“I suppose my past experience has given me a different point of view regarding the working class,” she said.
“You helped.”
She experienced a thrill at his praise. “I have another suggestion.” She tilted her head to the side and regarded him. Her idea had come to her days after her visit to the mill, and she wondered what he would think.
“Tell me.”
“What if you start a school?”
“A school?”
“Yes. A school for the children who work at the mill. The children with parents as well as those from the orphanage. If they work fewer hours, then they can go to school and learn how to read and write. It would enrich their lives and give them the skills to earn higher pay in the future. I know you’d have to wait until the mill consistently earns money, but the cost would only be in hiring a teacher and providing the space.”
He stilled, and she wondered if she’d gone too far. She’d never heard of a factory owner funding a school for his child laborers, but she’d also never heard of an owner as honorable as the Earl of Vale.
“You are as intelligent as you are beautiful. I can’t imagine discussing these issues with any of the ladies of my acquaintance. You have lived an unusual life that has given you the ability to perceive things differently and see possibilities that others cannot. It’s amazing to me.”
Her heart fluttered in her breast. Of all the things to say, he knew just how to compliment her, just how to reach her heart. She wasn’t the type to swoon over poetry or compliments over the color of her eyes or how kissable her lips. He saw through everything to admire what she most treasured—her mind and her past.
Her background, no matter how sordid or beneath his station, was an integral part of her; it had made her who she was.
Her feelings for him were growing. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself infatuated. Or was she already?
“Your suggestion is a good one. But it will have to wait for now,” he said.
“I know. I’m sorry about the power looms,” she said.
“I’m afraid I have no coin to spare all until the problems at the mill are solved. The only good news is that no further problems have been reported since the power looms have been watched.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But I’m still exasperated. None of my father’s other businesses were this difficult to fix.”
She lowered her brush and studied him. “You enjoy the business part of it, don’t you?”
A frown set into his features. “Inheriting debt? No, I don’t like it.”
“Not the debt. You like turning a failing business into a profitable one. You said it yourself. You have been successful in saving many of your father’s doomed endeavors. You must feel a sense of pride in your work.”
“I do. There’s satisfaction in it. I’ve often thought I should have been born a solicitor or a barrister instead of an heir to an earldom. I like to work. I like using my mind to study ledgers to find where a business went wrong, how to turn it around, and make it flourish.”
Amelia and her sisters had accomplished the same thing with the print shop. Their business had survived for five years, even during the harshest winters. But Amelia had cheated by selling a forgery. The money had been a vital influx of capital. She still had no remorse or guilt. She’d done what was needed to put food on the table. Would she do it again?
Yes. If circumstances warranted it.
She cast a sideways glance at the landscape on the easel in the corner of the study. Her work was coming along and was almost complete. A frightening thought crossed her mind: how much would her forgery be worth? If Brandon needed money so badly, why not have him pass hers off as an original?
You’ve always known your sinful nature would surface, she mused.
“The Aelbert Cuyp landscape is almost finished,” she blurted out.
He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I have a confession to make. I told you I was gifting the original to an American. I lied.”
She froze as a cold knot formed in her stomach. He couldn’t be suggesting what she’d just been thinking. “You plan on selling my copy?” He’d insisted she wasn’t painting a forgery, but a copy to hang in Rosehill. The original was to be a gift to his friend.
Did he lie? It was one thing to knowingly commit the crime of forgery, but something entirely different to have him take advantage of her work and keep it secret from her. Would he do such a thing?
“No,” he said, his voice firm. “You are painting a copy for me to hang in Rosehill. I plan on selling the original. The money from the sale will help pay for Helen’s wedding and satisfy some creditors. I don’t want to mislead you any longer. Do you believe me?”
She met his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning?”
“Because I needed you to agree to my plans. I apologize. Do you believe me when I say that I’d never sell your copy?”
She did. She felt ashamed for even thinking it. His confession was also a stark reminder of what he needed.
Money. Boatloads of it.
It always came down to money.
She smoothed her skirts with damp hands. “You told me you wanted a copy of the Dutch artist’s work because you’ve grown accustomed to the landscape hanging in the library and wished for a duplicate, and that your grandmother would frown upon you giving anything to an American. That wasn’t entirely true, was it? You want an exact copy to remain hanging in Rosehill because you don’t want the dowager or your sisters to know of your financial troubles.”
The tense lines on his face returned. “Yes, it’s true.”
“You should tell them,” she insisted. “I’ve come to know your sisters over the course of this house party and they are level-headed, intelligent women.”
His jaw hardened and shook his head. “I’m not prepared for that.”
She didn’t agree with him, but she also understood him. He had so much pride and so much family honor. He loved his sisters and his grandmother and felt responsible for all of them. He’d also shouldered his burdens on his own for so long, he couldn’t share them.
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” she said.
