The Husband List -2 (25 page)

“I never saw her paintings, probably wouldn’t recognize them even if I had. I know nothing about such things, and I don’t care to.” Louella moved to the nearest painting. “Her first name was Caroline. Lady Caroline Shelton.” She leaned closer and peered at the corner. Her brow furrowed in concentration. “Could be a C. Could be an S. I can’t say for sure.” She straightened. “Is that all?”

Gillian stared at Richard. “They are your aunt’s. You know they are.”

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. There was little doubt in his own mind that these were more than likely the work of Caroline Shelton, a relation he’d never so much as heard of. It was highly improbable there had been more than one woman with her story nearly forty years ago. The disclosure of her existence explained a great deal.

His head filled with his father’s long-ago rantings about art and artists, about duty and one’s place in the world.
And each and every comment now made perfect sense.

He stepped to the first painting, studied it for a long moment, then moved to the second. He barely heard the murmur of voices behind him and scarcely noted doors opening and closing.

Gillian’s voice sounded at his side. “They’re wonderful.”

“Yes, they are.”

“A pity such talent was lost to the world simply because she didn’t have the funding to properly support herself.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He stepped to the last painting and paused. While the first two were different in subject, the style of the artist was unmistakable. This last work was not by the same hand. “Who painted this?”

“Who?” Gillian called from across the room. Hadn’t she been standing beside him a moment ago? He glanced in the direction of her voice. Gillian stood in the half open doorway speaking softly to someone in the hall. Apparently the conspiracy underway here went well beyond Louella’s revelations.

He turned back to the final painting with an air of resignation, wondering if he shouldn’t admit surrender right now. At least whatever lay in wait for him postponed his discussion with Gillian.

He considered the painting before him thoughtfully. It too was a landscape, well executed, with a nice sense of balance and proportion, light and shadows. Still, whereas the others were somewhat complex, this one struck him as less refined: the artist’s strokes not as confident, his skill not as developed. Or more than likely her skill. It was obvious Gillian, and perhaps his family as well, was trying to make a point. As unwilling as he was to acknowledge it aloud, privately Richard had to admit there was considerable talent evident here.

“So, tell me, Gillian, what impoverished female painted this one?”

“I’m afraid I did.” Emma’s voice sounded behind him.

Richard heaved a resigned sigh, not really surprised. After all, he hadn’t abandoned his work entirely in spite of his father’s objections. If Richard and this particular sister shared the same talents, no doubt they shared the same stubborn will as well.

“Do you like it?” She stepped up beside him.

He nodded slowly. “Yes, actually, I do.”

“Really?” Emma’s face lit up, and his heart twisted. He should have known all along that limiting her opportunities to keep her safe and protected was not merely wrong but futile.

“It needs a bit of work.” He pointed to an area where trees and sky met. “Here, if you were to deepen the shadows with a lighter hand and—”

“Richard, your knowledge never fails to amaze me,” Gillian said. “One would almost think Emma wasn’t the only artist now in the family.”

“Oh, but I told you he used to paint,” Emma said.

“Did you?” Richard stared at Gillian. She knew he had once painted? Why hadn’t she said anything to him?

“I suppose you did.” Gillian shrugged. “It must have slipped my mind.”

“As has everything else today,” he said, as much to himself as to her.

Gillian smiled that knowing smile he was beginning to dislike intensely. “Now that you’ve seen Emma’s work and her obvious talent as well as the work of your aunt—”

“We don’t know that.” Even as he said the words he knew they were false.

“Aunt Louella paints?” Confusion washed across Emma’s face.

“Hardly,” he scoffed.

“I’ll explain later,” Gillian said to Emma, then turned to Richard. “At any rate, now even you can admit the truth.”

His breath caught. “What truth?”

“That you were wrong about the ability of women to create serious art—”

“I should take my leave,” Emma murmured.

He released a relieved breath. “I’ll admit nothing of the sort. I will concede that you have managed to present me with two exceptional women of unusual talent. It goes no farther than that and it changes nothing.”

“What do you mean it changes nothing?” She frowned with annoyance. “It changes everything.”

“You can best discuss this without me,” Emma said and edged toward the door.

“Not at all.” He glared at Gillian. “Women, regardless of their talent, do not belong behind an easel. The life of an artist is not an easy one. It’s no life for a woman, and no life for my sister, and I will not condone or permit it!”

“Just as your father would not condone or permit it for his sister!” Gillian snapped.

Emma gasped.

Gillian sucked in a hard bream, and her eyes widened with shock as if she couldn’t believe she had said such a thing.

The words hung in the air between them. Her accusation struck him with the force of a physical blow, catching at his throat and stilling his heart.

