by Erica Ridley
“What was it?”
“Survival.” Ironic, since thievery was punishable by execution.
Those farthings and halfpennies kept the pangs of hunger at bay not just for her and Tommy but for several other children in the orphanage with protruding ribs and empty bellies. How she’d dreamed of one day becoming a lady of quality with a reticule full of gold! The first thing she’d buy with her riches was a meat pie for every hungry mouth.
“It was so little,” she said. “But I did it anyway. It was the best I could do.”
“I imagine it was everything,” he replied. “You see yourself as powerless, but you were powerful. Then and now.”
“Invisible,” she corrected. “You have a storied family, and roots.”
“I may be a tree, but you’re the wind. Strong enough to shake the dead leaves from my branches, to carry pollen to the spring flowers. Air is invisible but essential.” He met her eyes. “Without air, I can’t breathe.”
Chloe swallowed hard. She could think of nothing to say in response to such a statement. Her heart was beating so fast, it felt like a single roll of thunder rather than separate beats. Perhaps it wasn’t thunder at all but the rumble of an earthquake before the volcano erupted, changing the world around it forever.
She’d felt like that once before. Twenty years ago next summer.
“Do you know how I met Bean? He drove past the orphanage in a flashy racing phaeton, looking smart and rich and fashionable. Everybody looked at him. It was impossible not to.” She wiggled her brows. “Then he tied the carriage outside St. Giles’s church and disappeared inside like a proper fool.”
Lawrence groaned. “Please tell me you did not steal his phaeton.”
“Of course I did.” She straightened her spine with mock indignation. “Who abandons a racing carriage in a rookery?”
He covered his face with his hand. “How old were you? Could you drive?”
“Ten, and I’d never led horses in my life. Or even been inside of a carriage, as far as I knew. It took three tries to climb up into that phaeton. Its wheels were as tall as I was. The high perch felt like sitting on a throne on top of the world. I was dying to take it for a ride. The reins were still tied to a post, so I slipped back down to grab them. Before I could, Bean’s hand trapped my wrist like a vise.”
Lawrence’s face blanched. “Did the baron threaten you with the magistrate?”
“The opposite. He drove me to the Puss & Goose and bought me a hot meal so ample, I couldn’t finish it. And then he gave me this.” The sovereign flashed between her fingers. “He told me to spend it on whatever I wanted, and when I needed another, just to ask.”
“You didn’t spend it?”
Her lungs caught in remembrance. “I couldn’t. It was the first time I’d held a coin I hadn’t had to steal first. The first time I possessed money of my own, free and clear.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.” She laughed and made the coin vanish. “I slid the coin into a hidden bag here, next to my heart.” She tapped her chest. “I saw Bean again the following week outside the church. This time with a coach and a driver.”
“Did he ask you what you did with the coin?”
“I expected him to, but he did not. Later he told me that was because it was now my money, not his, and he no longer had any business in the matter.” Her throat pricked with heat. “He was always saying things like that. Treating us like people, letting us be in control of our own lives.”
“Did he give you another coin?”
She shook her head. “He made me an offer. He said he had always wanted to be a father. His house was as big as a castle, full of silence and empty rooms. If I thought being a pretend daughter might suit me, I was welcome to pick any room I wished and make it my own. There would be fresh food and hot baths and clean clothes to wear. I’d have pin money that would be mine alone, no questions asked. And if I found I didn’t like it, I was free to leave.”
“It must have sounded like heaven,” Lawrence admitted. “No wonder you said yes.”
She stared at him. “I did not say yes. I would be the first child he fostered. It all sounded too good to be true. Possibly sordid.”
“Then…how…?” he stammered.
“I did not fully trust Bean, but I knew the orphanage was horrid. I would have starved if I hadn’t picked pockets, and there were others who faced fates worse than that. Sometimes risk is the only path to reward. If Bean was a good man—or at least better than the orphanage—my best friend deserved the same opportunity.” A half smile curved her lips at the memory, and her throat grew thick. “The next time I saw him, I said, ‘Only if Tommy comes with me.’”
29
Lawrence gazed at Chloe and imagined her as a little girl whose love for a friend was so strong, she’d rather starve together than live a life of comfort without her.
There was no need to imagine. Chloe was still that woman today.
All of the Wynchesters had mettle.
Lawrence did not know the story of how they’d all found each other, but he had no doubt “Not without Tommy” had led to “Not without Jacob” and then to “Not without Marjorie” and so on, the bond becoming even more unbreakable with every new link in the chain.
Their love was too big to fit in a single heart. They had no choice but to share it with each other.
“You seem happy here,” he said. “All of your siblings do.”
And why not? They had a large, beautiful house with a large, beautiful garden. Staff, several carriages, apparently a menagerie of carnivorous beasts…
“We’re very happy.” Her joy lit her face. “I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.”
Or for anyone. Like him. He could scarcely blame her. If he’d been a Wynchester instead of a duke, he’d rather live happy and free than titled and constrained.
A union with Lawrence would be the opposite of comfortable. He could not afford to wed a bride who was anything short of fantastically wealthy—not without their home crumbling down about their children’s ears.
