess.

  “Her music instructor raves she is one of his fastest learning students.”

  “Is that so?” he said, hoping he sounded more interested than he was.

  “She’s also an accomplished singer,” the duchess continued. “And her embroidery is to be admired.”

  What was the woman prattling on about? Singing embroidery? Brandon’s eye caught a glimpse of emerald silk and auburn hair at the far end of the table.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” his grandmother said, glaring at him.

  Brandon stiffened and turned to the dowager. “Yes, of course.”

  “She can play for you sometime,” the duchess offered. “Or even sing.”

  Minerva said little but gazed at Bran
don with a hopeful expression. It made him want to escape through the French doors and ride hell for leather through the country.

  The meal dragged on as he stole glimpses of Amelia. Not only was Emmett engaging her in conversation, but his brother, Weston, was as well. Weston said something to her that made her laugh and gift him with a genuine smile.

  Damnation. Brandon’s fist clenched the stem of his wineglass. He was beginning to regret inviting Newchester’s entire family to the house party. But how could he celebrate Helen’s betrothal to the marquess without inviting the man’s two unmarried brothers?

  By the end of the sixth course, Brandon had drunk far too much. He ignored the dowager’s disapproving glare and motioned for a footman to top off his wineglass. He was restless in the dining room surrounded by people he wanted to escape.

  All he could think of was the evening. Amelia would slip through the passageway and into his study, and he’d have her to himself at last.

  He couldn’t wait until tonight.

  …

  The meal was lasting forever. Amelia had lost count of all the courses. Her eyes kept straying to the head of the table where Brandon sat. He was an unwelcome distraction.

  She’d become accustomed to formal dinners since Eliza had married Huntingdon, but this meal at the house party was different. She struggled to remember which utensil to use for each course. So many watchful eyes from the newly arrived guests, not to mention the footmen stationed behind the chairs.

  Thank goodness for Caroline and Huntingdon’s sister, Sara, nearby. They helped put her at ease, whereas the bachelors seated closest to her were a different matter. Amelia wasn’t sure what to make of the marquess’s two brothers, Lord Weston and Lord Emmett.

  Emmett was the younger of the two with his dark hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was quick with a smile and a joke, and he was clearly comfortable around the women. He was also fond of the wine in Vale’s cellar from the way he repeatedly motioned for the closest footman to refill his glass.

  Weston, on the other hand, had similar coloring, but sharp blue eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. He was more serious than his younger brother, but decidedly more intelligent. He was also less soused.

  “I’m thrilled that Vale has invited such lovely guests,” Emmett said at her elbow.

  “Chloe and I are Lord Huntingdon’s sisters-in-law,” Amelia said.

  “Huntington is fortunate. And Vale is more so since he and Huntingdon own adjoining country estates.” Emmett leaned forward, brushing his sleeve against her bare arm for the second time that evening. “If I lived this close to you, I’d find any excuse to visit.” He winked. “A country walk. A ride. Even afternoon tea.”

  Amelia was annoyed by his forwardness. Did he always behave this way with women he’d just met? Or was it because he was clearly foxed? Either way, she knew men like him needed to be put in their place. “From what I’ve heard, you prefer London life,” she said.

  One dark eyebrow shot upward. “Who told you that?”

  “Your reputation precedes you, my lord.”

  His mouth quirked with humor. “Pray tell me, what are the rumors?”

  Amelia smoothed the napkin on her lap. “That you are a regular at the gentlemen’s clubs and enjoy placing outrageous wagers in White’s betting book.”

  He blinked, and she feared she had gravely insulted him, but then he threw back his head and laughed loudly, drawing attention from the guests near the head of the table. “I cannot deny any of it, and your truthfulness is a refreshing change.”

  She glanced up and caught Brandon’s gaze. For a brief instant, his eyes darkened and his jaw tensed. He looked angry. A frisson of unease skittered down her spine, and she turned away. Was he upset with her, or Lord Emmett?

  Lady Minerva stared at her quizzically while the duchess looked at her as if she had dripped sauce on her bodice.

  Amelia wanted to push back her chair and flee from the room. Surprisingly, it was Weston who came to her rescue. “Ignore my brother,” Weston said, shooting Emmett a warning look. “He gets carried away by fine food and spirits and often forgets his manners.”

  For the first time that evening, Emmet was silent as he sipped from his wineglass with an expression that could only be described as brooding.

  Caroline cleared her throat and drew their attention. “Sara and I have been talking. We’d both love to learn how to paint.” She looked at Amelia. “Will you teach us one afternoon?”

  Amelia blinked at her in surprise. “I suppose so. Although I’ve never given art lessons before.”

  Caroline waved a dismissive hand. “We don’t expect to be as good as you after one or two lessons. We just want to learn the basics. It will be fun. Please say yes.”

