Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons)

by Tina Gabrielle

  Brandon had been challenged by many things lately. His father’s bad business decisions, the running of the earldom and its estates, his inherited pile of debt, and keeping all the financial problems from the females in his family. But it had been a long time since he’d been challenged by a woman.

  He could never act on his desires. No matter how badly he wanted Amelia, she wasn’t an experienced widow or courtesan. She was Huntingdon’s sister-in-law, for Christ’s sake. She deserved to be properly courted by a gentleman.

  Ah, but therein lies the rub. He wasn’t that gentleman. He needed a woman, but the right kind of woman. The sale of the Cuyp landscape would pay for his sister’s wedding and buy him some time with the creditors. But if he couldn’t turn the textile mill into a profitable factory, then his choices were limited. The fastest and most efficient way to solve all his financial problems and repair the damage from his father was to marry a woman of fortune—a lady with a large dowry like the Duke of Townsend’s daughter.

  Chapter Five

  The following morning, Brandon returned to his study and surveyed the morning post with dread.

  Bills. Nothing but bills. He began sorting the stack by largest amount due to the smallest when his butler, Smithson, cleared his throat from the open doorway.

  “This just arrived for you, my lord.”

  A knot formed in Brandon’s gut as he took the note on the silver salver. He broke the seal and read. “Blast! Not another problem with the machines.”

  His butler arched a brow. “My lord?”

  Brandon sighed and dropped the foolscap on the desk. “The textile mill has had problems with the power looms.” Of all the businesses his father purchased, the textile mill had looked the most promising on paper. At first glance, Brandon had been relieved to see the potential profitability of the mill. The power looms were newer technology and one could easily expect an increase in the production of cloth than had been seen from a dozen handlooms. But Brandon’s hopefulness had died soon after the mill began suffering repeated breakdowns of the steam-powered looms, which had slowed production.

  “What was my father thinking when he purchased the mill?” Brandon muttered.

  “Pardon my insubordinance, my lord. But the old earl rarely thought.”

  Brandon shot his longtime butler a scalding look. “Thank you for your observations, Smithson.” The butler nodded then disappeared down the hall.

  Brandon sank into his chair, running his fingers through his hair, pulling it in agitation. There had to be a solution to the looms. He’d meet with the factory manager and demand an accounting of the repairs.

  Footsteps sounded outside his study door. “You will soon be bald just like your father if you keep tugging on your hair.”

  He looked up to see his paternal grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Vale, standing in the doorway.

  Damn. If Smithson had shut the study door, then even the dowager would not have dared intrude.

  Only five feet in height, his grandmother made up for it with a regal bearing and spine of steel. Many people feared her, but he was closer to her than he had been to his own mother.

  “Good morning. Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “Madame Marguerite is coming for Helen’s trousseau.”

  His lips thinned. “Are both my sisters seeing the French dressmaker?”

  “Of course. She is coming to Rosehill because we have guests and cannot travel.”

  Brandon grimaced. Helen, Caroline, and his grandmother were all seeing the modiste? The bill would be exorbitant.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  “Not at all. Have a lovely time.”

  How could he tell them? A gentleman didn’t discuss finances with the ladies of his household, and his sisters needed dresses and ball gowns befitting their station for the upcoming wedding. Helen was the oldest and the upcoming house party was to celebrate her engagement to the Marquess of Newchester. The party was another expense, but the dowager had made the arrangements as soon as the betrothal had taken place, and Brandon wouldn’t deny his sister her happy occasion. Caroline was only two years younger than Helen, and she had an eye for the latest Parisian fashions.

  He loved them all. It was his responsibility to provide everything they needed.

  His grandmother stepped into the room. “By your expression, I can only assume the coffers of the earldom are not as padded as you would like me to believe.”

  She was a keen observer, and consequently, his father had always avoided her. The old earl had once said she was adept at reading his mind and he’d never appreciated the intrusion.

  She studied him, her green eyes the exact shade of his own. “There’s no sense denying it. I knew my son’s weakness.”

  His father had more than one, but Brandon held his tongue. “Helen and Caroline do not need to know.”

  “I agree,” she said. “But you are aware that there is a way out of this predicament.”

  Brandon’s muscles tensed. He knew what was coming.

  “The Duke of Townsend’s daughter,” she said. “Lady Minerva is accompanying the duke and duchess here.”

  Of course she would. Brandon suspected it was part of his grandmother’s master plan—celebrate Helen’s betrothal to the marquess and arrange for Brandon’s to the duke’s daughter.

  Years ago, his father and the duke had made a drunken promise to marry off their son and daughter when they became of age. No contract had been signed. It wasn’t enforceable in a court. Brandon had been a toddler, and Lady Minerva had been a newborn. No one had mentioned it for years, and Brandon had never paid it attention and thought no one else would, either.

  Until now.

  “I was in leading strings, and she was a suckling babe. It was never formal,” he said.

  “No matter. It can easily be made so.”

