Page 9 of Real Earls Break the Rules

Vale’s sister was focused entirely on the canvas as she rushed forward.

“I had no idea you could paint.” The lady looked at the canvas, then out the window, then back at the painting. “It’s lovely and reminds me of Rosehill’s expansive lawns, lush greenery, and even the flock of sheep in the distance. You are a truly talented artist.”

Amelia’s heart fluttered in her chest at the praise. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Oh no. You must call me Helen. Now please tell me, have you ever sold one of your paintings before?”

Amelia was taken aback at the question. How much to reveal about her family’s past? Lady Helen, like her younger sister, Caroline, seemed genuine and accepting, but Helen was not only the earl’s eldest sister, she was to marry a marquess.

Amelia picked up her brush. “I sold some paintings while we owned the print shop. Though I was always careful to sign my artwork using false male names.”

“Why would you do that?”

Amelia hesitated before answering. “Buyers would offer half the price if they’d known the work was completed by a woman.”

It had always disturbed Amelia that she couldn’t sign her works with her own name. She’d watch as the print shop’s customers browsed the artwork and halt by one of her paintings of a bowl of fruit, a vase of colorful flowers, or of a London sunset as they decided to make a purchase. She’d wanted to cry out that it was her own, but had to stand silent as they made their selection. Her sisters had needed the money—every shilling—to survive, and she couldn’t afford to be vain or selfish.

But now their lives had changed, and Amelia’s dream to paint what she wanted under her own name was no longer unimaginable.

She knew her ambitions may not be popular, but she longed to create paintings of the impoverished—the laboring poor and paupers that populated the London streets. After her brief stay in the rookeries when their father had first fled, she’d sworn that when the time came she would use her artistic gift to show the harsh conditions of those less fortunate.

And she would sign each one proudly as Amelia Somerton.

Lady Helen’s brow furrowed. “Then they were fools. I’d like to buy this painting from you.”

Amelia blinked. “Buy? That’s not necessary, my lady.”

“It’s Helen, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m not asking because you are our guest for a fortnight. I want the painting because it is a marvelous landscape and reminds me of my beloved country home. I want to take it with me after I marry and hang it in my new residence.”

“In that case, I will gift it to you,” Amelia said.

Helen shook her head. “Nonsense. It is your work. If I were to hire an artist to make me a similar painting, I would expect to pay for it.”

Amelia held up a hand. “Consider it a wedding gift. I’m flattered you find my work worthy to hang in your new home.”

Amelia was surprised when Lady Helen hugged her. “Thank you for such a valuable gift. I will always treasure it. Now please tell me where you learned how to paint so well? Did you take instruction at the Royal Academy?”

Amelia sighed. “I wish that I had. I never received formal art instruction.”

She’d always longed for tutelage. After their father had left, there was never money to spend on fripperies like art lessons.

Survival had been all consuming.

“Then how did you learn?” Helen asked.

Amelia shrugged. “I taught myself by watching others.”

My art forger father, to be precise.

Helen gaped. “Self-taught? I cannot imagine teaching myself how to accomplish this,” she said, motioning to the landscape. “You should think of selling your work again. I know many people who would solicit your services.”

Lord Vale already has, Amelia mused.

Goodness. Did she have to keep thinking of his outrageous offer?