Page 16 of Real Earls Break the Rules

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After Amelia departed through the secret passageway to return to her bedchamber, Brandon remained in his study. He poured himself a glass of brandy and propped his booted feet upon his desk. Papers, ledgers, and reports littered the surface, reminding him of all his duties and responsibilities. He didn’t want to think of the work he had yet to accomplish at the textile mill. He’d rather think of pleasurable things.

He closed his eyes, savoring the fine alcohol as images of Amelia in her nightclothes flashed through his mind. The wholesome white linen had covered every inch of her skin from its high neckline to its embroidered sleeves and hem, but a woman had never looked more tempting to him. He’d experienced his share of females, widows and courtesans, but none had attracted him as strongly as Amelia Somerton.

He imagined untying the bow of her nightgown at her neck and revealing the smallest amount of creamy flesh. He felt himself harden just thinking about removing the pristine cloth. When she stepped before the candlelight, he could make out the shape of a slender leg through the material.

Holy hell. He should be thrilled she’d agreed to copy the Cuyp landscape. He was counting on the money from the sale of the original painting. But he was surprised at how much he was looking forward to sitting for his portrait. He’d have a chance to watch her as she studied him and worked. Her blue eyes would travel over his body inch by inch as she painted. The thought was enough to heat his skin and harden him further. It would be a tantalizing escape. He wouldn’t have to think of his troubles, only the pleasure of spending time alone with a beautiful woman he desired.

She claimed she had no interest in an illicit liaison. But he had caught her sidelong glances when they were in her bedchamber and later in his study. She had watched his lips move, had glanced at his shoulders, his chest. On some deeply buried level, Amelia Somerton desired him. The thought heightened his lust.

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.