Amelia didn’t like seeing Brandon so upset, and her fingers itched to reach out and smooth his deeply furrowed brow.
“Have the machines watched,” Brandon ordered.
“You suspect foul play?” Begley asked. “There hasn’t been word of luddites for at least four years and not in this part of Hampshire.”
“Until I know for sure, I want them watched.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Amelia had heard of the luddites and the significance of their rebellious actions against factories. They feared the machines would leave them without work. But for them to attack here? A cold knot formed in her stomach. Weren’t they violent? Was Brandon at risk? Questions arose, but she held her tongue.
As they made their way outside, Amelia sucked the cool air into her lungs. The carriage was around the corner, and Brandon started toward it.
“Wait,” she said, placing a hand on his sleeve. “Do you truly believe luddites are damaging the looms?”
“I don’t know. There are men who dislike the industrialization that has started in this country. It’s inevitable and will only increase, no matter their efforts. I predict even more factories will spring up all over London very soon. But there are desperate men who want to hold onto the old ways.”
She felt a terrible tenseness in her body. “Desperate men are dangerous men.”
His expression darkened with an unreadable emotion. “It’s not me you need to worry about, but any saboteurs that are damaging those looms.”
She sensed the simmering anger behind his words. He wouldn’t be sympathetic or understanding, he would unleash the full extent of his power as an earl, and as a man.
He took her arm and led her toward the carriage. “It’s time to leave before people question your long absence from Rosehill. We still need to stop in the village for your supplies.”
Chapter Eighteen
Amelia decided to hold her art lessons beside Rosehill’s twin gazebos. The scenic location offered a beautiful view, and the fresh outdoors would allow for the best ventilation of the oil paint. Footmen carried out half a dozen easels and small canvases and arranged them near the rose bushes. Beside each easel paints, brushes, and jars of water rested on small wooden work tables.
The ladies and gentlemen arrived at the same time. Helen, Caroline, Sara, and Minerva chose their easels. Emmett and Weston picked easels behind the ladies. Amelia had set up her own canvas in front of the group so they could watch as she instructed. Chloe decided to skip the art lessons in order to go riding. Amelia couldn’t blame her sister. She’d been exposed to oils and watercolors since she was a toddler.
“Let’s start with the basics. Pick up the thickest brush for the sky,” Amelia instructed. She dipped her brush in blue paint then applied a dab of white. Her strokes were light and airy as she demonstrated how to paint the sky.
After she was finished, she walked around to check on each of her pupils.
She halted beside Emmett. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of whiskey. How could he drink so early in the afternoon? “What are you painting?” she asked, looking at his canvas. “It doesn’t look at all like a sky.”
He leaned close to whisper. “It’s not. It’s the ceiling of my bedroom. It’s my hope that you will know what it looks like soon.”
Her mouth dropped open, then she threw back her head and laughed. She couldn’t help herself. His behavior was too outrageous to take offense.
His eyes roamed over her figure, and he winked. “Will you visit me tonight?”
Amelia plucked his brush from his hand and wrote the word “NO” in bold blue paint in the center of his canvas.
Emmett dramatically placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me. Is there no future between us?”
She ignored his question. “Start over with a fresh canvas.”
Weston waved his brush across the way. “Enough with my brother. Check my painting,” he called out.
Amelia walked over to Weston and glanced at his canvas. It was a good rendition of the sky. “It’s excellent.”
Weston’s blue eyes twinkled behind his spectacles as he gazed at her. “Is my brother bothering you?”
“No. I can handle him.”
He grinned. “By the look on his face, you did quite well.”
Her lips twitched. How could two brothers be so different? “Are you enjoying the lessons?”
“Surprisingly, yes. But I think it has more to do with my instructor than the actual painting.”
“You flatter me, Lord Weston.”
“It’s true.” Weston’s eyes were warm and earnest.
