It’s Marriage Or Ruin - Liz Tyner Mills & Boon Historical

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loved the scent of turpentine, no matter how unpleasant. It spoke of creation and love. She could not live without turpentine, aquamarine or burnt sienna.

      She sniffed. She sighed. Perhaps she was cursed.

      She would marry. She would discover a husband who would not notice if the money he’d allotted for clothing and jewellery was spent on the finer things, like easels or pigments.

      Catching a senseless male could not be difficult and she hadn’t noticed any unwilling to be led by a woman hinting at delights.

      Marriage would quiet all those titters her sisters made as they claimed Emilie was more suited to kiss her paintbrush than a husband.

      If she married, it would no longer matter how small her waist was or if she got a drop of burnt sienna—a drop so small as to be invisible—on the rug. A man surely wouldn’t notice if she received a briar scratch on her cheek from searching for perfect berries to examine their hues. Her mother had wanted to flog her—and goodness, the scratch faded away, but the drawing of the berries had been enlightening.

      Once she got the ring on her finger, she wouldn’t care what he did or where he went. Her goal was to be abandoned to her own ways. She knew she would have to survive kisses, but she would tolerate them, and knew she would have to do other things a wife should do, but she didn’t foresee that would take for ever. She would make sure it didn’t.

      Then she would devote herself to watercolours and oils.

      She must choose carefully.

      The trick was in locating a man who didn’t have the inclination to control his property. One who might leave his belongings lying about, so to speak, so his possessions could do as they were inclined.

      She would try hard to keep from overwhelming a nursery with children, but a little one would be dear to hold.

      Actually, she would be pleased to have several children, she realised. Le Brun reportedly had created the most beautiful self-portrait of herself with her daughter. It was said that the portrait reflected the love between the two of them.

      That would be a wonderful opportunity.

      Marriage could work, assuming it was not taken too seriously.

      Her husband must have money to buy all the paints she needed and an appearance to work well in oils.

      And handsome men didn’t dig beyond the surface. They had wandering attentions and admired beauty. After he had acquired her, an attractive man would tire of his wife. His eyes would flicker to the other women who fluttered near.

      She surmised the considerate thing to do would be to make certain he was a man who didn’t mind that he’d married a woman who had little use for him. If the things she’d overheard were true, it would be simple to locate such a man.

      She didn’t want a suitor who had a heart—she might break it. She didn’t want a suitor who might have motivations deeper than a bird flitting from one spot to the next.

      She examined her hand and decided a wedding ring would fit. Yes, she decided, she would accept a proposal. Now she had to decide on the date and the husband.

      A very unsuitable husband would be perfect.

       Chapter Three

      ‘Mama, Lady Cramson’s ball was divine last night and I am so anticipating Avondale’s birthday celebration.’ Emilie practised the words a dutiful daughter and a soon-to-be wife would speak. She was running out of occasions to get a proposal.

      ‘You’re attending? Of your own will? Another one? Are you considering marriage?’ She slanted her head back, studying Emilie.

      ‘Mother.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘I’m not intending to stay on the shelf. A betrothal might suit me better than I realised.’ She would get those paints back if it killed her. She had survived so far because she had been using her aunt’s paints in the night-time hours while her mother slept. And the lamplight was disastrous.

      Oils, however, those had to be mixed and she could not manage to get them by her mother when they returned home. Her mother was wise to Emilie’s ways.

      She grabbed Emilie by the shoulders and positioned them eye to eye. ‘You are not trying to trick me?’

      ‘I really should be married before the leaves turn their autumn shades.’

      ‘Emilie.’ Her mother frowned. ‘Perhaps you should go to Bath. The men of London society know you.’

      ‘They do.’ Emilie held her posture straight. ‘But they’re forgetful.’

      Her mother dropped her hands and turned to the candle on the table. She moved it away from the book, closer to a vase. ‘I have already written to your father about taking you to Bath in the autumn because the men there will be more unlikely to have heard tales of your awkward ways.’

      The words ran down Emilie’s spine like cold waste water from rinsing her brushes.

      Emilie squeezed her hands into fists. ‘You don’t anticipate a man will see me as attractive?’

      ‘Not the true you, Emilie. You must be giddy and flutter your eyes and act more ladylike. You must act demure.’

      ‘Of course, Mama. I love my new dress.’ She batted her eyes, then turned away.

      Emilie heard the clatter and turned back. Her mother was picking up the vase she’d knocked over. Fresh-cut roses lay on the table.

      ‘Not like that, Emilie.’ Her mother’s voice was soft. ‘You startled me.’

      ‘I am trying.’ Emilie briefly pressed her palm against her jaw and let her hand fall to her side as she examined her feet. ‘I have worn out a pair of slippers dancing, I’m sure.’

      Her mother turned to arrange the flowers in the vase. ‘Be aware, Emilie. Keep your mouth shut. Tuck your chin under. Do not discuss anything to do with sculpture. Keep your corset tight. Let him talk, while you admire his every word.’

      ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Emilie spoke softly and forced her chin high when she departed the room. How was one expected to learn how to bat one’s eyelashes? she wondered, shaking her head.

      She retired to her room, shut the door and, still holding the knob, stared at the new dress.

      The gown was lying on the bed.

      Walking forward, Emilie ran a delicate touch over the aquamarine silk enhanced by a second layer of even finer material flowing over it like a cloak of clear-spun sugar. She’d never owned a dress so feminine. So delicate. Exactly unlike her and exactly what she needed.

      After she married, she could use it to wipe her brushes with if she wanted. Well, perhaps not. She touched the silk again and pulled it to her. This was another woman’s masterpiece and she would guard it carefully and be thankful to have it.

      She held it closer to the window and repeated her needs to herself. Handsome to inspire creativity. Money to make sure he could live in town while she painted in the country. Someone who would forget all about her.

      A quick rap sounded on the door and it opened. Aunt Beatrice sauntered in, her emerald bracelet sliding on her wrist. ‘I’m curious about the new clothing your mother has bought for you.’ Her eyes widened when she saw the dress. ‘It reminds me of one I used to have. Please don’t spill oils on it.’

      ‘I won’t.’

      ‘Your mother has been asking me to talk some sense into you.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘That’s a first. She must really be desperate to get you married if she’s asking for my help.’

      Emilie shuddered. ‘You know how she is about seeing me well placed.’

      ‘Yes. I do. She is nothing like

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