The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  “As I was saying …” Louella’s voice rang in the room, and he jerked his attention back to her. “I received this letter from the dowager duchess suggesting there were some …”—she pursed her lips in obvious reluctance—“aspects of your family’s history that you should be made aware of.”

  He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “What aspects in particular?” “Would you prefer that I leave?” Gillian said quietly.

  “No.” If Gillian’s grandmother thought there was information he should have, Gillian should probably have it as well. Richard studied his aunt. “Go on.”

  “It appears the dowager was acquainted with your grandmother. She now seems to think you need to know about your father and—”

  “I know all I need to know,” he said harshly and stood. “If that’s what this is all—”

  “Sit down, boy,” Louella snapped. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Very well.” He lowered himself stiffly back onto the settee, tried, and failed to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “What, precisely, does the dowager think I need to know?”

  Louella’s lips thinned in censure. “Her note suggests you should be told about your father’s sister.”

  “My father’s sister?” He drew his brows together. “What sister?” “I didn’t know you hadn’t heard of her, although there’s no reason why you should, I suppose. She was never really spoken of.” Her tone softened slightly. “I had no idea until now you were unaware of it all.”

  “Unaware of what?” Impatience sounded in his voice.

  She paused as if to pull her thoughts together, then drew a deep breath. “It was quite a scandal at the time, although it faded soon enough, as scandals do. She was … well, she …”

  “She what?”

  “She painted.” Louella heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Not the kind of pleasant, meaningless paintings well-bred young women are supposed to do, but the kinds of works that hang in museums and galleries. I know it sounds ridiculous and I know as well your opinion when Emma has raised the very same issue. Her aunt’s blood no doubt.”

  She sniffed in disdain. “I must admit I agree with you on that score. A woman trying to make her own way, alone, without so much as a husband to help her along, in a world that does not take kindly to such women and doing the work of men to boot, artists no less, will come to no good.”

  “What happened to her?” An odd, strained note sounded in Gillian’s voice.

  Richard stared at his aunt. His every muscle tensed. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, but somehow he knew this was important. “Go on.”

  “Your mother told me all this, mind you, I never knew your father’s sister.” Louella paused. “I don’t really know much more than that. She ran off. Lived with some Frenchman for a time, I believe, and painted as she’d wished. I understand it wasn’t long before she became ill and died. By then, of course, she was well, quite forgotten.

  “But, as I said, it was something of a scandal in the beginning. Your grandfather disowned her. As for your father,” she shrugged, “he wasn’t a very strong man.”

  Richard couldn’t hold back a short, humorless laugh. “That I knew.”

  Louella looked at him for a long time. “But you are.”

  “Am I?”

  “Your father loved his sister yet he did nothing to help her. I believe he even sided with your grandfather. He loved your mother as well, yet he couldn’t prevent her death. And he couldn’t bear life without her.”

  “And what of his children?” A bitter note rang in Richard’s voice, but he didn’t care. “Did he love his children as well?”

  “I don’t know.” For the first time he could remember, there was sympathy in her eyes. For him.

  “It’s of no significance now, I suppose,” he muttered.

  “Richard.” Louella reached forward and placed her hand on his. “Your father was weak, and I cannot condone his behavior after your mother’s death. I may be able to understand it, but I cannot excuse it.

  “As for his son,” her gaze met his firmly, “I have not been entirely fair to him through the years. Even after you took on the task of setting to right the family’s affairs, I did not quite believe you would not end up exactly like your father. I will admit now that I was wrong.”

  “You? Admit you were wrong?” He raised a brow. “I thought surely it would be the end of the world itself before words of that nature crossed your lips.”

  “Perhaps, boy,” she said as she narrowed her eyes, where a twinkle lingered nonetheless, “it is.”

  “Pardon me.” Gillian joined them, and Richard rose to his feet. “As much as it suits my own purposes, I’m afraid I don’t understand why my grandmother wanted Richard to know this? It’s a family tragedy, long forgotten. Why bring it up now?”

  Louella’s brows drew together in irritation. “I don’t know, child, ask your grandmother. It doesn’t make any sense to me. The dowager is getting on in years, isn’t she? Probably dotty in the head.”

  “She is not,” Gillian huffed.

  “No?” Louella’s eyes narrowed. “Then explain this.” She waved the note at her. “Right here it says Richard should know that the true legacy of the Earl of Shelbrooke—his true heritage, in fact—comes not from any man but from a woman. Whatever that means.”

  Richard glanced at Gillian. “I assume the dowager knows about your preposterous plans.

  Gillian smiled smugly. “So it appears.”

  “Now, I’ve had quite enough of this.” Louella got to her feet. “Unless things have changed, it’s getting on to that time of day when everyone who is anyone in London drives through the park. And I would rather enjoy that myself.”

  “Before you go.” Gillian crossed the room. He hadn’t noticed until now, but three easels were arranged before the windows, each displaying a painting. All were landscapes, although the settings varied from piece to piece. “I had no idea what your aunt wished to say to you, Richard. I had set these up to make another point altogether.”