His jade-green eyes studied her with a curious intensity. “I don’t want to lie to you. Not after what we’ve shared. I’ve come to care for you, Amelia. You’re one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Somewhere along the way she’d fallen in love with him. She’d had no choice, really. As soon as he’d said she was remarkable, as soon as he’d praised her for her dreams to paint the needy and he’d taken her to the factory, she’d lost her heart.
Foolish heart.
How could she have allowed this to happen? The intensity of her feelings was frightening. Less than a week remained of the house party, and her work was almost complete. She’d soon return to London with her sisters and would rarely see him again. There would be no private time together, no intimate talks, no chance to kiss him or feel the heat of his flesh. She’d return to her old life, but things would be different. She was different.
He’d claimed not only her body, but a piece of her soul.
He stepped close. One hand captured her fingers, the other cradled her face. “I want you,” he said simply. “The past two days away from you have been torture. I hated when Weston looked at you. I wanted to toss you over my shoulder, carry you to my bedchamber, and kiss every inch of you.”
Excitement curled low in her belly, and her breath caught. “You did?”
“I do.”
Her heart was a delicate thing and he was playing havoc with it. They stared at each other for a long, sensual-filled moment. He pulled her against him and kissed her. He wasn’t rough like his words let her to believe, but brushed her lips with tantalizing tenderness. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
He lifted his head and looked at her. “I want to talk to Huntingdon.”
She was drowning in a haze of desire. His words we
re slow to pierce her senses. “What? Why?”
There was only one reason for him to mention a conversation with Huntingdon. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting what she thought.
She tried to take a step back, but his hold on her upper arms tightened.
“You can’t be serious? You can’t mean”—she dropped her voice even though there was no one else present in the room—“marriage?”
“Why not?”
“Because…because I’m not what you need.”
“You’re exactly what I need.”
Oh dear. A part of her was thrilled at his offer. She would get to spend the rest of her life with him, would get to bear his children and wake up beside him every morning. But logic took hold and she found herself shaking her head. “Why?”
“It’s the right thing to do. I knew there were consequences the first time I touched you. Huntingdon is my best friend and you are his sister-in-law. I must act honorably.”
Honor. That’s what was behind his offer? The part of her that was thrilled at the prospect withered. She’d never wanted to marry, only to pursue her art. If she did find herself standing before an altar and a priest she was determined to marry for love.
Not honor.
But Brandon was different. She’d come to know him. He had an abundance of honor and pride—with the children at the mill, with his concern for his tenants, and with his love for his sisters and grandmother. Lord Vale wanted to do the right thing.
He’d taken her virginity and now he felt like he had to do right by her by asking Huntingdon for her hand.
It wasn’t enough. How long before he regretted his decision? Before his financial troubles haunted him and he regretted not proposing to Minerva or another woman with blue bloodlines and an overflowing dowry?
She took a deep breath. “My answer is no.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“It’s impractical. I told you, I don’t want to marry. I want to paint the subjects of my choosing and have my own art exhibition, remember? I’ve never heard of a countess having her own art show.”
He hesitated for a heartbeat, and for that brief moment, she knew what he was going to say. “I won’t stand in the way of your art, I only ask that you keep painting under a false name.”
She felt an instant’s squeezing hurt, a sorrow that was a painful knot inside her. He knew of her dream, knew what it meant to her. “You’re ashamed of my work?” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Never. I admire your aspirations.”
She read the truth in his eyes. “You’re concerned for your sisters and your grandmother.” Her sketches of the poverty-stricken were shocking in their honesty. After she painted and displayed them, her work would most likely be considered scandalous among the upper class.
He gave a curt nod. “The topic of your paintings may inflame society and harm my family.”
She must never forget he was the Earl of Vale. If she married Brandon, then she’d have to continue painting under fictitious names. She’d hated doing it before, and now that she no longer had to sell her work to put food on the table by pleasing the clientele of the print shop, she would have to continue the charade in order to be with him. She would never have an art exhibition. She wouldn’t be able to speak with art critics or the press, and she would never be able to stand beside one of her paintings in the Royal Academy. Worst of all, she’d never be considered a serious artist, only the daughter of a forger.
No. Never again.
But despite the unfairness of it all, she understood his concerns for his grandmother and his sisters. How could she not? Eliza and Chloe were dear to her.
Lifting her chin, she met his green gaze. “You don’t have to act honorably. Huntingdon will never know what happened between us.”
“But I know. I took your innocence.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t take my virginity. I gave it to you. I’m a grown woman who knew the risks. No one else knows, and I don’t require you to behave honorably.”
He stepped close and trailed a finger down her cheek. His eyes smoldered. “We desire each other. Tell me you don’t feel the spark every time I touch you.”
Despite her annoyance, she shivered at his touch. “Lust is not a basis for marriage.”
“It’s more than my parents shared.”