“Richard,” she said as she stepped toward him. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he held out a hand to stop her and drew a shaky breath. “You’re right, of course. That was no doubt exactly what my father would have said. Perhaps there is a great deal of him in me after all.”

“Perhaps that’s not entirely bad,” Gillian said softly and put her hand on his arm. “Someone once told me a man who is too good can be, well, tedious and even boring.” Amusement glimmered in her eye. “Don’t you agree?”

“What are you up to, Gillian?” His gaze searched hers.

“I say, I realize this might not be the best moment ...”

Richard rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then glanced once again in the direction of the door. Cummings had joined them. Who on earth would be coming through that blasted door next? Cummings stepped to Emma’s side, and the two of them exchanged glances in a far too intimate manner.

Richard grit his teeth. “How perceptive of you.”

“It may well be the perfect moment, Kit,” Gillian said, ignoring the glare Richard cast her.

Emma whispered something in Cummings’s ear. He squared his shoulders and met Richard’s gaze without flinching. “I wish to marry your sister, my lord.”

“And I wish to marry him,” Emma said firmly.

“And if I forbid it?” Richard crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Cummings. Perhaps he couldn’t win a battle of wills with his aunt, but this man was another thing altogether.

“Well, you did forbid her to paint,” Gillian said casually.

Emma cast him an innocent smile, and Richard couldn’t help wondering if she had taught that particular smile to Gillian or if it was the other way around.

Gillian leaned toward him in a confidential manner. “Kit knows it’s not really necessary to ask for Emma’s hand because, after all, she is of age, but he thinks it’s a nice gesture.”

“I don’t like him,” Richard growled.

“He doesn’t like you much either—”

“Not at all,” Cummings said pleasantly.

“—but Emma apparently loves you both—”

Emma nodded. “Of course I do.”

“—and you did wish for her to make a good match—”

“I shall do everything in my power to make her happy, my lord.” Cummings’s voice rang with sincerity.

“Enough!” Richard threw up his hands. “Do as you wish! Marry! Paint! Run naked through the streets for all I care!”

“Richard.” Gillian frowned and shook her head as if she were chastising a small boy. “Is that necessary?”

He resisted the urge to act completely like a child, wanting nothing more than to stick out his tongue, but he settled for slanting her a look any small boy would be proud of.

Emma grinned. “Thank you, Richard. We shall.”

“Which?” Cummings said curiously.

“All of them.” Emma gazed up at Cummings with an adoring smile and a look in her eye that told Richard his responsibilities toward his oldest sister were at an end. An odd sense of relief and regret swept through him.

“Emma of course will no longer need the services that I propose to provide for women such as herself, but she has agreed to work with me. I have no idea precisely what kind of facility will be best, what artists really need.”

“It scarcely matters at this point.” Richard drew a deep breath. Gillian’s comments were the perfect opportunity to say what had to be said. It had been put off long enough. Whether he liked it or not, it had to be done. “You will not have the funds for such a project.” He couldn’t marry a woman who loved another man regardless of who that other man truly was. “You will not acquire your inheritance through marriage to me. I have made my decision.”

He met Gillian’s gaze squarely and hoped his breaking heart would not show in his eyes.

“I will not marry you.”

His words rang in the room. “No?” Gillian looked at him for a long moment. “Are you certain?”

He clenched his fists by his sides. “Yes.”

“Quite certain?”

“Yes,” he said grimly.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?” she said with little more than idle curiosity. Why wasn’t she more upset?

“No.” Why wasn’t she upset at all? He certainly was.

“Oh dear.” Gillian tilted her head and frowned.

“Now we should definitely leave.” Emma started toward the door, pulling Cummings behind her.

“Why?” Cummings grinned. “This should be quite interesting.”

“That’s exactly why.” Emma jerked open the door, pushed a protesting Cummings out, and pulled the door closed behind them.

Gillian shook her head. “Well, that’s that, then.” She shrugged. “At least there is still sufficient time remaining until my birthday to find a suitable husband.”

“That’s it?” He stared in stunned disbelief. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“I shall have to make up another list,” she said absently, then smiled brightly. “Unless you have some suggestions?”

“Me? You’re asking me to help you find a suitable husband?” His voice rose.

“I should think you’d be well qualified to do so. You know precisely what I’m looking for. After all, you were once at the top of the list.”

He stared in shocked disbelief. Even if she only loved him as Toussaint, he had thought, had hoped, she harbored some feeling for him as Richard. Did she care so little for him that she was able to brush him off without so much as a by-your-leave?