Here was a man who would make a good husband. Eliza would be thrilled. If only Amelia felt the same pulse pounding awareness of him that she felt around Brandon.
Voices sounded beyond the rose bushes, then Brandon and Huntingdon appeared, each with a gun slung over his shoulder, on their way to do some hunting. Brandon stopped short at the sight of Weston leaning close to Amelia. His eyes narrowed, and a quick shadow of anger crossed his face.
Goodness. He looked primitive and very male. He couldn’t possibly be jealous, could he?
Lady Minerva hopped at once to her feet and waved. “Lord Vale! Come see my art and give me your opinion. Tell me, do I have talent?”
Brandon’s head snapped up, and his lips thinned in annoyance. After a nudge from Huntingdon, Brandon walked over and glanced at Minerva’s easel. His face screwed into a perplexed expression.
“It’s the sky,” Minerva rushed to offer.
Brandon blinked. “It’s nice.”
“All is to our teacher’s credit,” Weston called out. “She’s capable and gifted. Under her tutelage, I’m immensely enjoying her lessons.”
Brandon swung around to give Weston a hostile glare. He was jealous.
A thrill of satisfaction coursed through Amelia. How could she be enjoying his medieval reaction? What did that say about her?
Brandon met her gaze across the row of easels. “I’d like to see the instructor’s artwork. Will you show me, Miss Somerton?”
Amelia arched an eyebrow. He must know her canvas was in the front of the group for demonstration. He could see it for himself. He certainly didn’t need for her to show him anything.
But the stubborn man placed his hands behind his back and waited.
Amelia marched to the front of the group, and he followed. “If you are so interested in painting, my lord, you could have joined our lessons,” she said loud enough for the group to hear.
He leaned down to supposedly study her canvas. She wasn’t fooled. He knew exactly how she could paint. The two pieces of artwork in his private study were good examples.
“I admit to being interested in lessons from you, but of a different nature,” he said close to her ear.
He was incorrigible. Her skin heated, and she struggled to breathe.
“We are being watched,” she whispered in alarm.
“I can’t help myself.”
She was so wrapped up in him that she was slow to hear additional voices from beyond the twin gazebos. Too late, the duchess and dowager appeared from around the building. The women stopped short as they took in the several would-be painters arrayed amidst their easels, brushes, jars of water, and paints. But it was the duchess’s attention that concerned Amelia. Her gaze traveled from Amelia to Brandon then back to Amelia. Alarm raced down Amelia’s spine, and she had the distinct impression they were somehow caught.
The dowager must have noticed, too. She blinked rapidly and hurried to clap her hands. “We have an exciting announcement. Her Grace and I have decided to have a ball to celebrate your last evening here. We only have a few days to prepare and the ladies are needed to help select the theme.”
The young ladies squealed in excitement.
“A ball at Rosehill!” Helen and Caroline called out simultaneously.
“Mother, what shall I wear?” Minerva called out.
“What wonderful news,” Amelia said. “Let’s co
ntinue our lessons another time.”
The tinkling of brushes dropping into water-filled glass jars sounded as the ladies rushed to join the dowager.
As Amelia grasped her skirts and hurried to join the women, she could almost feel the duchess’s eyes boring into her back.
…
Huntingdon shot Brandon a dark glare. “What’s gotten into your head?”
Brandon stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You looked at Amelia like you wanted to throw her over your shoulder and drag her off into the woods.”
Had he? It wasn’t a bad idea. He’d been unable to control his jealousy when he’d found Weston looming over her. Once again, the man had been gazing at her like a lovesick boy. Brandon’s fists had clenched and he wanted to pummel Weston and then carry Amelia off—not into the woods—but to his bed.
Huntingdon was right. He reacted like a possessive fool. He knew he had no claim on Amelia. But that was the problem. He wanted a claim. He wanted to make her his.
“You’re lucky not everyone noticed. But your grandmother and the duchess are both intelligent and sharp-eyed women. You better decide what you want.”
