“I see.” Gillian smiled sweetly. “Yes, I do love him.”
Jocelyn’s expression brightened. “Excellent. Then if you love each other, why on earth would you forfeit her fortune?”
“Why indeed.” Gillian grinned.
“Isn’t it enough to know that you’re both willing to do so?” Jocelyn’s voice was eager. “I simply can’t see why we—or rather you—should live the rest of our lives—I mean your lives—in poverty—”
“It was never poverty,” Richard muttered.
“But it wasn’t a great deal of fun either,” Gillian said pointedly.
“—when you have a rather exciting fortune yours for the taking.”
“In point of fact, Jocelyn, I don’t see why either.” Gillian tilted her head and studied Richard. “I want you, regardless of whatever you wish to call yourself, for the rest of my life. If I’m forced to choose between you and the legacy, I’ll gladly give it all up and spend my days handing you nails on the top of your blasted roof.
“But I think it would be much more enjoyable to spend our lives together with servants to take care of such chores. And funding to assist women with talent like Emma. And decent dowries to help your sisters find men who will hopefully show a bit more intelligence when it comes to such matters as this than their brother has.”
Jocelyn giggled. “Nicely done, Gillian.”
“You may take your leave now.” Richard’s words were directed toward his sister, but his gaze remained locked on Gillian.
Jocelyn grinned and stepped toward the door.
She started out, then turned and leaned toward Gillian. “We all think it’s terribly romantic, you know. Both of you willing to give up everything for love. We never imagined Richard, he’s always been so practical, and—”
“Get out!” he bellowed.
Jocelyn scurried out and closed the door behind her.
“Would you really give it all up?” he said quietly.
“I said it once. I will be the wife of the penniless but honorable Earl of Shelbrooke or the wife of the promising but rather penniless as well Etienne-Louis Toussaint. All I truly want is to be the wife of Richard Shelton. Whether he is wealthy or poor.”
“Why?”
“I said it once as well.”
“Say it again.”
“Because he’s the man I love.”
“Is he?” He pulled her into his arms, still not quite able to believe it himself.
“Yes.” She gazed up at him. “He is.”
“You know this changes nothing. I am still not especially fond of your ridiculous idea to assist female artists.”
“I also know you promised to make me happy.” She grinned with a triumphant gleam in her eye.
“So I did.” He chuckled. “You are a wicked woman, my lady.”
“And you, my lord, are a very wicked man.” She brushed her lips across his. “We sound well matched to me.”
“Well, I was at the top of your list.” He studied her for a moment.
Once more the ironic twists his life had taken struck him. He’d thought women had no place in art, yet the talent that flowed in his veins came from the blood of a woman. He’d agreed to Gillian’s proposal out of a need for wealth, yet money was no longer important at all. His pride had ruled his actions in the beginning, yet love was all that mattered in the end.
“I’m still a bit confused about one thing.”
“I do so love it when you’re confused,” she said with a laugh.
“The other evening at my studio,” he said slowly.
“When you believed I thought you were Toussaint?”
“Yes, well, whatever.” He chose his words cautiously. “I have never quite been, that is I was somewhat surprised, what I mean to say ...”
She raised a brow. “You didn’t think I was capable of such a seduction?”
“I didn’t know anyone was capable of such a seduction,” he said with an odd sense of gratitude and awe.
“You enjoyed it then?” She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Oh,” he nodded, “you could say that.”
“I think I can do better, though.” She pulled his mouth down to hers. “All I need is a little hard work and quite a bit of practice.”
“I did promise to make you happy.”
His lips met hers and he knew this was just the beginning of a lifetime of happiness that had little to do with six hundred thousand pounds, eight ships, more or less, and a great deal of land in America. And marveled at the realization that an emotion that was never part of their agreement was in truth a far greater fortune than mere wealth, and he looked forward with hope and joy to the rest of his days with this woman by his side.
And looked forward as well to a little hard work and a great deal of practice.
Four months
later
. . .
“Rather impressive, don’t you think?” Lady Forester glanced around the elegant ballroom in the new London home of the newly wed Earl and Countess of Shelbrooke. “And quite a crush as well.”
“It’s their first ball, you know. Anyone who matters is here, even at this time of year.” The lady beside her nodded. “I saw the Duke and Duchess of Roxborough earlier, and any number of Effingtons are in attendance. I heard even the Dowager Duchess is here, and you know she never comes into town.”
“It certainly is a far cry from Lady Shelbrooke’s salons,” Lady Forester murmured. Oh, the lady still gave them, but not as frequently as she had before her marriage. She was apparently far too caught up in arranging for some sort of foundling home for female artists. Lord knows, Lady Forester could well understand the desire to support struggling artists—but women? What was the point of that? And where was the fun in it?
“Did you see her portrait?” the woman said with a note of awe in her voice. “It was painted by that Frenchman. Too-something. It makes her look so ... so...”
“Perfect. No doubt why Toussaint continues to be in great demand.” The portrait hung here in the ballroom, the centerpiece of Lady Shelbrooke’s extensive collection of art.
“I understand there’s another painting he did of her that’s really rather scandalous.”
“So I’ve heard,” Lady Forester said under her breath.
The lady beside her raised a brow. “Have you made the artist’s acquaintance?”
“No,” she sighed. “And I doubt I shall have the honor.” According to the latest bit of gossip, Etienne-Louis Toussaint was abandoning his rakish ways in favor of fidelity to, of all things, a wife. Pity. She’d never had the opportunity to learn for herself if everything she’d heard about him was true, if he or indeed any man could live up to his reputation.
Lady Forester’s gaze drifted across the well-appointed room with its equally well-appointed guests. Musicians played from a balcony overlooking the gathering. A full complement of servants wearing the white mask, tricorn hat, and cloak of Venetian dominos flitted discreetly among the crowd. Lady Forester wasn’t sure if she was annoyed by the blatant theft of her idea or flattered.
She spotted the countess, and her gaze lingered thoughtfully. Lady Shelbrooke laughed in response to some comment. It seemed Lady Shelbrooke often laughed these days or smiled a private sort of smile. She carried an air of contentment about her that was altogether too, well, radiant to be proper. An odd twinge of what might have been jealousy stabbed Lady Forester, if indeed she was envious of such things as trite as happiness and true love.
“Lady Shelbrooke looks exceptionally lovely tonight,” the other woman said. “Marriage seems to agree with her.”
“Doesn’t it, though?”
A warm flush colored the new countess’s cheeks, and her eyes glowed with a brilliance that could never be feigned. She appeared almost as ethereal as the portrait that hung in a place of honor.
“How does one achieve that, I wonder?” Lady Forester said more to herself than anyone else.
“How? Why, my dear Lady Forester.” The Earl of Shelbrooke stepped up beside her, a glass of champagne in one hand. He sipped thoughtfully, directing his words to her, but his gaze fixed on his countess. “No doubt Lady Shelbrooke would be more than willing to share her secret with you. You have always been fond of secrets, have you not?”
“Indeed I have,” She laughed and glanced up at him. She could certainly see how he’d captured the heart of the lovely widow. Once more, envy shot through her. “And do you know the secret, my lord?”
He sipped his champagne thoughtfully. “There really isn’t all that much to it. First, you have to decide precisely what you want. Then there’s nothing more to do but simply, in the case of my wife at least”—a slow smile spread across his face— “make yourself a list.”
“A list?”
“Indeed.” He smiled the smile of a man well satisfied by life and love.
“A husband list.”