Page 6 of Real Earls Break the Rules

“Don’t treat me like an idiot. You desire her,” Huntingdon said.

Brandon didn’t bother to deny it. When he’d seen Amelia again, it was like a punch to the gut. His body had grown heavy and warm, and his heart had hammered in his chest. What red-blooded male wouldn’t desire her?

Not for the first time, he cursed his father and the responsibilities that had kept him from pursuing Amelia Somerton. The old earl had been a heavy drinker and gambler, but instead of having the good sense to pass out and have his servants carry him to bed, he’d allowed all sorts of disreputable charlatans to convince him to invest in risky stocks and businesses. He’d attracted every swindler within a ten-mile radius of London. As a result, Brandon had inherited a slew of failing businesses and a pile of debt.

After many sleepless nights, Brandon had come up with a temporary solution for his troubles. But he needed Amelia. She was perfect for his plans. The American had offered him a good price for the Aelbert Cuyp landscape when he’d visited Rosehill months ago, and Brandon needed the money.

It was all well thought out. The copy would remain at Rosehill. The American would return to Boston and had no plans to ever revisit Hampshire and would never see the copy hanging on Rosehill’s walls. Most importantly, the women in Brandon’s household—his grandmother and his two sisters—would never discover the truth. He needn’t outright lie to them about the copy of the artwork or the state of affairs of the earldom.

He became aware of Huntingdon staring at him as he waited for Brandon’s response. He felt a stab of guilt at not sharing his plans with his friend, but something held him back. Huntingdon’s loyalties belonged to his new wife. Brandon didn’t want to put him in the position of choosing between his friend and his family. And why bother? Amelia had refused.

“Don’t worry. She said no,” Brandon said.

Yet something in her expression had given him a sliver of hope. He’d seen it in her eyes—a glimmer of satisfaction that someone thought her artwork worthy enough to pay for.

She’d wanted to accept.

He needed to find the right incentive—something she truly wanted. So what could he offer?

“You need a woman,” Huntingdon said. “What happened to your mistress?”

“Bess became demanding.” Brandon had parted ways with his former mistress months ago. She’d been a dancer and incredibly flexible in the bedroom. Her skills had initially intrigued him, but once she’d started discussing a more permanent relationship he’d lost interest in and out of bed. In the past he would have quickly found a new mistress, but his work with the earldom’s properties and its financial troubles had kept him preoccupied.

Huntingdon waved a hand. “Find another to replace her.”

Brandon ignored the comment. He chalked the end of his cue stick, then shot two balls into a side pocket. “I remember seeing Amelia’s artwork at the print shop. She’s talented.”

“I never said she didn’t possess artistic talent,” Huntingdon said.

As a renowned art critic, Huntingdon would know. His only professional humiliation had been when he was duped by the forger of the ton years ago.

Amelia was a mystery to Brandon. Perhaps that was part of her allure. “How did she learn to paint?”

“She never had formal art training. I believe she was taught by her father. He never spared a coin on his daughters, not even for art lessons. I once heard Eliza say that Amelia learned by sitting beside their father as he worked. He never showed her artistic techniques and rarely bothered to speak with her. He tolerated her presence because she cleaned his brushes, scrubbed his worktable, and scraped the dried paint from his palette until her fingers bled.”

Brandon’s breath burned in his throat. He pictured her sitting beside her parent, desperate for a scrap of attention and a brief lesson. Her beautiful blue eyes watching him as he worked and her hands, sore and stained with paint from scrubbing his brushes, folded in her lap. “He wasn’t only a criminal, but a selfish and delinquent father.”

“I won’t argue the fact,” Huntingdon scoffed.

Perhaps there was something else he could offer her—something that was out of her reach but that she’d always wanted.

Huntingdon went to a sideboard, poured two tumblers of Scotch whiskey, and handed one to Brandon. “Forget Amelia. What about the Duke of Townsend’s daughter?” Huntingdon said.

Brandon took a swallow of the fine spirits. “My grandmother reminds me of her dowry every day. The duke and his family are attending the house party. I suspect the dowager will try to convince me to court the woman. If only I could stand her incessant talking.”

“I thought your finances had improved. You’ve had some success with the old earl’s businesses.”

“I have,” Brandon said with a semblance of pride.

But the list of his father’s creditors seemed endless. An unprofitable textile mill, a coal mine that had collapsed, a dress shop that had suffered a fire, a bakery known for making several influential customers ill, and a doomed shipping company with cargo pilfered by Caribbean pirates were just a few. Brandon’s head felt as if it would burst from all the tiny rows of figures in the multiple ledgers. He’d worked tirelessly, spending the better part of the year inspecting each business and trying to make them profitable. He’d salvaged those that he was able to and he’d invested wisely in the London Stock Exchange to pay off some of the gambling debts.

He was good at it. Damn good.

But he wasn’t a miracle worker.

“The truth is the textile mill is having the most trouble right now. Instead of producing a profit, it’s costing me. I’m also still paying my father’s bills and gambling debts.”

“Does your family know?” Huntingdon asked.