Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons) Read online

  Her voice rose in surprise. “Your home?”

  “Yes. The upcoming house party offers the perfect opportunity. You can work in my study.”

  It wasn’t just a matter of ability and money. A respectable female didn’t paint an earl’s portrait or work in his study painting anything. Eliza would throw a fit. How often had she talked about good marriages for both Amelia and Chloe?

  “I’m afraid it isn’t proper. I must decline both offers.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, something dark and disturbing, troubled even, but it was gone so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it. She’d learned long ago to rely on her instincts. Her artistic eye focused and saw details others often missed.

  He leaned an inch closer, and a wild fluttering began low in her belly.

  “I understand your concerns. But it will be done in secret. No one but my most trusted servants enter my private study.”

  It sounded illicit and exciting and the impulsive artist within her wanted to leap at the offer. She’d be able to preserve her reputation and have an unforgettable artistic experience. She would get paid for her artwork, but most of all, she would have the opportunity to paint him. The strong angles of his cheekbones and jaw, and the chips of green and yellow in his eyes. His perfect lips. His muscular form…

  Wickedness.

  What was she thinking? She wouldn’t be chaperoned, and she’d be alone with a bachelor—a handsome, virile man for hours each night. If anyone discovered the arrangement she’d be ruined.

  She was not the person she’d been in the past. Hadn’t she struggled against her sinful nature and won? She hadn’t painted a forgery or thought of selling one in a long time. She looked toward a new, bright future, without the taint of her father’s blood.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, my lord. You will have to hire another artist. My answer is no.”

  …

  She was even more beautiful than Brandon remembered.

  Her auburn hair gleamed beneath the early afternoon sunlight, and her sapphire eyes shone bright. When he first saw Amelia at the print shop a year ago, she’d worn a faded blue dress and apron—a shopkeeper’s garb. Today, fine silk hugged her curves and displayed the swell of her breasts to perfection.

  He would have pursued her for pleasure then had his father, the old earl, not died, leaving him with a pile of debt, a line of ruthless creditors, and two sisters and a grandmother to care for. Brandon’s carefree life had come to an abrupt halt.

  “May I ask why you refuse?”

  Her brows drew downward. “I told you. It isn’t proper.”

  “No one will learn of it. You can work each night in the privacy of my study, then safely return to your bedchamber until the paintings are complete. My sisters frequently nap in the day in order to stay up later during the Season, and you may do the same during the house party without arousing suspicion.”

  He hadn’t been completely truthful when he told her he wanted a copy of the Dutch painting so that he could give the original to an acquaintance. He planned on keeping the copy, but selling the original. The money would pay for his sister’s upcoming wedding and buy him some time to cover his father’s bills. It would also pay Amelia for her work.

  But he needed her to agree.

  “Your offer of payment is generous, but I must still decline.”

  “Ah, I should have known. You no longer need the money.”

  “Our circumstances changed after Eliza married Lord Huntingdon.”

  He knew this better than anyone. Huntingdon was his best friend. “Do you still paint?”

  “For enjoyment only,” she said.

  “Do you miss the satisfaction of having your work sold?”

  Full, pink lips parted, and he knew she was tempted. He admired her, not only for her artistic talent but also for her ambition. He’d never known a lady who’d worked.

  “I do. But I must consider the risk. I told the truth when I said Eliza would be distraught if she learned of an arrangement between us.”

  “Then I must come up with another offer, something more tempting.”

  Fascinated, he watched as her delicate throat moved as she swallowed. The creamy expanse of her skin made him think of how soft it would feel to touch her, to stroke her cheek and the curve of her neck.

  “There is nothing,” she said simply.

  “Everyone has their price. What’s yours?”

  A curious longing lit her gaze, but then she cast her eyes downward. His interest heightened. What was it he saw? What did she desire?

  Just then, Eliza called out for everyone to begin to play. They had several good tosses as a team, but no one was surprised when Eliza and Huntingdon won. All the players were busy gathering their bowls when Brandon approached Amelia again.