Brandon scowled at his friend. “I told my grandmother that I won’t be forced to marry anyone.”
“What of your father’s debts? Do you have a choice?”
His grandmother’s announcement to have a ball would be another added expense that increased his stress. He wished she’d discussed the matter with him first, but he also suspected the duchess had a hand in persuading the dowager.
“The textile mill has great potential,” Brandon said.
“I hope so for your sake,” Huntingdon said.
Brandon adjusted the gun on his shoulder and kept walking. They were to hunt partridge and pheasant this morning, just the two of them. Normally he enjoyed Huntingdon’s company, but he wondered at the wisdom of spending time alone with his friend today. Huntingdon knew him too well. It wouldn’t be easy to hide anything from his friend, and he felt guilty for misleading him.
They reached the end of the clearing and entered the woods. The foliage was thick here, and they continued until they reached a stream with an abundance of grasses, leaves, roots, seeds, and insects where the birds visited and fed. Twigs snapped beneath his boots. Sweat beaded on their brows in the afternoon heat, and they waited for the birds in silence.
“I can do it, dammit,” Brandon muttered. “Without a woman’s money.”
It was a matter of pride that he succeed on his own. He knew most men of his station wouldn’t give a second thought about marrying a woman simply for her money. But the thought made Brandon feel less of a man.
Huntingdon’s gaze sharpened. “I never said you couldn’t.”
“I know.”
“Then what else is addling your brains?”
At Brandon’s silence, Huntingdon gave a curt nod. “She’s driving you mad, isn’t she?”
Brandon didn’t bother to ask who. Huntingdon knew. “Why do you say that?”
“Only a woman can make a man act that irrationally. I should know.”
“You married Eliza knowing she was a forger’s daughter. The same forger who’d fooled you as an influential art critic,” Brandon said.
“I didn’t need what you do,” Huntingdon countered.
“You mean a large dowry?” Brandon’s tongue was heavy with sarcasm.
“Precisely.”
Brandon should curse his father, but he didn’t feel the common disgust that usually arose when he thought of his parent. The truth was he would never have retained Amelia for her artistic services if it were not for the mess the old earl had dumped upon him. He wouldn’t need a copy of the Cuyp landscape. He would have hired a Royal Academy painter to paint his portrait.
He’d never have gotten to know her. He’d never know of her dreams to paint the poor. He’d never have the pleasure of taking her to the factory and receiving her insights about the child labor problems.
He was not only highly attracted to her, but he liked and admired her.
She was, quite simply, the most remarkable woman he’d ever known.
He’d fix the mess with the debt. He was confident about the textile mill. It was just a matter of time before the power mills cooperated and the factory became profitable. And with Amelia by his side, he could accomplish it. He felt like he could accomplish anything.
He hadn’t been truthful to her. She’d stayed true to their arrangement, but he hadn’t told her everything regarding what he planned for the sale of the Dutch landscape. He hadn’t been truthful to Huntingdon, either.
A stab of guilt pierced his chest. Huntingdon was his best friend. He couldn’t mess things up so badly. Honor demanded that he to do right by both Huntingdon and Amelia. His honor and her virtue. Why hadn’t he considered it before? Now that the thought entered his mind, he knew it was perfect.
He could marry Amelia.
Huntingdon had married Eliza despite her scandalous past and the identity of her criminal father. Brandon understood that the two sisters were very different. Eliza had given up the running of the Peacock Print Shop and had eagerly embraced becoming Huntingdon’s countess.
Amelia, on the other hand, didn’t want to marry. She wanted to embark on a career as an artist painting controversial subjects under her own name. Brandon was truthful when he’d said he admired her dreams, but marriage complicated matters.
He could no longer think only of himself. He was now an earl and had to consider Helen, Caroline, and his grandmother. His wife’s activities would reflect upon all of them.