“There is an artist I know who might do quite nicely,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve seen his work: Etienne-Louis Toussaint?”

“I wouldn’t wager any legacies on it,” he snapped.

“Nonsense. He’d probably be more than willing to marry me, given the stakes involved.”

“You will never marry Toussaint,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Of course I will. I see no good reason why not.”

“I can give you a very good reason.” He squared his shoulders. It was past time for the truth.

“I doubt that.” She waved off his comment. “Besides, I rather like the idea of marrying a man of extraordinary talent.” She paused thoughtfully. “Of course, he is extremely arrogant, and he has this odd need to keep his face hidden, and oh, yes, his accent is atrocious and quite unbelievable—”

“Atrocious? I scarcely think—”

“Don’t forget unbelievable,” she added.

“I could hardly forget unbelievable.” He snorted. “What is so—”

“Indeed. It was obviously feigned in order to disguise the fact that the man no doubt speaks no French at all.
Est-ce que vous ne consentez pas?”

“Huh?”

“That’s what I thought.
At any rate, I quite like the idea of marrying an artist with a brilliant future ahead of him—nearly as much as I like the idea of marrying a penniless earl.”

“You like the idea of marrying a penniless earl,” he said slowly.

“Just one penniless earl in particular.”

“Just one—”

“Such a pity though,” she heaved a heartfelt sigh, “I seem to have found two men who would serve the same purpose—”

“Gillian.” He drew the word out slowly.

“—who seem to trigger precisely the same feelings when I’m with them—”

“Gillian.” What was she up to?

“—who are in fact so remarkably similar in the way they do certain things like, oh, say, kiss—”

“What are you saying?”

“—that one might even think they were not two different men at all but one and the same.” She smiled sweetly.

“The same?” Was it possible? Did she know?

“It’s ridiculous, of course.” She stepped closer to him. “Who in their right mind would ever dream the fourteenth Earl of Shelbrooke,” she poked him in the chest, “was Etienne-Louis Toussaint?”

“Who indeed?” he said weakly.

“Would you imagine such a thing, Richard?” She poked him once again.

“Me?” He swallowed hard. She knew.

“Or should I say,” she poked again, “Monsieur Toussaint?”

“Toussaint?” he said as if he’d never heard the name before.

“Etienne-Louis Toussaint.” She emphasized each word with a poke.

“Ouch.” He grabbed her hand. “You’re hurting me.”

“Am I?” She smirked up at him. “And precisely who am I hurting?”

His gaze searched hers, and for the first time in days hope rose within him. “Did Thomas tell you?”

“Thomas? My brother?” Her brows pulled together in annoyance. “He knows of this secret life of yours?”

“Well, yes, in fact.” Perhaps he could blame this all on Thomas. “Toussaint was very much his invention.”

“Does he know precisely how you’ve used this invention of his to further your ends?”

“Thomas knows nothing about you and Toussaint,” he said with an air of reluctance. “That was completely my idea.”

She raised a brow.

“It seemed like a good plan in the beginning,” he muttered.

“Before we go any farther, why don’t you tell me exactly what that plan was?”

“The plan?” He tried to pull his thoughts together, selecting and discarding one response after another. “It seemed to me, that is I thought—”

“That if I was hesitant to warm the bed of the Earl of Shelbrooke I might be more amenable to share the affection of Etienne-Louis Toussaint?”

“Something like that.” It sounded rather absurd when said aloud.

“And did your plan work?”

“Not entirely.” His tone was defensive. “But you were simply much more, well, relaxed with Toussaint than you ever were with me.”

“But when I did, to use your word,
relax
in your company, why did you continue your deception?”

“I needed to know how you felt. After all, you did confide in Toussaint.”

“Somewhat foolish in hindsight.” She shook her head. “And did you discover my feelings?”

“Indeed.” He scoffed. “You love Toussaint.”

“Do I? How did you ascertain that?”

“You said it yourself.” A fresh wave of pain gripped his heart. “You said you couldn’t be with a man you didn’t love.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And you were with Toussaint.” He narrowed his eyes. “Quite enthusiastically, I might add.”

“Who was, in truth, you.”

“Well, yes,” he said reluctantly.

“So it all comes down to precisely when I knew the truth, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose.” As much as he hated to admit it, she was right.

“What if I told you that I went to Toussaint’s studio, or rather your studio, to find the boy that brought Toussaint’s messages and yours as well—”

“The boy? Blast it all, I used the same boy?” He smacked his palm against his forehead. He’d never for a moment considered that both identities used the same messenger. What a stupid mistake. He probably deserved to be unmasked.

“And while there—do you realize you don’t lock your doors?”

He groaned. “So I’ve been told.”

