35
Lawrence sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands.
Publicly standing up for Chloe had only made things worse. He’d hurt her, not helped her. It was the last thing he’d meant to do. He loved her, even if he couldn’t offer what they both wanted.
It had taken forever to realizeshewas the lucky one.
He’d been raised to believe everyone shared the same ambitions: an important name, an important title, a heritage, and entailed land. All those things were a privilege. Yet, if he could make any childhood wish come true, it would be to feel that he belonged, not just be another cold link in a dutiful chain of dukes. He’d wanted a large, boisterous, loving family.
A family like the Wynchesters.
He still wanted that, but there was one thing he yearned for even more. He wanted to belong to Chloe. To be worthy of her. He didn’t just want to prove to Chloe that her needs mattered. He wanted her to knowshemattered. That he loved her more than words could convey.
But what could he do about it?
His situation hadn’t changed, and he’d only made hers worse.
He thought back to that moment at Gunter’s—the moment that had changed everything. And then he remembered what had happened right before the conversation with the patronesses.
Southerby.
The earl had flabbergasted Lawrence with his easy admission of his flaws and complete lack of embarrassment. Southerby would rather try and fail—even try and fail and become an object of mockery—than never to try at all.
Could Lawrence do any less?
He rose to his feet. If he truly loved Chloe, then nothing else mattered. The best ducal reputation in the world meant nothing without her. She was everything. Come what may, they could face anything as long as they stood together.
But first he needed to talk to his servants. Lawrence’s life would not be the only one impacted by the decision he wanted to make.
He hurried from his bedchamber and called an impromptu meeting in the parlor, next to the hat trunk. He looked around at Hastings, his butler. Peggy and Dinah, the maids. Mrs. Root, his housekeeper. Jackson, his footman. Mrs. Elkins, the cook. Lawrence had come to think of them less like servants and more like family.
“How is your niece’s baby?” Mrs. Elkins asked Mrs. Root.
Mrs. Root’s eyes shone. “Betsy and little Kenneth are hale and hearty. You should see the darling little scrunched-up faces he makes. His father is absolutely in love.” She turned to Lawrence. “When do you intend to start your family, Your Grace?”
He cleared his throat. “That is actually why I’ve summoned you all to this meeting. I would like to ask for Chloe Wynchester’s hand in marriage.”
Dinah blinked. “Shouldn’t you be saying this to Miss Wynchester?”
Lawrence met each of their eyes. “She has no dowry.” The words tumbled from his lips like lead weights. “If we wed, I will not be able to afford this town house. I don’t know how long I will be able to afford to pay you. Perhaps only a month or two. I will of course be writing effusive letters of recommendation.” He paused. “Or…I can resume my hunt for an heiress.”
Hastings reared back in surprise. “Give up Miss Wynchester, Your Grace?”
“And your chance at love?” Mrs. Root echoed, appalled. “Didn’t you hear anything I’ve been saying about the meaning of family?”
“Mrs. Root and I have watched over you for decades,” Hastings said, “waiting for the moment you would finally find happiness.”
Mrs. Elkins’s eyes were kind. “There are thousands of kitchens, Your Grace. But there is only one Miss Wynchester. Finding a new position will be well worth it, if it means you’re finally happy and loved.”
Peggy and Dinah nodded.
“What are you still doing here?” Jackson said gruffly. “Don’t you have a lady’s heart to win?”
“Thank you.” Lawrence’s throat was so thick, the words were barely intelligible. “I’ll…I’ll do whatever it takes to keep all of you close for as long as I can.”
Swiftly, he strode to his study. At his escritoire he withdrew ink, parchment, wax. He would not force himself back into Chloe’s life, but he would do his best to show her how much he needed her in his.
His plume scratched across the foolscap in fits and starts as he contemplated each word and phrase. If it took a hundred crumpled drafts to get there, so be it. He had one chance to get this right. To prove how much she meant to him, without a shadow of a doubt.