  “Thank you for a memorable game.”

  Amelia raised her chin and met his gaze. “I’m sorry everything wasn’t entirely to your satisfaction, my lord.”

  She had a sense of strength about her and wasn’t a swooning female who was easily intimidated. But at the same time, she also possessed a charming aura of innocence. She was so different from the silly debutants at Almack’s or at the tedious balls he was obligated to attend. The challenge she posed was irresistible, and his body took notice.

  He wanted her with astonishing fierceness.

  He leaned down and lowered his voice. “To the contrary, I found it a very pleasant afternoon. But you should be aware that I’m not one to follow rules, and when I want something I don’t like to take no for an answer. Meanwhile, if you reconsider, you have only to send me a private message.”

  Chapter Two

  “You did what?”

  Brandon looked up from the billiard table where he was preparing to shoot an ivory ball in a side pocket. Grayson Ware, Lord Huntingdon, was glaring at him with hard features. Brandon began to wonder if he’d made a mistake inviting his friend to Rosehill for a game of billiards.

  “I inquired if Amelia would be interested in painting my portrait,” Brandon said.

  “Why on earth would you ask her to paint you?” Huntingdon said tersely.

  “The dowager wants my portrait in Rosehill’s portrait gallery.”

  Huntingdon set down his cue stick. “What did Amelia say?”

  “She refused. She said it wasn’t proper.”

  “Damn right, it isn’t.”

  Brandon scowled. “Why are you so sour?”

  “Why do you think?” Huntingdon snapped. “I’m married to Eliza now. Amelia and Chloe are my sisters-in-law. I’m to look out for them.”

  “It’s just a painting. Not an offer for an illicit liaison.”

  “Don’t treat me like an idiot. You desire her,” Huntingdon said.

  Brandon didn’t bother to deny it. When he’d seen Amelia again, it was like a punch to the gut. His body had grown heavy and warm, and his heart had hammered in his chest. What red-blooded male wouldn’t desire her?

  Not for the first time, he cursed his father and the responsibilities that had kept him from pursuing Amelia Somerton. The old earl had been a heavy drinker and gambler, but instead of having the good sense to pass out and have his servants carry him to bed, he’d allowed all sorts of disreputable charlatans to convince him to invest in risky stocks and businesses. He’d attracted every swindler within a ten-mile radius of London. As a result, Brandon had inherited a slew of failing businesses and a pile of debt.

  After many sleepless nights, Brandon had come up with a temporary solution for his troubles. But he needed Amelia. She was perfect for his plans. The American had offered him a good price for the Aelbert Cuyp landscape when he’d visited Rosehill months ago, and Brandon needed the money.

  It was all well thought out. The copy would remain at Rosehill. The American would return to Boston and had no plans to ever revisit Hampshire and would never see the copy hanging on Rosehill’s walls. Most importantly, the women in Brandon’s household—his grandmother and his two sisters—
would never discover the truth. He needn’t outright lie to them about the copy of the artwork or the state of affairs of the earldom.

  He became aware of Huntingdon staring at him as he waited for Brandon’s response. He felt a stab of guilt at not sharing his plans with his friend, but something held him back. Huntingdon’s loyalties belonged to his new wife. Brandon didn’t want to put him in the position of choosing between his friend and his family. And why bother? Amelia had refused.

  “Don’t worry. She said no,” Brandon said.

  Yet something in her expression had given him a sliver of hope. He’d seen it in her eyes—a glimmer of satisfaction that someone thought her artwork worthy enough to pay for.

  She’d wanted to accept.

  He needed to find the right incentive—something she truly wanted. So what could he offer?

  “You need a woman,” Huntingdon said. “What happened to your mistress?”

  “Bess became demanding.” Brandon had parted ways with his former mistress months ago. She’d been a dancer and incredibly flexible in the bedroom. Her skills had initially intrigued him, but once she’d started discussing a more permanent relationship he’d lost interest in and out of bed. In the past he would have quickly found a new mistress, but his work with the earldom’s properties and its financial troubles had kept him preoccupied.

