The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

“I can give you a very good reason.” He squared his shoulders. It was past time for the truth.

  “I doubt that.” She waved off his comment. “Besides, I rather like the idea of marrying a man of extraordinary talent.” She paused thoughtfully. “Of course, he is extremely arrogant, and he has this odd need to keep his face hidden, and oh, yes, his accent is atrocious and quite unbelievable—”

  “Atrocious? I scarcely think—”

  “Don’t forget unbelievable,” she added.

  “I could hardly forget unbelievable.” He snorted. “What is so—”

  “Indeed. It was obviously feigned in order to disguise the fact that the man no doubt speaks no French at all. Estce que vous ne consentez pas?”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what I thought. At any rate, I quite like the idea of marrying an artist with a brilliant future ahead of him—nearly as much as I like the idea of marrying a penniless earl.”

  “You like the idea of marrying a penniless earl,” he said slowly.

  “Just one penniless earl in particular.”

  “Just one—”

  “Such a pity though,” she heaved a heartfelt sigh, “I seem to have found two men who would serve the same purpose—”

  “Gillian.” He drew the word out slowly.

  “—who seem to trigger precisely the same feelings when I’m with them—”

  “Gillian.” What was she up to?

  “—who are in fact so remarkably similar in the way they do certain things like, oh, say, kiss—”

  “What are you saying?”

  “—that one might even think they were not two different men at all but one and the same.” She smiled sweetly.

  “The same?” Was it possible? Did she know?

  “It’s ridiculous, of course.” She stepped closer to him. “Who in their right mind would ever dream the fourteenth Earl of Shelbrooke,” she poked him in the chest, “was Etienne-Louis Toussaint?”

  “Who indeed?” he said weakly.

  “Would you imagine such a thing, Richard?” She poked him once again.

  “Me?” He swallowed hard. She knew.

  “Or should I say,” she poked again, “Monsieur Toussaint?”

  “Toussaint?” he said as if he’d never heard the name before.

  “Etienne-Louis Toussaint.” She emphasized each word with a poke.

  “Ouch.” He grabbed her hand. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Am I?” She smirked up at him. “And precisely who am I hurting?”

  His gaze searched hers, and for the first time in days hope rose within him. “Did Thomas tell you?”

  “Thomas? My brother?” Her brows pulled together in annoyance. “He knows of this secret life of yours?”

  “Well, yes, in fact.” Perhaps he could blame this all on Thomas. “Toussaint was very much his invention.”

  “Does he know precisely how you’ve used this invention of his to further your ends?”

  “Thomas knows nothing about you and Toussaint,” he said with an air of reluctance. “That was completely my idea.”

  She raised a brow.

  “It seemed like a good plan in the beginning,” he muttered.

  “Before we go any farther, why don’t you tell me exactly what that plan was?”

  “The plan?” He tried to pull his thoughts together, selecting and discarding one response after another. “It seemed to me, that is I thought—”

  “That if I was hesitant to warm the bed of the Earl of Shelbrooke I might be more amenable to share the affection of Etienne-Louis Toussaint?”

  “Something like that.” It sounded rather absurd when said aloud.

  “And did your plan work?”

  “Not entirely.” His tone was defensive. “But you were simply much more, well, relaxed with Toussaint than you ever were with me.”

  “But when I did, to use your word, relax in your company, why did you continue your deception?”

  “I needed to know how you felt. After all, you did confide in Toussaint.”

  “Somewhat foolish in hindsight.” She shook her head. “And did you discover my feelings?”

  “Indeed.” He scoffed. “You love Toussaint.”

  “Do I? How did you ascertain that?”

  “You said it yourself.” A fresh wave of pain gripped his heart. “You said you couldn’t be with a man you didn’t love.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “And you were with Toussaint.” He narrowed his eyes. “Quite enthusiastically, I might add.”

  “Who was, in truth, you.”

  “Well, yes,” he said reluctantly.