  The duke’s daughter, Lady Minerva, was a pale blond with an ample bosom. She was not beautiful, but it wasn’t her looks that made her unattractive to Brandon. The lady was lacking in intelligence and she had an annoying tendency to speak incessantly on mundane topics. On the few instances he’d danced with her at a ball or conversed with her at a garden party, he’d ended up with an aching head.

  Brandon was well aware of his duty. Minerva may be as intelligent as a turnip and chatter about inconsequential matters, but her enormous dowry could save the earldom.

  “I don’t wish to discuss the duke’s daughter right now,” he said.

  “When?”

  He waved a hand. “Go meet the dressmakers. Please enjoy yourself.”

  “Your father married your mother for her dowry,” the dowager pointed out.

  And they despised each other. The thought of entering a marriage similar to his own parents’ made his gut clench. His parents didn’t have heated arguments or screaming matches. Theirs was a cold marriage filled with narrowed eyes, pursed lips, and ill-disguised hatred. Not an ounce of love could be found in the pile of stone of his family’s London mansion for the earl and countess’s children.

  “It’s done all the time. You have no choice,” his grandmother said.

  Brandon took a deep breath. “No, I can’t believe it. If I can mange to turn around another business, we will have more than enough—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Brandon. There is no other way.” She stepped closer to his desk. “You must—”

  “Do my duty?”

  “Yes.”

  Brandon’s jaw tightened. At his silence, her face fell slightly and she touched his hand. “Listen, my dear boy, doing your duty doesn’t mean the end of all enjoyment in your life.”

  He knew exactly what she meant. Do your duty and take your pleasure elsewhere.

  “Now think of what I’ve said. Meanwhile, your sisters are waiting outside. I promise to limit their selections.”

  “No, don’t restrict them. I can afford to buy them dresses and pelisses,” he said. He couldn’t deny them, and he most definitely didn’t want the do
wager to think the estate was that bad off. She’d arrange for the reading of the banns tomorrow.

  Not when there was a chance he could fix the power looms and make the mill profitable.

  “All right.” She turned to leave, then suddenly halted and looked back at Brandon. “I know you are preoccupied with estate matters, but what about your portrait? You know I have been asking you to have it painted. As the newest Earl of Vale, your portrait should be proudly displayed alongside all the prior earls in the portrait gallery.”

  “You keep telling me,” he said.

  “It’s upsetting that it won’t be displayed for the house party, but it must be completed for future social gatherings. Only several weeks from now, it’s my turn to host the Hampshire ladies garden and literacy society, and those opinionated women will pass through the gallery and undoubtedly inquire about my grandson’s image. If it’s money that’s preventing you from hiring an artist, then I will pay—”

  “There are more than sufficient funds for a portrait,” he countered, careful to maintain eye contact and keep his tone level.

  “Good. It’s tradition,” she insisted.

  “It’s on my list.”

  She nodded, then shut the door behind her.

  Brandon leaned back in his seat and conjured up a woman’s image. Not of the duke’s daughter, but one of a lady wearing a kerchief over her auburn hair and a paint-stained apron. Her sapphire eyes were as brilliant as a flawless blue sky. His blood pounded through his veins like an avalanche.

  Take your pleasure elsewhere.

  If all went according to plan, he would. After all, he never was one to follow the rules.

  Chapter Six

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  The passageway door closed behind Amelia as she stepped into Lord Vale’s study that night. He was seated behind his desk, sifting through papers when he saw her. He stood and his full lips curved in a smile.

  He was meticulously dressed in buff breeches, a navy jacket, striped waistcoat, and a ruby pin in his snowy cravat. She had dressed in a plain blue gown, one she often wore when she painted. She’d purposely chosen the dress to remind her of why she was here. This wasn’t a lover’s tryst, but work.

  “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “I feared you had changed your mind.”

  “I wanted to be certain everyone in the house was asleep.”

  The mantle clock in her room read close to midnight before she’d dared venture out. She was still nervous of discovery. What if Chloe woke and came to her room? It was unlikely, but they’d shared a bedchamber since they were very young and sometimes her sister had nightmares—times when she’d been ill and had dreamed of their father.

  It had been a while…but what if?

  “I left lit torches in the passageway,” he said.

  “Yes. Thank you, my lord.” The secret corridor had been brightly lit, unlike the first time he’d shown her the way to his study. She hadn’t experienced any anxiety, only nervousness at being alone with him.

  “It’s Brandon,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “If you are to paint me, you must call me Brandon.”

  “It’s horribly improper.”

  “In this room then. I insist upon it. Elsewhere you may ‘my lord’ me to your heart’s content.”

  “All right,” she agreed hesitantly.

  “Say it.”

  Their eyes met, and his steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation. She felt a lurch of excitement and felt her cheeks warm.

  “Brandon.” The name flowed smoothly from her lips as if she were powerless to resist his charm.

  He smiled. “See? It’s simple.”

  That was the problem. Using his Christian name was a level of intimacy she wasn’t sure they should share.

  “Please sit.” He motioned to a pair of armchairs before the fireplace. “Let’s talk first.”

