Page 24 of Real Earls Break the Rules

“Good. You needn’t worry. I possess control,” he said.

She didn’t answer, but headed for the house. Once inside, she hurried to her room and locked the door. Sitting at her nightstand, she looked into the mirror. A tumult of confused emotions raced through her. She touched her lips and remembered the feel and taste of his kiss. Her body trembled, not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.

Desire.

She’d stood in the shelter of the trees with him, and she’d known he would kiss her. Instead of censuring him, desire had washed over her in an overwhelming wave. She’d heard about women who’d succumbed to passion. She’d always thought them foolish. But now she understood just how dangerous an attractive man could be to a woman.

If she were to go ahead with their arrangement, she would need to be very careful.

…

After Amelia entered the house, Brandon returned to the stables. He dismissed the groom and cared for the horses himself. His thoughts were filled with the taste and feel of Amelia.

Christ. What had he been thinking to kiss her? He needed her to paint the Aelbert Cuyp copy so he could sell the original. He needed her to paint his portrait for Rosehill’s art gallery. He had sufficient trouble in his life without adding another complication—the innocent sister-in-law of his best friend—no matter how tempting the lady. But the problem was he couldn’t stop thinking of her.

In all his thirty years, he’d been with many women, but never had a simple kiss affected him so strongly. And when she’d touched her tongue with his, the pleasure was as pure and explosive as the soldering heat that joins metals. His control, which he’d always prided himself upon, had slipped in a heartbeat. He’d wanted to crush her softness against him and ravage her on the soft grass by the stream. If she hadn’t pushed him away, he would have done just that.

Madness.

The consequences to both of them would have been devastating. He’d best not forget it.

Chapter Eight

After a quick breakfast, Brandon left Rosehill. The textile mill was located in the heart of Hampshire, and the factory was an enormous building three stories high. As soon as Brandon entered the building, he was met with a wall of heat twenty degrees hotter than the already warm afternoon. Large machinery loomed in the factory and workers rushed about in a blur of activity.

A robust man with a balding pate that glistened with sweat came hurrying up to Brandon. “The factory is not open to the public. May I help you, sir?” he asked, a note of impatience in his voice.

“Since I’m not the public, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’m Lord Vale, the new owner of this mill.”

A flash of panic crossed the man’s face before he bowed. “Pardon, my lord. I’m Mr. Higgins, the factory supervisor. If your lordship had sent a note in advance informing me of your visit, as was the custom of your father, I would have been sure to welcome you most properly.”

Brandon’s lips thinned in irritation. “I’m not my father, Mr. Higgins. A pleasant factory tour is not the point of my visit.”

“You wish to inspect the place, my lord?”

“I do.”

“The shifts are changing. Perhaps another time would be more productive.” Higgins shifted from foot to foot.

The man was clearly uneasy at his surprise visit. Did Higgins think he was a complete idiot? Of course he does, Brandon thought. He’s dealt with my father in the past.

“Now is fine,” Brandon retorted.

Higgins swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down above his cravat. “As you wish, my lord.”

Brandon stepped into the factory. The gargantuan space was filled with rows and rows of operating machinery, and the thunderous noise was deafening. The smell of oil that lubricated the machines, the sweat of the workers, and the tiny bits of fiber that hung in the air were overpowering and suffocating.

He spotted spinning machines, combing equipment, and power looms in the distance.

He cupped his hand over his mouth and spoke loudly to be heard above the din. “There have been problems with the power looms breaking down, correct?”

Mr. Higgins motioned with his hand toward one of the machines. “Nothing that we cannot handle. As you see, the mill is running smoothly today.”

“Show me the looms that are not working,” Brandon said.

Brandon followed Higgins farther into the bowels of the factory. Rows and rows of spinning jennies operated at impressive speed and allowed a single worker to spin many separate yarns simultaneously. Each spinning jenny contained at least fifty whirling bobbins.

The heat level rose the farther they ventured. Brandon loosened his cravat. Along with the heat, the noise level in the factory was ear splitting. Several male workers shouted at each other to be heard. Others gestured wildly in order to communicate.