Page 44 of Real Earls Break the Rules

“Tell me about the failing equipment.”

“It makes no sense,” he said, his voice low and troubled. “Some wear and tear is expected with power looms and spinning jennies. But for certain equipment to have repeated failures is troubling.”

“I’d like to see the mill.” It was a chance to observe the daily working conditions of factory workers, something she’d never had the opportunity to see in the past. She’d study every detail so that she could paint the scenes afterward.

His expression darkened. “A textile mill is no place for a lady.”

She wondered why he objected so fiercely. Was he shocked by the mill’s conditions? He needn’t worry. She wasn’t a fragile female. She’d worked for years.

“You forget that I’m made of sterner stuff than the ladies you are accustomed to. I’ve observed much worse, remember?” she said.

“Forgive me. You’re right. It’s just that my visit did not go as pleasantly as I would have liked.” He ran his hand through his hair. She watched, fascinated, as the dark strands combed through his fingers. “Well, there you have it. I inherited the title along with a pile of debt. It’s enough to make anyone tense.”

She was struck by the extent of his troubles. He may be fortunate enough to inherit an earldom and all the benefits that came along with the title, but many people depended on him for their livelihood. His family, the multitude of servants at his London mansion and his country estate, his tenants who farmed the land, and now all the employees of his businesses, including the families that worked at the mill.

It was overwhelming.

“Are your sisters and the dowager aware of the state of things?” she asked.

“They know my father was a drunken entrepreneur, but they have no idea of the debt he left behind. Only my grandmother suspects. The old earl was her son.”

“You should take them into your confidence. Caroline has shown an interest in business. She was fascinated when I told her about the print shop.”

“Gentlemen don’t discuss business with ladies,” he argued.

She scowled at him. “You’re discussing it with me.”

He arched a dark eyebrow. “I suppose I am. The truth is I feel relieved to talk about it.”

She had a ridiculous urge to smooth his brow. She sipped her drink instead. The potent whiskey went down easier now and warmed her blood.

“There’s an easy solution to your dilemma,” she said. “You are not the only gentleman to inherit debt. You need both to gain capital and to sire an heir to the earldom. Wouldn’t a wealthy heiress solve the two problems together?” She spoke half in jest and half in earnest.

He shook his head regretfully. She watched the play of emotions on his face—guilt and remorse?—before he looked away. A heaviness centered in her chest. Her words of advice may have escaped unthinkingly, but it was clear that he’d already considered the idea.

Eliza’s words came back to her: I believe the dowager and duchess seek a match between Lord Vale and Lady Minerva.

Amelia felt an instant’s squeezing hurt. Don’t be foolish! He’s an earl and you are a forger’s daughter. He had promised her nothing but lessons from an art master in exchange for her work. She wasn’t a duke’s daughter. She didn’t have a large dowry or impeccable breeding to offer.

Only her heart and passion on canvas.

The trouble was that by sharing his burdens she felt closer to him and more emotionally connected when she instead should have been protecting her heart.

She kept her features deceptively composed. “I’m almost finished with what I want to accomplish tonight.”

“Of course.”

She picked up her brush and went back to her task. She worked quickly now, her brushstrokes light and purposeful. He sat behind his desk and read his papers as she painted. Nearly an hour passed in silence, save for the tick of the mantle clock.

A sheet of paper fell from the desk and fluttered to the Oriental carpet. She looked up to see that Brandon had stopped studying his papers and was watching her.

Warmth rushed over her skin—a heightened awareness that she’d felt before when she’d caught him openly studying her. She felt her pulse beat in her throat and a sweeping pull in her stomach.

Her grip tightened on her brush, and her hand cramped painfully. The brush dropped to the palette with a thud.

His gaze lowered to where she clasped her hand and his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“A cramp,” she said, opening her right hand and stretching her fingers. “Sometimes when I paint for hours, the muscles in my hand twist and tighten. It’s nothing to be concerned about. It will pass. Father used to stretch his hands and ice them after a long day.”