  “So it all comes down to precisely when I knew the truth, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose.” As much as he hated to admit it, she was right.

  “What if I told you that I went to Toussaint’s studio, or rather your studio, to find the boy that brought Toussaint’s messages and yours as well—”

  “The boy? Blast it all, I used the same boy?” He smacked his palm against his forehead. He’d never for a moment considered that both identities used the same messenger. What a stupid mistake. He probably deserved to be unmasked.

  “And while there—do you realize you don’t lock your doors?”

  He groaned. “So I’ve been told.”

  She nodded. “At any rate, while waiting for the elusive artist, I stumbled upon a work in progress. A landscape, very nice, quite scenic, a clearing with a charming temple.”

  “A temple?”

  “With, of all things, a hat on the finial.” She paused for emphasis. “My hat.”

  “Oh.” He considered her for a long moment. A tiny glimmer of hope flared within him. “So the night when you—”

  “Seduced Toussaint? Seduced you?”

  “You knew,” he said flatly.

  “Um-hum.” A smug smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

  “But you didn’t let me know you knew.”

  “Where would be the fun in that?”

  “You let me believe you were seducing, were in fact, in love with, another man.” He glared indignantly. “How could you do that to me?”

  “And you let me believe you were another man.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How could you do that to me?”

  “I did it because … because I wanted—”

  “My inheritance? My fortune?”

  “In the beginning, perhaps, but I also wanted you to want me. It was as much pride as greed.”

  “And in the end?” Her gaze trapped his. “What was it in the end?”

  “In the end?” He stared into her eyes, as blue and brilliant as any paint he could put to canvas. Simmering with emotions as strong as his own. “Love, Gillian, in the end it was love.”

  An odd light shone in her eyes. “Do you love me, Richard?”

  “Yes. Damn it all. I love you.” He glared with all the pentup passion within him. “And that’s exactly why I can’t marry you.”

  She frowned in confusion. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “Of course it does.” He ran his hand through his hair and paced the room. “How can I marry you if you love someone else?”

  “Even if that someone else is you?”

  “Besides, if I marry you now, before your birthday, how will you ever know that I truly love you? That I’m not marrying you for your inheritance?”

  “Then will you marry me after my birthday?” she said slowly.

  He stopped and stared. “After your birthday will be too late.”

  “Answer my question,” she said softly.

  The moment stretched between them, taut and tense and thick.

  “My Lady Gillian.” His gaze locked to hers. “I have nothing to offer you save my name, a manor house with a leaky roof, and a talent I can never publicly reveal, yet if you were to do me the great honor of becoming my wife the day after your birthday, I shall spend the rest of my days in an effort to make you happy.”

  “Very well.” A slight ca
tch sounded in her voice. “My Lord Shelbrooke, I shall be honored to become your wife the day after my birthday.”

  “But what of your financial independence?” He was afraid to say the words. Afraid she’d change her mind. But he had to know. “What of helping artists like Emma?”

  “They shall have to make due without me. I—we—will continue with my salons. As for my independence,” her eyes glittered with emotion, “it’s a paltry price to pay to become the Countess of Shelbrooke.”

  “Paltry? You are willing to forfeit six hundred thousand pounds, eight ships—”

  “More or less.”

  “And a great deal of land?”

  “It’s in America.” She sniffed. “It’s probably little more than swamp. I should never see it anyway.”

  “You’d give it all up? For me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Her eyes widened. “I would think a man clever enough to come up with a method of being two men at once would be well able to determine that.”

  “Say it.” He moved toward her.

  “Why?” She raised her chin and stepped to meet him.

  His heart raced. “Because I need to hear you say it.”

  “Do you?” She was barely a heartbeat away from him.

  “I do.”

  “Very well, rich or poor, I don’t want to live my life without you. Not one more day, one more minute.” At once she was in his arms. “Because I love you.”