She nodded. “At any rate, while waiting for the elusive artist, I stumbled upon a work in progress. A landscape, very nice, quite scenic, a clearing with a charming temple.”

“A temple?”

“With, of all things, a hat on the finial.” She paused for emphasis. “My hat.”

“Oh.” He considered her for a long moment. A tiny glimmer of hope flared within him. “So the night when you—”

“Seduced Toussaint? Seduced you?”

“You knew,” he said flatly.

“Um-hum.” A smug smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“But you didn’t let me know you knew.”

“Where would be the fun in that?”

“You let me believe you were seducing, were in fact, in love with, another man.” He glared indignantly. “How could you do that to me?”

“And you let me believe you were another man.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How could you do that to me?”

“I did it because ... because I wanted—”

“My inheritance? My fortune?”

“In the beginning, perhaps, but I also wanted you to want me. It was as much pride as greed.”

“And in the end?” Her gaze trapped his. “What was it in the end?”

“In the end?” He stared into her eyes, as blue and brilliant as any paint he could put to canvas. Simmering with emotions as strong as his own. “Love, Gillian, in the end it was love.”

An odd light shone in her eyes. “Do you love me, Richard?”

“Yes. Damn it all. I love you.” He glared with all the pent-up passion within him. “And that’s exactly why I can’t marry you.”

She frowned in confusion. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Of course it does.” He ran his hand through his hair and paced the room. “How can I marry you if you love someone else?”

“Even if that someone else is you?”

“Besides, if I marry you now, before your birthday, how will you ever know that I truly love you? That I’m not marrying you for your inheritance?”

“Then will you marry me after my birthday?” she said slowly.

He stopped and stared. “After your birthday will be too late.”

“Answer my question,” she said softly.

The moment stretched between them, taut and tense and thick.

“My Lady Gillian.” His gaze locked to hers. “I have nothing to offer you save my name, a manor house with a leaky roof, and a talent I can never publicly reveal, yet if you were to do me the great honor of becoming my wife the day after your birthday, I shall spend the rest of my days in an effort to make you happy.”

“Very well.” A slight catch sounded in her voice. “My Lord Shelbrooke, I shall be honored to become your wife the day after my birthday.”

“But what of your financial independence?” He was afraid to say the words. Afraid she’d change her mind. But he had to know. “What of helping artists like Emma?”

“They shall have to make due without me. I—? we—will continue with my salons. As for my independence,” her eyes glittered with emotion, “it’s a paltry price to pay to become the Countess of Shelbrooke.”

“Paltry? You are willing to forfeit six hundred thousand pounds, eight ships—”

“More or less.”

“And a great deal of land?”

“It’s in America.” She sniffed. “It’s probably little more than swamp. I should never see it anyway.”

“You’d give it all up? For me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Her eyes widened. “I would mink a man clever enough to come up with a method of being two men at once would be well able to determine that.”

“Say it.” He moved toward her.

“Why?” She raised her chin and stepped to meet him.

His heart raced. “Because I need to hear you say it.”

“Do you?” She was barely a heartbeat away from him.

“I do.”

“Very well, rich or poor, I don’t want to live my life without you. Not one more day, one more minute.” At once she was in his arms.
“Because I love you.”

Joy surged through him and his lips met hers, and he didn’t care about fortunes found or lost. Secrets kept or revealed. Only this woman for now and forever.

A knock sounded on the door, and it opened at once.

“Pardon me.” Jocelyn poked her head in.

Richard groaned, raised his head, and gazed into the wonderful blue eyes of the woman he loved.

“You do know, you get my family as well?”

Gillian laughed up at him. “And you join the Effingtons. Seems like a fair exchange.”

Jocelyn cleared her throat. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

Richard released Gillian but kept her close at his side. “Not if you had your ear to the door.”

“That’s neither here nor there.” Jocelyn stepped into the room without hesitation. “It seems to me, well to us, really—”

Gillian raised a brow. “Are you all listening at the door?”

“Of course not,” Jocelyn said indignantly. “Just Becky and I.”

“Hello, Richard.” Becky’s voice sounded from the doorway, but only her waving arm appeared.

“What do you want?” Richard glared.

Jocelyn glared right back. “As I was saying, it seems to us that if you love her, and you do, don’t you?...”

Richard rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then nodded in surrender.

“And she loves you ...” His sister glanced at Gillian.

“By
you
I gather you’re referring to Richard, the Earl of Shelbrooke, and not Richard known by some other name?” Gillian said innocently.

Richard’s eyes narrowed.

Jocelyn frowned in confusion. “I mean ... well,
Richard
.”