She recalled what little he’d spoken of his parents. Theirs was a cold marriage and neither parent had been interested in their offspring. Her own mother had died when Amelia was young and she had no memories of her parents’ relationship. She only knew that her father hadn’t started forging paintings until after her mother had passed. She didn’t want a marriage based on convenience or honor.
Pain squeezed her heart, and she shook her head regretfully and stepped away. “I’m sorry, my lord, but it’s not enough for me. Good night.”
She turned and went to the hidden panel in the door. She could feel his eyes boring into her as she walked away, but thankfully he didn’t stop her.
The latch clicked and she stepped into the passage.
…
Amelia had rejected him.
Brandon poured himself a drink and sat behind his desk. He’d missed her terribly over the course of two days. She’d been occupied with the women, and he’d been hunting and fishing with the men. It had given him time to think, and he realized just how different she was from all the women of his past. He enjoyed talking with Amelia as much as he craved holding her in his arms…of making sweet, sensual love to her.
Only days of the house party remained, and she was close to finishing her work. Too soon she’d leave Rosehill and return with her sisters to London. He’d be left alone in his study without her passionate kisses and her intelligence and wit. Only his numerous ledgers and business troubles would remain.
He thought of her advice regarding opening a school for the children at the mill. Who would have thought? The more he considered it, the better it sounded. It would ease his conscience and benefit the children.
He’d been hesitant to tell her the full truth regarding his plans to sell the original Cuyp landscape. But she’d surprised him. She hadn’t rescinded on their agreement. She hadn’t railed at him or screamed. She’d thanked him for telling her the truth.
The unfamiliar ache in his gut returned. He didn’t believe in love. His parents hadn’t shared it, and he wouldn’t recognize it. But he knew one thing: he couldn’t let Amelia go.
He knew why she objected to marriage. She’d built her life around her art and wanted to pursue it with all her passion and rigor. She may not want to marry, but he’d just have to change her mind. She’d have to change it, dammit. And if Eliza had her way, Amelia would be married off to someone. The thought of her with another man made the breath burn in his throat.
An image of Lord Weston leaning close to whisper in Amelia’s ear in the Rosehill gardens sprang to mind. The man was clearly enamored with her.
Bloody hell.
Amelia was his, body and soul. He may be medievally possessive, but he knew whom he wanted and he was determined not to let her slip away.
Chapter Twenty
Amelia found sleep elusive. Nothing worked to ease her torment. Counting sheep. Counting the stars. Counting to a thousand. Brandon’s proposal rang through her mind again and again. He wanted to do right by her. He wanted to appease his conscience and speak with Huntingdon.
Her brother-in-law would be furious with Brandon if he learned she’d been secretly painting in his study, to say nothing of their passionate clandestine affair. Her sister would be shocked to learn the truth, and she’d insist Brandon do the right thing.
Then what?
Amelia loved Brandon with all her heart, and it was too easy to envision chestnut-haired children with green eyes tugging at her skirts.
But marriage to her wouldn’t solve Brandon’s dilemmas. His financial problems would remain, and she’d be powerless to help him. Marrying her might appease his honor, but would his feelings chan
ge over time? If the problems at the textile mill never resolved, or if other businesses failed, or if he couldn’t satisfy his father’s gambling debts, would he grow to resent her?
And could she give up her own dreams without feeling regret? Only as an unmarried woman would she truly have the freedom to carry out her heart’s desire.
Amelia finally managed to fall asleep when the first rays of sunlight streaked through her window. When she finally woke, she was startled at how late she’d slept. She hurried to dress and rushed down the stairs. A servant informed her that the women were outside by the gardens enjoying afternoon tea.
As soon as Amelia joined the women on the patio, she sensed trouble, although she couldn’t discern the cause. The view was lovely and overlooked immaculately tended lawns as far as the eye could see. Large terra-cotta pots of flowers lined the perimeter of the brick patio, and the air was fragrant with a heady perfume. All the ladies were in a pleasant mood. Amelia sat at a table with the younger ladies, Helen, Caroline, Sara, and Minerva, and joined their discussion about which gowns they each planned to wear to the upcoming ball. Minerva’s giggles grated on Amelia’s nerves, but she ignored it as she sipped oolong tea and nibbled on scones. The dowager shared a smaller table with the duchess, but the dowager soon excused herself to meet with the cook to plan the evening meal.
Amelia was enjoying her second cup of tea when the hair on her nape stood on end, and she felt like she was being watched. She turned to find the duchess staring at her from her table. A shiver traveled down Amelia’s spine.
The duchess looked away and called out to her daughter. “Minerva, please go and inquire if your father would like to join me for an afternoon stroll.”
Confusion crossed Minerva’s features. “Father?”
“Yes, His Grace,” the duchess said pointedly, “your father.”
Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons) Page 16