  Joy surged through him and his lips met hers, and he didn’t care about fortunes found or lost. Secrets kept or revealed. Only this woman for now and forever.

  A knock sounded on the door, and it opened at once.

  “Pardon me.” Jocelyn poked her head in.

  Richard groaned, raised his head, and gazed into the wonderful blue eyes of the woman he loved. “You do know, you get my family as well?”

  Gillian laughed up at him. “And you join the Effingtons. Seems like a fair exchange.”

  Jocelyn cleared her throat. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  Richard released Gillian but kept her close at his side. “Not if you had your ear to the door.”

  “That’s neither here nor there.” Jocelyn stepped into the room without hesitation. “It seems to me, well to us, really—”

  Gillian raised a brow. “Are you all listening at the door?”

  “Of course not,” Jocelyn said indignantly. “Just Becky and I.”

  “Hello, Richard.” Becky’s voice sounded from the doorway, but only her waving arm appeared.

  “What do you want?” Richard glared.

  Jocelyn glared right back. “As I was saying, it seems to us that if you love her, and you do, don’t you? …”

  Richard rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then nodded in surrender.

  “And she loves you …” His sister glanced at Gillian.

  “By you I gather you’re referring to Richard, the Earl of Shelbrooke, and not Richard known by some other name?” Gillian said innocently.

  Richard’s eyes narrowed.

  Jocelyn frowned in confusion. “I mean … well, Richard.”

  “I see.” Gillian smiled sweetly. “Yes, I do love him.”

  Jocelyn’s expression brightened. “Excellent. Then if you love each other, why on earth would you forfeit her fortune?”

  “Why indeed.” Gillian grinned.

  “Isn’t it enough to know that you’re both willing to do so?” Jocelyn’s voice was eager. “I simply can’t see why we—or rather you—should live the rest of our lives—I mean your lives—in poverty—”

  “It was never poverty,” Richard muttered.

  “But it wasn’t a great deal of fun either,” Gillian said pointedly.

  “—when you have a rather exciting fortune yours for the taking.”

  “In point of fact, Jocelyn, I don’t see why either.” Gillian tilted her head and studied Richard. “I want you, regardless of whatever you wish to call yourself, for the rest of my life. If I’m forced to choose between you and the legacy, I’ll gladly give it all up and spend my days handing you nails on the top of your blasted roof.

  “But I think it would be much more enjoyable to spend our lives together with servants to take care of such chores. And funding to assist women with talent like Emma. And decent dowries to help your sisters find men who will hopefully show a bit more intelligence when it comes to such matters as this than their brother has.”

  Jocelyn giggled. “Nicely done, Gillian.”

  “You may take your leave now.” Richard’s words were directed toward his sister, but his gaze remained locked on Gillian.

  Jocelyn grinned and stepped toward the door. She started out, then turned and leaned toward Gillian. “We all think it’s terribly romantic, you know. Both of you willing to give up everything for love. We never imagined Richard, he’s always been so practical, and—”

  “Get out!” he bellowed.

  Jocelyn scurried out and closed the door behind her.

  “Would you really give it all up?” he said quietly.

  “I said it once. I will be the wife of the penniless but honorable Earl of Shelbrooke or the wife of the promising but rather penniless as well Etienne-Louis Toussaint. All I truly want is to be the wife of Richard Shelton. Whether he is wealthy or poor.”

  “Why?”

  “I said it once as well.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Because he’s the man I love.”

  “Is he?” He pulled her into his arms, still not quite able to believe it himself.

  “Yes.” She gazed up at him. “He is.”

  “You know this changes nothing. I am still not especially fond of your ridiculous idea to assist female artists.”

  “I also know you promised to make me happy.” She grinned with a triumphant gleam in her eye.

  “So I did.” He chuckled. “You are a wicked woman, my lady.”

  “And you, my lord, are a very wicked man.” She brushed her lips across his. “We sound well matched to me.”

