Page 14 of Real Earls Break the Rules

The dowager cleared her throat from across the table and drew Amelia’s attention. “Painting, needlework, and the pianoforte are all encouraging activities for young ladies.”

“I think it’s a lovely engagement gift. I wish I had such talent,” Caroline said.

Eliza smiled. “Amelia is the only one of us who can paint. She’s gifted.”

Chloe spoke up. “It’s true. She works wonders with her oils and brushes. I often tease her that she will have to teach me someday.”

Huntingdon nodded. “As an art critic, I wholeheartedly agree.”

Amelia met her brother-in-law’s amused grin. Thank goodness he didn’t mention how he’d first learned of her artistic talent. Her forgery had been so meticulous it had almost fooled him.

“Your reputation as an art critic is renowned, Lord Huntingdon,” the dowager said. “Perhaps you can recommend a portrait painter to capture my grandson’s image to add to Rosehill’s gallery. I’ve been asking him for over a year to have his portrait completed.”

“There are many fine artists to pick from in London,” Huntingdon said. “The Royal Academy has a list of accomplished portrait painters.” Huntington shot Vale a dark look that made Amelia squirm in her seat. She was quite certain her brother-in-law didn’t know of her agreement with Vale.

The dowager turned to Vale. “You should take Huntingdon’s advice.”

Amelia’s heart pounded so strongly it was a wonder the dowager didn’t hear it across the table.

Vale raised his glass. “Never fear. I’m working on it.”

…

Late that night, Amelia was curled in an armchair studying the pages of her sketchbook. The older scenes were from her window during their brief stay in St. Giles. The images were disturbing and deeply affecting. One in particular always tugged at her heart—a young mother begging on the corner, her face gaunt from sacrificing too many meals to feed her young children. Amelia often wondered what had become of her. Was she alive? Had her children survived? The sketch was one that Amelia had vowed to paint and display for a future exhibition. She scrawled her name on the bottom of the sketch in bold, black letters, just as she planned to sign it after she’d painted it.

Amelia Somerton.

Not Henry Crowley, or Evan Townsend, or Donald Marshal. Or any of the other names she’d used in the past.

She turned to the end of the book, and a single candle illuminated her most recent work, a rough sketch of Lord Vale’s handsome face. She’d captured a knowing glint in his eyes, a lazily seductive glance that had upset her balance more than once.

A soft knock on her bedchamber door startled her. She set her sketchbook aside, donned her night rail over her nightgown, and cracked the door to find the flesh-and-blood model of her sketch standing in the hall.

“I saw the candlelight beneath the door. I’m glad you’re awake,” he said.

Her brow furrowed, and she peeked around him. “Is something amiss with Chloe?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I thought to show you the secret passageway,” he said.

“Now? It’s well past midnight.”

“All the guests are asleep. It’s the perfect time.”

Perfect for him. He was fully dressed, from jacket and waistcoat to shined Hessians. He looked like he was ready for a ride in the country. Amelia was dressed in her nightclothes. Even though the fabric covered every inch of her skin, from the high neckline and long sleeves to her slippered feet, she still felt exposed.

“I’m not sure this is the best time to—”

“There’s no better opportunity.” He stepped inside and closed the door. “Your sister watches you like a hawk. My grandmother misses nothing.”

Amelia backed up a step.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” he asked.

Now that he was inside her bedchamber with candlelight flickering across his face, she had second thoughts. Could she do this? Could she be alone with a man for hours each night and paint him? She didn’t fear physical harm from him. Her instincts told her she would be safe with him. But there were other disconcerting factors—a fluttering at the back of her neck and the wild beating of her pulse when he looked at her. And the way her heart seemed to rush to the spot on her hand or arm every time he briefly touched her.