Page 11 of Real Earls Break the Rules

She froze. Dozens of gilt-framed portraits glared down at her in grim-faced silence. Judging by their costume, many generations hung on the cream-colored walls. Starched white neck ruffs, velvet doublets, and embroidered waistcoats embellished the paintings. Some stood beside hunting dogs, others were mounted on prized horseflesh, and others sat stiffly. The men’s expressions were similar—haughty and aristocratic.

Vale joined her side. “This is Rosehill’s portrait gallery. The Earls of Vale go back many generations. This one,” he said, pointing to the most recent portrait on the wall, “was my father.”

The man in the portrait had dark hair and green eyes similar to his son’s. He was handsome with bold, commanding features, yet somehow he was different from the Lord Vale standing beside her.

“Well? What do you think?”

“You have your father’s looks, but it’s difficult to tell a person’s true essence from a portrait. I’ve found that artists paint those that commission them in a more favorable light. For instance, your father looks serious…somber even.”

“You’re right. The artist may have captured his likeness, but ignored his personality. My father, the old earl, spent his time at his clubs and with his whiskey.”

“Truly? He looks rather respectable,” she said.

“He was a drunkard. The portrait appears the way it does because my grandmother instructed the artist.”

Amelia blinked at the harshness in his tone. It was clear he had strong feelings about his father. Most of them were not of a positive father-son relationship.

“Why did you bring me here? If you thought to inspire me to accept your offer to paint your portrait, then I’m afraid my position has not changed,” she said.

“I brought you here because I’m curious of your opinion. I already have my own thoughts about my father’s portrait, but what do you think of the others?”

He wanted her opinion? Amelia turned back to the paintings on the wall. “They all seem very earlish.”

“Earlish? They were all earls,” he said.

“What I mean to say is that they all have a similar feel—cold, haughty, and inapproachable.”

Vale frowned as he looked at the wall. “You’re right.”

She swung to him. “I’m not agreeing to paint you, but these portraits are boring and pompous, unlike you. That’s not how I see you or how I would paint you.”

He stilled. “Then you must.”

She sighed. “We’ve already discussed this. My answer is no. I won’t paint you or a copy of the Cuyp landscape.”

“Ah, but I didn’t offer the proper incentive last time.”

“Incentive?” He seemed very pleased with himself, and Amelia eyed him warily.

“I was foolish to offer monetary payment. You are Huntingdon’s sister-in-law. I know my friend well enough to understand that he will always ensure you and Chloe are cared for.” He clasped his hands behind his back, and a gleam lit his eyes. “I was away for a certain reason. To obtain something—something you want, rather than need.”

He’d traveled for her? Amelia’s curiosity was piqued. “I’m not certain there’s anything I—”

“Have you ever heard of Samuel Stirling?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Stirling from the Royal Academy? The master painter?”

He was not only an artistic genius, but Amelia had been enamored of his work for years. He’d experimented with pigments and often used cadmium, vermillion, and cinnabar to produce brilliant colors for his landscapes.

Vale took a step closer and nodded. “Yes, the painter and member of the Royal Academy.”

“What does he have to do with me?” She scanned the portraits on the wall. Most were too old to be his work. “Did he paint one of these? Your father’s?”

“No. Stirling is a longtime family friend. The dowager had commissioned one of his first works when he was a struggling artist and helped launch his career, and he feels indebted to the Vale family. He’s an incredibly busy artist, but when I described your talent he agreed to offer a series of instruction.”

Amelia’s heart was pounding so loudly in her chest that she was surprised Vale couldn’t hear it. “He agreed to instruct me?”

“You must paint my portrait. In exchange, the lessons are yours when you return to London,” Vale said.