  Gillian gestured at the canvases. “I purchased two of these several years ago. There’s another pair upstairs. They were apparently painted by a woman of noble birth who later died.” She glanced at Richard. “Poor and alone.”

  Louella’s gaze slid from Gillian to Richard and back.

  “There are initials in the corner, bottom right side, but I’ve never been able to make them out. Lady Louella, do you think …”

  “I never saw her paintings, probably wouldn’t recognize them even if I had. I know nothing about such things, and I don’t care to.” Louella moved to the nearest painting. “Her first name was Caroline. Lady Caroline Shelton.” She leaned closer and peered at the corner. Her brow furrowed in concentration. “Could be a C. Could be an S. I can’t say for sure.” She straightened. “Is that all?”

  Gillian stared at Richard. “They are your aunt’s. You know they are.”

  “Perhaps,” he said quietly. There was little doubt in his own mind that these were more than likely the work of Caroline Shelton, a relation he’d never so much as heard of. It was highly improbable there had been more than one woman with her story nearly forty years ago. The disclosure of her existence explained a great deal.

  His head filled with his father’s long-ago rantings about art and artists, about duty and one’s place in the world. And each and every comment now made perfect sense.

  He stepped to the first painting, studied it for a long moment, then moved to the second. He barely heard the murmur of voices behind him and scarcely noted doors opening and closing.

  Gillian’s voice sounded at his side. “They’re wonderful.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “A pity such talent was lost to the world simply because she didn’t have the funding to properly support herself.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” He stepped to the last painting and paused. While the first two were different in subject, the style of the artist was unmistakable. This last work was not by the same hand. �
�Who painted this?”

  “Who?” Gillian called from across the room. Hadn’t she been standing beside him a moment ago? He glanced in the direction of her voice. Gillian stood in the half open doorway speaking softly to someone in the hall. Apparently the conspiracy underway here went well beyond Louella’s revelations.

  He turned back to the final painting with an air of resignation, wondering if he shouldn’t admit surrender right now. At least whatever lay in wait for him postponed his discussion with Gillian.

  He considered the painting before him thoughtfully. It too was a landscape, well executed, with a nice sense of balance and proportion, light and shadows. Still, whereas the others were somewhat complex, this one struck him as less refined: the artist’s strokes not as confident, his skill not as developed. Or more than likely her skill. It was obvious Gillian, and perhaps his family as well, was trying to make a point. As unwilling as he was to acknowledge it aloud, privately Richard had to admit there was considerable talent evident here.

  “So, tell me, Gillian, what impoverished female painted this one?”

  “I’m afraid I did.” Emma’s voice sounded behind him.

  Richard heaved a resigned sigh, not really surprised. After all, he hadn’t abandoned his work entirely in spite of his father’s objections. If Richard and this particular sister shared the same talents, no doubt they shared the same stubborn will as well.

  “Do you like it?” She stepped up beside him.

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, actually, I do.”

  “Really?” Emma’s face lit up, and his heart twisted. He should have known all along that limiting her opportunities to keep her safe and protected was not merely wrong but futile.

  “It needs a bit of work.” He pointed to an area where trees and sky met. “Here, if you were to deepen the shadows with a lighter hand and—”

  “Richard, your knowledge never fails to amaze me,” Gillian said. “One would almost think Emma wasn’t the only artist now in the family.”

  “Oh, but I told you he used to paint,” Emma said.

  “Did you?” Richard stared at Gillian. She knew he had once painted? Why hadn’t she said anything to him?

  “I suppose you did.” Gillian shrugged. “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “As has everything else today,” he said, as much to himself as to her.

  Gillian smiled that knowing smile he was beginning to dislike intensely. “Now that you’ve seen Emma’s work and her obvious talent as well as the work of your aunt—”

  “We don’t know that.” Even as he said the words he knew they were false.

  “Aunt Louella paints?” Confusion washed across Emma’s face.

  “Hardly,” he scoffed.

  “I’ll explain later,” Gillian said to Emma, then turned to Richard. “At any rate, now even you can admit the truth.”

  His breath caught. “What truth?”

  “That you were wrong about the ability of women to create serious art—”

  “I should take my leave,” Emma murmured.

  He released a relieved breath. “I’ll admit nothing of the sort. I will concede that you have managed to present me with two exceptional women of unusual talent. It goes no farther than that and it changes nothing.”

  “What do you mean it changes nothing?” She frowned with annoyance. “It changes everything.”

  “You can best discuss this without me,” Emma said and edged toward the door.

  “Not at all.” He glared at Gillian. “Women, regardless of their talent, do not belong behind an easel. The life of an artist is not an easy one. It’s no life for a woman, and no life for my sister, and I will not condone or permit it!”

  “Just as your father would not condone or permit it for his sister!” Gillian snapped.

  Emma gasped.

  Gillian sucked in a hard breath, and her eyes widened with shock as if she couldn’t believe she had said such a thing.

  The words hung in the air between them. Her accusation struck him with the force of a physical blow, catching at his throat and stilling his heart.