  She chose one of the leather chairs. He occupied the one opposite and stretched out his long legs. She dared a look at his muscular thighs before shifting in her seat and meeting his amused gaze.

  Her blood pounded and her face grew warm. Had he caught her looking at him? She forced herself to breathe and compose her features.

  “Smithson delivered the rest of your supplies. You needn’t worry about discovery. I trust Smithson, and he’s good at keeping what I require secret from my family,” Brandon said.

  “Why would you need to keeps secrets from them?”

  She was getting to know his sisters, and Helen and Caroline seemed like wonderful, progressive women to her. The dowager, on the other hand, intimidated Amelia. She might be four inches shorter than Amelia, but Amelia felt like a child being scolded whenever the woman glanced in her direction.

  Brandon arched a dark eyebrow. She realized her question regarding his family sounded ridiculous. “Pardon. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Of course, he wanted to keep things hidden. From what she’d heard during her years at the print shop, all gentlemen of the ton kept mistresses. Hadn’t Vale’s own great-grandfather installed the very passageway she’d just walked through for that reason?

  “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he said. “Smithson doesn’t help me keep courtesans or wild orgies secret, but rather my business dealings that the females in my family wouldn’t be interested in anyway.”

  “I see,” she said, even though she didn’t believe him. Why would he need to keep his business dealings secret? Amelia recalled Lady Caroline’s fascination with the print shop they had owned for five years. Perhaps Caroline would be able to help her brother, not hinder him.

  “Let’s settle our own business first.” He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a letter, and handed it to her.

  Amelia unfolded the foolscap and read. “It’s from Samuel Stirling himself. He’s agreed to five sessions upon my return to London.”

  Her hand trembled with excitement as she stared at the letter in her hand. Stirling’s messy handwriting only added to her excitement. Her eyes lowered to his signature, and she recognized the distinctive swooping S’s from when he signed his own artwork. She was still awed by his offer to teach her.

  “Just as I promised,” Brandon said.

  She looked up and bit her bottom lip. His gaze lowered to her mouth. She felt an immediate sweeping pull low in her stomach. The excitement of the letter combined with the virility of the man sitting before her made her breath catch.

  “It’s what I’ve always desired,” she breathed.

  His eyes darkened a shade to a deep moss.

  She looked away. This wouldn’t do at all. She hadn’t drawn a single charcoal line and already she was craving the forbidden. She cleared her throat and stood. “I often work on more than one painting at a time and plan on painting the Cuyp landscape and your portrait simultaneously. I thought to start with your portrait tonight. Have you given any thought of how you would like to pose?”

  He rose to his feet. “What is your professional opinion as an artist?”

  A reproduction of Michelangelo’s statue of David she had once seen in a museum rose in her mind. Magnificent in its naked splendor, the statue’s muscles and sinew had portrayed a beautiful male form. Her pulse beat in her throat, and she tried to assume an ease she didn’t feel as she faced him. She had been raised unconventionally in an artist’s household. Her father’s studio contained all types of art, including nude drawings and sketches, and she had studied them in order to sketch realistic people in her works. The print shop also had a vast variety of prints and paintings for sale, some of nudes or half-dressed subjects. But she shouldn’t be thinking of that artwork now. Not when the strikingly handsome Earl of Vale was staring at her and waiting for her response.

  Her hands, hidden from sight, twisted nervously in her skirts. “Do you prefer any of the portraits of the prior Earls of Vale you had shown me?”

  “I thought I discussed not wanting to look like them.”

  Oh, you could never l
ook like them. Not if she was the artist.

  She was distracted when he reached up to unbutton and remove his jacket, then drape it across the armchair. Next, he shed his waistcoat and tossed it to join the jacket. Broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his shirt. She could make out muscles and a narrow waist where his shirt tucked into his breeches.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.

  “All my ancestors are dressed formally. I don’t want to be remembered as earlish, remember?”

  Had she ever used that term to describe him?

  He looked about the room “Hmm. Now how should I pose?”

  Her gaze lifted to his, and she searched for some hint that he knew her reaction to his state of undress. All she found was a guiltless concentration, like he was struggling to decide how best to pose for her study.

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. She wracked her mind for something to say to distract her from his masculinity.

  “You said you are in your study every evening. What do you spend most of your time doing here?” she asked.

  “That’s easy.” He motioned to the large desk and the piles of paper upon its surface. “I work.”

  “Every night?”

  “Long into every night.”

  She chewed her lip. She thought that most of the gentlemen of the beau monde spent their nights at their London clubs or, if in the country, drinking with their friends. A house party offered ample opportunity for him to be in the billiard room with Lord Huntingdon. Once the other gentlemen arrived, she imagined they would all drink and play billiards.

  “What do you work on?” she asked.

  “This and that. The old earl died a year ago. I’m sorting through his affairs.”

  It was a vague answer to be sure. It was also none of her concern. He was hiring her to paint him, not delve into his affairs. He may not be paying her in banknotes, but the Stirling letter in her skirt pocket was as good as gold in Amelia’s opinion.