  “Well, I was at the top of your list.” He studied her for a moment.

  Once more the ironic twists his life had taken struck him. He’d thought women had no place in art, yet the talent that flowed in his veins came from the blood of a woman. He’d agreed to Gillian’s proposal out of a need for wealth, yet money was no longer important at all. His pride had ruled his actions in the beginning, yet love was all that mattered in the end.

  “I’m still a bit confused about one thing.”

  “I do so love it when you’re confused,” she said with a laugh.

  “The other evening at my studio,” he said slowly.

  “When you believed I thought you were Toussaint?”

  “Yes, well, whatever.” He chose his words cautiously. “I have never quite been, that is I was somewhat surprised, what I mean to say …”

  She raised a brow. “You didn’t think I was capable of such a seduction?”

  “I didn’t know anyone was capable of such a seduction,” he said with an odd sense of gratitude and awe.

  “You enjoyed it then?” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “Oh,” he nodded, “you could say that.”

  “I think I can do better, though.” She pulled his mouth down to hers. “All I need is a little hard work and quite a bit of practice.”

  “I did promise to make you happy.”

  His lips met hers and he knew this was just the beginning of a lifetime of happiness that had little to do with six hundred thousand pounds, eight ships, more or less, and a great deal of land in America. And marveled at the realization that an emotion that was never part of their agreement was in truth a far greater fortune than mere wealth, and he looked forward with hope and joy to the rest of his days with this woman by his side.

  And looked forward as well to a little hard work and a great deal of practice.

  Epilogue

  Four months later …

&nbs
p; “Rather impressive, don’t you think?” Lady Forester glanced around the elegant ballroom in the new London home of the newly wed Earl and Countess of Shelbrooke. “And quite a crush as well.”

  “It’s their first ball, you know. Anyone who matters is here, even at this time of year.” The lady beside her nodded. “I saw the Duke and Duchess of Roxborough earlier, and any number of Effingtons are in attendance. I heard even the Dowager Duchess is here, and you know she never comes into town.”

  “It certainly is a far cry from Lady Shelbrooke’s salons,” Lady Forester murmured. Oh, the lady still gave them, but not as frequently as she had before her marriage. She was apparently far too caught up in arranging for some sort of foundling home for female artists. Lord knows, Lady Forester could well understand the desire to support struggling artists—but women? What was the point of that? And where was the fun in it?

  “Did you see her portrait?” the woman said with a note of awe in her voice. “It was painted by that Frenchman. Too something. It makes her look so … so …”

  “Perfect. No doubt why Toussaint continues to be in great demand.” The portrait hung here in the ballroom, the centerpiece of Lady Shelbrooke’s extensive collection of art.

  “I understand there’s another painting he did of her that’s really rather scandalous.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Lady Forester said under her breath.

  The lady beside her raised a brow. “Have you made the artist’s acquaintance?”

  “No,” she sighed. “And I doubt I shall have the honor.” According to the latest bit of gossip, Etienne-Louis Toussaint was abandoning his rakish ways in favor of fidelity to, of all things, a wife. Pity. She’d never had the opportunity to learn for herself if everything she’d heard about him was true, if he or indeed any man could live up to his reputation.

  Lady Forester’s gaze drifted across the well-appointed room with its equally well-appointed guests. Musicians played from a balcony overlooking the gathering. A full complement of servants wearing the white mask, tricorn hat, and cloak of Venetian dominos flitted discreetly among the crowd. Lady Forester wasn’t sure if she was annoyed by the blatant theft of her idea or flattered.

  She spotted the countess, and her gaze lingered thoughtfully. Lady Shelbrooke laughed in response to some comment. It seemed Lady Shelbrooke often laughed these days or smiled a private sort of smile. She carried an air of contentment about her that was altogether too, well, radiant to be proper. An odd twinge of what might have been jealousy stabbed Lady Forester, if indeed she was envious of such things as trite as happiness and true love.