He needed things Chloe could not provide, and she needed a man he couldn’t be. No matter how much he might wish to. A wise man would walk away before both of their hearts broke.
Yet all Lawrence wanted was to stay. To belong to Chloe, and for her to belong to him. To have these idyllic moments be his real life, not a temporary reprieve from harsh reality. To not have his duties be so in conflict with his heart.
“Chloe says you want to paint.”
He jerked up his head to see the smallest Wynchester hovering just outside the doorway. Marjorie’s wisp of a frame was in shadow, but her green eyes were luminous. For such a slight woman, her voice was impressively loud.
“Er…” he replied.
She didn’t blink. “I made you a studio. It’s on the left, next to mine. You can use anything you find there.”
Her pronouncement made, she vanished from the corridor before Lawrence could compose some way to decline gracefully.
“I don’t paint.” His hands felt strangely clammy. “I’ve never held a brush or stretched a canvas. I don’t know how. Why would she…?”
Chloe looked at him quizzically. “Because that’s what Wynchesters do. Well, once they’ve decided to keep someone.”
His mouth went dry. “What did you say?”
“Marjorie wants to make you an honorary Wynchester.”
His chest tightened with fierce yearning.
“One can become an honorary Wynchester?” he stammered.
Her eyes laughed at him. “We’re all honorary Wynchesters. But don’t get your hopes up. Marjorie might have forgiven you, but it won’t be easy to win the others’ trust.”
Fair enough. Lawrence nodded his understanding. After how he had treated the family, he deserved to be mistrusted. All he could do now was prove what kind of man he intended to be.
Chloe pushed to her feet. “Shall we?”
He didn’t move. Nervousness crawl
ed along his skin. “Shall we visit the art studio your sister made for the duke she wants to adopt like a stray puppy?”
She patted his shoulder. “You do such a marvelous job rephrasing things that I’ve either just said or already know about.”
His face flushed. “It’s a nervous habit. I summarize facts whenever I don’t know what to say. Like now, for instance.”
She looked hurt. “Marjorie and I won’t judge you. We’re not Almack’s or Parliament. You can go in alone if you like and toss every one of your creations into a fire before you leave.”
Could he? Would he?
Art had always been the great “if.” If he hadn’t been heir to a dukedom, he’d have been a painter. If the family fortune were intact, painting would be his first hobby.
But if he tried and failed, he would have no dreams left.
“I have something for you as well,” Chloe said, then hesitated. “I wasn’t certain when I should give it to you, or whether I even would. But perhaps now is the time.”
“Is it a python?” he said hopefully. “I’ve heard those can swallow men whole.”
“It is not a python.” She produced a small rectangle of paper seemingly from midair. “It’s a calling card.”
He took it in both hands. The text contained only two words: “Jack Smith.”
He tried to make sense of it. “Who is Jack Smith?”
“You are, if it makes it better.”
Something in her eyes indicated she understood his reluctance as well as he did. Both he and Chloe longed to be recognized and appreciated for who they were, not for what they portrayed themselves to be.
“Things are always less complicated for Jane Brown than they are for Chloe Wynchester,” she continued. “If it all goes horribly awry, I tuck her back into my basket as though the incident never occurred. After all, it wasn’t I who embarrassed myself horribly. It was Jane Brown, who cannot hurt me because she doesn’t exist.” She bit her lip. “Sometimes being someone else is the easiest way to be yourself.”
He gazed at the card in his hands. He supposed Jack Smith would have no problem exposing himself as a talentless fool in front of the woman he most wished to impress.
But then again, neither should Lawrence Gosling, eighth Duke of Faircliffe. He might have been raised to be anxious and lonely and overthink himself into knots, but he was not a coward.
He slid the card into his waistcoat pocket. “All right. But I’ll go as Lawrence.”
“Would you like me to join you as your muse and model?” She gave him a saucy wink. “Perhaps the inspiration for a lewd portrait?”
She wasn’t serious…was she? This idea sounded better by the second.
He ran behind her up the stairs to the third floor, where Chloe led him to a small room on the left. He stared in wonder.
Generous windows with curtains tied open filled the well-appointed interior with sunlight. Five easels with stretched canvases stood at inviting angles. There were tables with paints and rags and turpentine, an artfully arranged collection of objects to serve as the subject of a still life, and a plush green chaise longue, empty but for its cushions.
Chloe sat in the center and affected an artful pose. “Perfect for a very serious portrait of a very serious woman. Should I hold a bouquet of flowers? Or perhaps the loaf of bread?”
Lawrence felt giddy, as though he were up in this attic as his childhood self and had just received more than he had ever hoped for on his birthday. This studio was every bit the equal of professional studios used by portrait artists—and Marjorie had prepared it as a gift for him.
He had no way to repay her other than to enjoy every moment.
“I’ll start by attempting to paint a still life,” he decided, and turned to the blank canvas.
He hadn’t the least idea how to mix paints, but Marjorie had already done so for him. There were half a dozen colors in little jars on a long table, next to a collection of palettes and a wide variety of brushes.
