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 crawled 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?”
“Youare, 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’tIwho 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?”