  “Richard,” she said as she stepped toward him. “I didn’t mean—”

  “No,” he held out a hand to stop her and drew a shaky breath. “You’re right, of course. That was no doubt exactly what my father would have said. Perhaps there is a great deal of him in me after all.”

  “Perhaps that’s not entirely bad,” Gillian said softly and put her hand on his arm. “Someone once told me a man who is too good can be, well, tedious and even boring.” Amusement glimmered in her eye. “Don’t you agree?”

  “What are you up to, Gillian?” His gaze searched hers.

  “I say, I realize this might not be the best moment …” Richard rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then glanced once again in the direction of the door. Cummings had joined them. Who on earth would be coming through that blasted door next? Cummings stepped to Emma’s side, and the two of them exchanged glances in a far too intimate manner.

  Richard grit his teeth. “How perceptive of you.”

  “It may well be the perfect moment, Kit,” Gillian said, ignoring the glare Richard cast her.

  Emma whispered something in Cummings’s ear. He squared his shoulders and met Richard’s gaze without flinching. “I wish to marry your sister, my lord.”

  “And I wish to marry him,” Emma said firmly.

  “And if I forbid it?” Richard crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Cummings. Perhaps he couldn’t win a battle of wills with his aunt, but this man was another thing altogether.

  “Well, you did forbid her to paint,” Gillian said casually.

  Emma cast him an innocent smile, and Richard couldn’t help wondering if she had taught that particular smile to Gillian or if it was the other way around.

  Gillian leaned toward him in a confidential manner. “Kit knows it’s not really necessary to ask for Emma’s hand because, after all, she is of age, but he thinks it’s a nice gesture.”

  “I don’t like him,” Richard growled.

  “He doesn’t like you much either—”

  “Not at all,” Cummings said pleasantly.

  “—but Emma apparently loves you both—”

  Emma nodded. “Of course I do.”

  “—and you did wish for her to make a good match—”

  “I shall do everything in my power to make her happy, my lord.” Cummings’s voice rang with sincerity.

  “Enough!” Richard threw up his hands. “Do as you wish! Marry! Paint! Run naked through the streets for all I care!”

  “Richard.” Gillian frowned and shook her head as if she were chastising a small boy. “Is that necessary?”

  He resisted the urge to act completely like a child, wanting nothing more than to stick out his tongue, but he settled for slanting her a look any small boy would be proud of.

  Emma grinned. “Thank you, Richard. We shall.”

  “Which?” Cummings said curiously.

  “All of them.” Emma gazed up at Cummings with an adoring smile and a look in her eye that told Richard his responsibilities toward his oldest sister were at an end. An odd sense of relief and regret swept through him.

  “Emma of course will no longer need the services that I propose to provide for women such as herself, but she has agreed to work with me. I have no idea precisely what kind of facility will be best, what artists really need.”

  “It scarcely matters at this point.” Richard drew a deep breath. Gillian’s comments were the perfect opportunity to say what had to be said. It had been put off long enough. Whether he liked it or not, it had to be done. “You will not have the funds for such a project.” He couldn’t marry a woman who loved another man regardless of who that other man truly was. “You will not acquire your inheritance through marriage to me. I have made my decision.”

  He met Gillian’s gaze squarely and hoped his breaking heart would not show in his eyes.

  “I will not marry you.”

 
Chapter 20

  His words rang in the room.

  “No?” Gillian looked at him for a long moment. “Are you certain?”

  He clenched his fists by his sides. “Yes.”

  “Quite certain?”

  “Yes,” he said grimly.

  “Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?” she said with little more than idle curiosity. Why wasn’t she more upset?

  “No.” Why wasn’t she upset at all? He certainly was.

  “Oh dear.” Gillian tilted her head and frowned.

  “Now we should definitely leave.” Emma started toward the door, pulling Cummings behind her.

  “Why?” Cummings grinned. “This should be quite interesting.”

  “That’s exactly why.” Emma jerked open the door, pushed a protesting Cummings out, and pulled the door closed behind them.

  Gillian shook her head. “Well, that’s that, then.” She shrugged. “At least there is still sufficient time remaining until my birthday to find a suitable husband.”

  “That’s it?” He stared in stunned disbelief. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “I shall have to make up another list,” she said absently, then smiled brightly. “Unless you have some suggestions?”

  “Me? You’re asking me to help you find a suitable husband?” His voice rose.

  “I should think you’d be well qualified to do so. You know precisely what I’m looking for. After all, you were once at the top of the list.”

  He stared in shocked disbelief. Even if she only loved him as Toussaint, he had thought, had hoped, she harbored some feeling for him as Richard. Did she care so little for him that she was able to brush him off without so much as a by-your-leave?

  “There is an artist I know who might do quite nicely,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve seen his work: Etienne-Louis Toussaint?”

  “I wouldn’t wager any legacies on it,” he snapped.

  “Nonsense. He’d probably be more than willing to marry me, given the stakes involved.”

  “You will never marry Toussaint,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Of course I will. I see no good reason why not.”