  How could she refuse? “Of course, I’d be delighted to teach you. We can start with oil painting then move on to watercolors.”

  Caroline clapped her hands and turned to Sara. “See? I told you she’d agree.”

  “I’d like to learn as well.” Lord Emmett spoke up.

  Weston glared at his brother. “You’ve never mentioned an interest in art before.”

  “So? I don’t tell you everything,” Emmett shot back.

  Weston adjusted his spectacles. “Fine. Why don’t we both participate in the first lesson? No need to waste the lady’s time for a second session if art doesn’t arouse either of our interests. Agreed?”

  “Only the next bill in parliament arouses you,” Emmett snapped.

  “Unlike you, I’m particular about what entices me,” Weston shot back.

  Emmett hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. We’ll both attend the first class.”

  Amelia forced herself to smile. Were they still talking about artwork? Or was there more to Lord Weston’s words? Either way, she had no interest in involving herself in sibling rivalry.

  She looked up to find Brandon watching the exchange. A swift shadow of anger swept across his face before he raised his wineglass and drank.

  Chapter Ten

  The charcoal felt light as air in Amelia’s hand. Dozens of candles lit the room as she sat on a wooden stool in the center of the study. Her subject, Lord Vale, was in his shirtsleeves once again, his jacket and waistcoat draped across the armchair. He was in his desired pose leaning against the desk.

  Amelia’s curious eyes examined him as she worked. He shifted, and the muscles in his shoulders were clearly discernable beneath the fine linen. Her mouth went dry remembering their shared kiss by the stream. Even though he’d worn his jacket that day, when she’d clenched his shoulders she could still feel the sinewy strength beneath the layers of cloth. She pulled her drifting thoughts together and forced herself to focus on her task. Once she had the charcoal sketch complete with the proper proportions, she’d start with the oils on the canvas.

  She studied his right hand. Light lines soon distinguished his fingers, tapered and strong, as they curled around the edge of the desk. A few more lines and muscle beneath the skin appeared. A fine white scar marred his thumb, from just above his fingernail to the second joint.

  “How did you get the scar?” she asked, then felt her face grow warm as she realized she had spoken the question aloud. It was turning out to be a pleasurable arrangement; he posed and she had permission to openly study him. She’d been so engrossed in her drawing that she’d been working for over an hour in silence.

  Brandon rubbed his scarred thumb with his forefinger. “It happened in the boxing ring.”

  “Boxing?”

  “At Gentleman Jackson’s salon to be precise.”

  “Jackson gave you the scar?” she asked.

  “Nothing so glamorous. I tripped getting out of the ring and sliced my thumb on the side of a cracked water pitcher.”

  She chuckled as she envisioned the accident. He seemed too graceful to trip, let alone fall as he climbed out of a boxing ring to land on a pitcher.

  The corners of his lips twitched in amusement. “It was quite humiliating, I assure you.
My first pugilist lesson with the great prize fighter and I fell flat on my face.”

  “At least you have a good story to tell,” she said.

  “I do, don’t I?”

  “Now hold still. I’m not finished with the sketch.”

  Her fingers gripped the charcoal as she focused on his face. The keen intelligence in his eyes was as distracting as his physical appearance. She suddenly felt overly warm in the study.

  Had a servant accidently lit the coal in the brazier on this pleasant night? Or was something else causing the rush of heat across her skin?

  She continued to draw, her thoughts turning to the colors she would choose for his complexion and the enigmatic shades of green in his eyes. She studied the depths of his gaze, and her mind struggled to continue.

  “I was thinking of my tour of the estate,” she blurted out. “The vastness of Rosehill astounds me and the number of tenants. How does it sustain itself?”

  “I need the tenants as much as they need me. The rents from the farmland help.”

  “I cannot fathom how much is needed to support an estate of this size,” she said.

  His expression tightened. For an instant, gone was the pleasant, relaxed gentleman she had spent the evening with and in its place was a troubled earl. She didn’t know what had caused the change, but the uneasy flash in his eyes was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and she wondered if it was a trick of the candlelight.

  Instinct told her it wasn’t.

  So why was he troubled?

  And why should she care? her inner voice warned.

  He had hired her to paint his portrait and copy a landscape, not heal the depths of his soul.

  “I’m almost finished for the night,” she said.

  “So quickly?”

  “I’ll start with oils tomorrow evening. You need not fear, my lord. Your portrait will be completed before the end of the house party. I’ve already started the Cuyp copy,” she said, motioning to the canvas in the corner of the study.

  The corners of his lips curled into a grin. “I’m not worried. I have faith in you.”

  She was aware of him watching her pack her art supplies in the wood box. Rushing to complete her task, she dropped a piece of charcoal on the Oriental carpet. It bounced once and came to rest beside his booted foot.