Page 42 of Real Earls Break the Rules

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Eliza is determined that Chloe and I find good marital matches. She’s wanted it for some time, but now that she’s married and we’re no longer consumed with running the print shop, it has become her mission.”

His stare was intense. “Is that what you want?”

She shrugged and looked away. “Marriage has never been important to me, but I don’t want to upset my sister.”

“You’d mislead your sister just to please her?”

She straightened and turned back to him. “You misunderstand. I love my sister. I also owe her more than I can every repay. If not for her quick thinking and clever business dealings, Chloe and I would be in the gutter. You’re aware of our father’s crimes. He was a master liar. An impeccable forger. Any deception Eliza and I have performed in the past was to survive. But I’ve never lied to her.”

He pushed away from the desk and stood before her. His steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation. “I’m sorry. I should have considered your loyalty to your sister. Do you regret our arrangement, then?”

She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I want to do this. I enjoy my work.”

She had initially told herself it was because she desired art lessons, but deep down there was another reason. She wanted to paint him—had wanted to capture his image on canvas the first time she’d seen him stroll across Huntingdon’s gardens.

“You paint on your own. My sister Helen was thrilled with your picturesque landscape.”

Amelia had completed the painting and given it to Helen. “The painting was a gift. I only paint for myself now. I no longer need to sell my work to buy food and pay the rent.”

“Huntingdon told me you never signed your work with your real name.”

“It’s true. I used false male names. Works from unknown female artists were difficult to sell, and when they did sell, they went for much less than those from their male counterparts.”

He grinned. “You want to be acknowledged.”

“Is that so surprising? I have always longed to be acknowledged by having my own art exhibition. But I’d display very different pieces than what you’ve seen in the print shop.”

“Such as?”

“The still-life paintings and landscapes you saw at the print shop were what our customers desired to purchase for their parlors and sitting rooms. I didn’t mind catering to their fancies to make a sale, but it’s not my true calling as an artist.” She hesitated, taking a deep breath and gathering the courage to reveal her dreams. “I want to paint the neglected people of London—the struggling laborer and the impoverished. Those who have no voice, no justice, and little hope for a better future.”

“Why? Tell me.” The command was soft, but firm.

The pit of her stomach churned as memories returned in force. “We lived in St. Giles for four months after our father left. I’d often watch them through the small window of our lodgings with a sketchbook in my lap. The lucky ones would head to work at dawn and toil until well past sunset. Others were a nameless, faceless mass, and each day was a struggle to survive. I’d see an old, blind man with a battlefield of wrinkles on the street corner begging for a shilling a day. Or a gaunt mother who sacrificed too many meals to feed her young children. I watched their faces and I captured them with charcoal on paper. We didn’t spend much time there, but all the while I was thankful we escaped. But for the grace of God, it could have been us.”

He stood stock-still as she spoke, an unreadable expression on his face.

“It took me a while to determine my life’s purpose. I often asked myself why I was given this talent. Then one day as I was looking out the dirt-streaked window to the street below it struck me. I must use my art to show the plight of the poor. To use my God-given gift to give them a voice.”

“Fascinating. I think it’s a very admirable goal.”

Her breath seemed to have solidified in her throat. She hadn’t been certain of his reaction and had been more tense than she’d realized. Most members of the beau monde would be repulsed to learn she’d spent time in the slums. Others would give her and her sisters the cut direct, a sure sign of social transgression.

But not Brandon. He thought her goals admirable.

“You must favor your mother,” he said.

She understood. Her father had no sympathy for the deprived. He had been greedy and coldhearted and had only cared about the weight of gold in his pockets.

“My mother died of pneumonia when I was five. I don’t want to be known as the daughter of the forger of the ton. I want to be known as Miss Amelia Somerton, an artist in my own right.”

“I have no problem buying a piece of art legitimately signed by you,” he said.

A warm glow flowed through her. His admission meant more to her than praise from any art critic. Could he be different?

He motioned to his desk. “Shall I return to my pose?”

She glanced at the canvas, then up at him. “It’s not necessary. I’m painting the background for now.”