  Huntingdon waved a hand. “Find another to replace her.”

  Brandon ignored the comment. He chalked the end of his cue stick, then shot two balls into a side pocket. “I remember seeing Amelia’s artwork at the print shop. She’s talented.”

  “I never said she didn’t possess artistic talent,” Huntingdon said.

  As a renowned art critic, Huntingdon would know. His only professional humiliation had been when he was duped by the forger of the ton years ago.

  Amelia was a mystery to Brandon. Perhaps that was part of her allure. “How did she learn to paint?”

  “She never had formal art training. I believe she was taught by her father. He never spared a coin on his daughters, not even for art lessons. I once heard Eliza say that Amelia learned by sitting beside their father as he worked. He never showed her artistic techniques and rarely bothered to speak with her. He tolerated her presence because she cleaned his brushes, scrubbed his worktable, and scraped the dried paint from his palette until her fingers bled.”

  Brandon’s breath burned in his throat. He pictured her sitting beside her parent, desperate for a scrap of attention and a brief lesson. Her beautiful blue eyes watching him as he worked and her hands, sore and stained with paint from scrubbing his brushes, folded in her lap. “He wasn’t only a criminal, but a selfish and delinquent father.”

  “I won’t argue the fact,” Huntingdon scoffed.

  Perhaps there was something else he could offer her—something that was out of her reach but that she’d always wanted.

  Huntingdon went to a sideboard, poured two tumblers of Scotch whiskey, and handed one to Brandon. “Forget Amelia. What about the Duke of Townsend’s daughter?” Huntingdon said.

  Brandon took a swallow of the fine spirits. “My grandmother reminds me of her dowry every day. The duke and his family are attending the house party. I suspect the dowager will try to convince me to court the woman. If only I could stand her incessant talking.”

  “I thought your finances had improved. You’ve had some success with the old earl’s businesses.”

  “I have,” Brandon said with a semblance of pride.

  But the list of his father’s creditors seemed endless. An unprofitable textile mill, a coal mine that had collapsed, a dress shop that had suffered a fire, a bakery known for making several influential customers ill, and a doomed shipping company with cargo pilfered by Caribbean pirates were just a few. Brandon’s head felt as if it would burst from all the tiny rows of figures in the multiple ledgers. He’d worked tirelessly, spending the better part of the year inspecting each business and trying to make them profitable. He’d salvaged those that he was able to and he’d invested wisely in the London Stock Exchange to pay off some of the gambling debts.

  He was good at it. Damn good.

  But he wasn’t a miracle worker.

  “The truth is the textile mill is having the most trouble right now. Instead of producing a profit, it’s costing me. I’m also still paying my father’s bills and gambling debts.”

  “Does your family know?” Huntingdon asked.

  “Helen is to marry in a month. Caroline will attend her first Season. I don’t want to burden them with thoughts of crumbling businesses or boring ledgers, and I don’t want to jeopardize the wedding by making the debts known. Would you tell Sara?” Brandon asked.

  Huntingdon had the good sense to cringe at the mention of his younger sister. “I wouldn’t want to worry her.”

  “I’m no different.”

  Huntingdon’s brows drew together. “Most of my money is in the earldom’s landholdings, but I can sell a property if you need to borrow—”

  “No,” Brandon said. “I’ll fix this mess on my own.” He had his pride, dammit, and he wouldn’t go begging to his friends for money or put them through unnecessary hardship.

  “Then why offer to pay Amelia for your portrait?”

  Once again, he felt guilty for not revealing his plans. If he convinced Amelia to agree, then he could decide whether to tell his friend in confidence. Brandon cleared his throat. “We discussed a nominal amount, and I’m not entirely without money. The dowager insists I have a portrait to hang in Rosehill’s gallery to add to the long line of Vales bearing the title.”

  Huntingdon downed the contents of his glass in one swallow. “Leave her be, Brandon. Your rakish reputation is well known, and I’m responsible for my wife’s sisters now. Eliza is on a crusade to see them make good marriage matches. So forget Amelia. Forget the portrait. Find someone else to paint you. Unless you propose to marry her,” Huntingdon said.