An alternative to his dilemma came to mind, one in which Amelia could still paint London’s downtrodden and anything else she desired. If he could persuade her to once again paint under a false name, would she be willing to do so in order to become his wife?
He knew it wasn’t her entire dream, but he believed the benefits far outweighed the disadvantages. She would no longer be a sister-in-law to an earl, but would become a countess herself with all the privileges the title entailed.
Huntingdon raised his gun. “Over there.”
Brandon looked at where Huntingdon pointed his barrel to see a flock of pheasants land and begin feeding on the vegetation.
Brandon’s mood lifted. He’d been able to convince Amelia to go along with his plans in the past. Could he do it again?
Chapter Nineteen
Two days had passed since Amelia had last painted in Brandon’s study at night. The women were excited about the upcoming ball, and the dowager had decided to involve them in the planning. Discussing ball details, combined with the night entertainments, had kept the women up well past midnight.
Amelia still managed to paint. Instead of sneaking into the secret passageway at night, she’d slipped away in the day when everyone thought she was napping. Brandon had been occupied with the gentlemen guests and hadn’t been able to pose for his portrait so she’d worked on the Cuyp landscape.
She was pleased with her progress, but experienced an odd twinge of loneliness as she worked alone. For an artist who’d always enjoyed quiet when she worked and had often been absorbed in her art, it was a disturbing emotion. The truth was she missed Brandon’s companionship. She longed for his kisses—but even more than being held in his arms—she’d missed spending time in his company and simply talking with him.
By the third evening, the women had retired early, and Amelia was able to return to the study at night.
Brandon looked up from his desk and dropped the sheaf of papers he’d been studying. “Finally. I’ve been anxiously waiting all night.”
He stood and was by her side in a flash. He pulled her into his arms and he lowered his head, seeking her kiss. Her lips softened beneath his, and she swayed dizzily. His arms tightened, holding her more firmly against him.
“The feel of you is intoxicating,” he muttered under his breath.
His hand slid behind her neck, his fingers teasing the hair
at her nape. His mouth swooped down to claim hers, his kiss urgent and hungry at once. In wicked remembrance, she parted her lips in eager anticipation. He took full advantage, exploring her mouth. A delicious shudder heated her body, and she boldly returned his kiss.
He lifted his head, his green eyes compelling. “I’ve wanted to come to your bedchamber, but I’ve heard you had a different visitor.”
“Chloe had nightmares and slept in my room the past two nights.” She lifted her chin. “And you promised never to use the secret passageway to visit my bedchamber. We could be discovered!”
He nuzzled her ear, and she could hardly think.
“Is Chloe well?” he asked.
She sighed as he licked the sensitive shell of her ear. “Yes. The nightmares occur much less frequently than when she was young, but she comes to me now that Eliza’s married.”
His fingers stroked her arms, and she fought the sensual pull of desire.
She pressed her hand against his hard chest and managed to put several inches between them. “I’m here to work, my lord. You want me to complete your portrait before the end of the house party, don’t you?” She may have made progress on the Cuyp painting, but his portrait was a different matter entirely. She wanted to complete her part of their arrangement.
The corner of his mouth curved into a grin. “Fine,” he said as he went to his desk and leaned against it. “I missed having you stare at me as you work.”
He was a charming devil. A half an hour later, she was still trying to concentrate on Brandon’s portrait while he stood a mere five feet away. He shifted and folded his arms across his chest. The movement caused muscles to bunch beneath his shirt.
Must his every move remind her of his attractiveness? At this rate, she wouldn’t finish his portrait before the end of the house party, but would have to paint him from memory.
“I’ve wanted to thank you for your insight,” Brandon said.
Amelia looked up from the canvas to meet his gaze. “My insight?”
“I received a report from Mr. Begley. He gathered the workers and informed them of the new working conditions regarding their children. Only those over the age of thirteen will be permitted to work. Their tasks and hours will be limited, and their breaks and meals regulated. The workers are very pleased with the new arrangements.”
Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons) Page 15