He chose a brush at random, then a palette, then yellow as his first color. Marjorie had placed a ceramic jug in the center of the scene. Lawrence would start there.
Chloe leaned back on the chaise longue to watch.
Over the next hour he dragged all five easels over to the arrangement for the still life to capture some semblance of what he saw. None of his efforts was recognizable as the artful display before him.
Yet he’d never had more fun in his life.
He scrubbed the paint from his fingers, then reached to pull Chloe into a kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, welcoming him, granting him another wish. Every bit of the joy bursting within him was her fault. She dragged him from where he was most comfortable and set him free, again and again. His first attempts were dreadful, but it didn’t matter as long as he was doing what he loved.
And he was doing what he loved. Standing here, kissing Chloe, holding her as though they would never need to part. The thought was unbearable. He loved her more than paint. More than his library. More than anything yet to be invented. He was not ready to let her go.
He might never be ready.
When he started to lead her toward the chaise longue, she placed her hand on his chest to stop him. Color came to her cheeks.
“Not here,” she murmured. “My siblings are all around us.”
“You’re right.” He glanced about appraisingly. “I need my own studio, posthaste.”
She grinned at him shyly. “You like your gift?”
“I adore my gift.” He ducked his head to give her another kiss. What he adored was Chloe. “Come home with me. There will be no siblings there.”
She wrapped her arms about his neck. “Oh? Then what might you have to entertain me?”
“A bed.” He let her see the passion in his eyes and hoped the love there didn’t shine through, too. She already held all of the power. “And perhaps something else you might like.”
She wiggled her brows and placed her hand in his. “Show me.”
30
Chloe and Lawrence stumbled through his bedchamber door in each other’s arms. The blue-and-gold room was dominated by a large canopy bed in the center. She couldn’t wait to make use of it. Now that her family had begun to accept him, there was no use hiding how much she desired him.
“I have an idea,” she told him.
“So do I.” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “Many, many naked ideas.”
“Then allow me to offer some motivation to go with them.” She flashed a gold guinea between her fingers, then placed it in his palm.
His brow lined in confusion. “What’s this?”
“Your second lesson.” She grinned at him. “Make it disappear, and you can make an item of my clothing disappear.”
He brightened. “This is my favorite lesson.”
“And if I steal it from you”—she kissed the tip of his nose, then revealed that the guinea was out of his palm and into her own—“I may remove an item of your clothing.”
“This is a very unfair game,” he scolded her. “I accept the terms.”
She unbuttoned his tailcoat and tossed it aside. His sleeves billowed out into a delicious state of undress. “Your turn.”
He placed the coin in the center of his palm and pressed it in deep. When he turned his hand upside down, the guinea remained hidden for the space of a breath, then tumbled to the floor.
“I’ll allow it,” she said magnanimously. “Just this once.”
“Shift,” he said without hesitation.
She smacked his chest. “I can’t take off my shift without first removing my gown and my stays.”
“Your rules,” he replied innocently. “I’m just playing by them.”
She had invented this game, and she would show him just how well she played it. Rather than remove her own clothing, she arched her brow. His cravat fell to the carpet.
His mouth dropped. “When did you remove— How could—”
“Pick again.” She ran a finger down the
front of his waistcoat and slipped the guinea inside the pocket. When she splayed her fingers across the muscled planes of his chest, she could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm.
“Gown,” he said, his voice a velvet purr. “Definitely gown.”
She turned around and let him untie the laces until the thin sarcenet slid from her shoulders and down to her ankles. Gooseflesh tickled lightly up her arms. He pressed light kisses to her nape, from the top of her spine down her bare skin, until he was stopped by the collar of her shift. Her breasts tightened, and her head lolled to one side in pleasure. Only when he lifted his lips did she step out of the pool of periwinkle twill.
“My turn.” She beckoned him closer to the canopy bed.
“It’s not your turn,” he protested. “I have the guinea. You put it in my pocket.”
“Did I?” She held up the gold coin. “Boots, please.”
He yanked off his Hessian boots at speed, then snatched the guinea from her hands. “My turn.”
As before, he placed the coin in the center of his palm with almost comical concentration, then gently, ever so carefully, turned his hand upside down.
The guinea clattered to the floor.
“Boots,” he commanded.
Before she could chide him for failing to properly conceal the coin—or bend over to remove her boots herself—Lawrence was on his knees between her legs, untying the laces himself.
Ostensibly untying the laces.
While his hands were making slow work of untying her half boots, his mouth pressed lazy, suggestive kisses through the thin linen of her shift to her bare hips and thighs beneath. Her pulse leapt as if to meet him there, at the place where his sinful mouth met her heated flesh. She gripped one of the canopy posts for balance. His onslaught of decadent kisses caused her eyes to flutter closed.
When at last he rose to his feet with his hand at chest level, she was too dazed with pleasure to understand the strange gesture he was making.
“Stays,” he said, his voice husky.
It was then that she realized he’d fumbled the guinea on purpose so that he would be the one to pick it up and have the advantage of two turns in a row.