  Brandon stayed silent. Huntingdon knew he wasn’t in a position to make an offer for Amelia. His father had sealed his fate by gambling and investing in one bad business after another. He would marry, but it would be to a woman with a large dowry, not a former art forger. No matter how much he desired her.

  …

  The Huntingdon household was filled with excitement the morning of their trip to Lord Vale’s house party. Amelia and Chloe rushed about with their maid as they checked that every necessity had been packed. Gowns, petticoats, undergarments, and pelisses had been stowed in portmanteaus and trunks, while matching shoes, fans, jewelry, hair combs and bandeaus, parasols, and feminine enhancements were checked and double-checked. Amelia had a trunk dedicated solely to her art supplies. She may not be painting the portrait of an attractive earl, but she planned on sketching the rolling hills and breathtaking scenery that surrounded the Vale estate.

  As Amelia descended the grand staircase, she was stunned at the amount of baggage that had been piled up in the vestibule. Eliza, with the aid of Huntingdon’s butler, oversaw the baggage as it was loaded onto the carriages by footmen.

  Amelia had imagined the carriage ride to Rosehill would be brief since they only had to travel from one country estate to another. She was soon amazed by the amount of property comprising both estates. She gazed out the carriage window as they traveled mile after mile.

  The carriage turned onto a long, winding stone drive lined with tall oak trees. They passed well-tended hedgerows, beds of begonias between scrolls of English boxwood, and acres of lawn in the formal gardens. An ivy-lined path led to twin marble gazebos that glittered beneath the morning sunlight. Farther along the path, roses of every color bloomed and filled the air with their heady fragrance. At once she knew where Rosehill got its name. She could picture a lady lounging in one of the gazebos enjoying the scent and beauty of the delicate blooms.

  She strained to see up ahead, when suddenly a sprawling mansion came into view. She gasped at her first sight of the manor’s size and beauty. Lord Vale’s home looked
like a picture from a fairy tale with gleaming, white stone walls and four towering Corinthian columns. A fountain in the courtyard surrounded by marble statues of Roman gods and goddesses welcomed visitors.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in the circular drive. A footman lowered the step and the ladies descended from the carriage and walked up the mansion’s stone steps. The vestibule was elegant, with marble floors and pillars and a crystal chandelier holding hundreds of candles. A Chinoiserie vase sat on an end table in the center of the vestibule.

  An elderly lady with gray hair pulled into a tight knot at her nape came forth to greet them, and Amelia suspected she was the dowager and the earl’s grandmother. Two young ladies walked beside her.

  “Welcome to Rosehill. We’ve been looking forward to meeting our newest neighbors. I’m Lady Vale and these are my granddaughters, Lady Helen and Lady Caroline.”

  “Thank you for inviting us,” Eliza said. “May I introduce my sisters, Miss Amelia and Miss Chloe, and this is Lady Sara, Lord Huntingdon’s sister.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet all of you. Lord Vale is away attending to some matters, but he is expected to return shortly.” The dowager motioned for her two granddaughters. “Helen will show Lady Sara to her room, and Caroline will escort both of you,” she said, gesturing to Amelia and Chloe.

  As soon as the dowager disappeared down the hall with the rest of the party, Lady Caroline smiled at Amelia and Chloe. “Follow me,” she said and led them up the grand staircase to the second floor.

  Caroline was pretty with dark hair and delicate features. She looked like her brother, but where Lord Vale had green eyes, his sister’s were dark brown.

  “I’m excited to finally meet you both. Is it true you owned a shop near Bond Street?” Caroline asked.

  Amelia exchanged a concerned look with Chloe. The beau monde looked down on anyone that worked for a living, let alone women who owned their own establishments. Was Lady Caroline one of these people?

  Amelia didn’t spot a gleam of mockery in the young woman’s wide eyes, only curiosity. “Yes, it’s true.”