The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,82
mistakes by cutting himself off from the “undesirable element” in the name of protecting his reputation. In doing so, he had behaved just as reprehensibly as his father.
The Wynchesters would not have had to resort to trickery if Lawrence had been willing to listen.
He was listening now. Despite his and Chloe’s inauspicious beginning, despite all of his prejudices and arrogant assumptions, she had come to be as essential as art. Whenever they were apart, he longed for the moment he would see her face again.
If his heart was now in the hands of someone who didn’t want it, well, that was his own bloody fault. He had dreamed of a family like the Wynchesters. Of course they would rally together and defend each other from all evils. Starting with the actions of Faircliffe dukes.
It was time to take responsibility for his past actions and forge a better future.
Lawrence cleared his throat. “I apologize for my father’s shameful behavior. And for my own. I should not have ignored your attempts at outreach. As much as I would like to say I didn’t register my failures to acknowledge you publicly, the truth is I did so on purpose. I did think myself above you, and I did instruct my household to reject any calls or correspondence, based solely on your name and status. I was wrong. I am sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
The Wynchesters exchanged meaningful glances.
“To be honest,” Jacob said, “we wouldn’t expect a duke not to act superior.”
Elizabeth patted her cane.
Lawrence remembered there was a knife hidden inside.
“I’m glad you disappointed yourself, and you deserve to feel that way,” Elizabeth said. “I am pleased you’ve realized your mistakes.”
“More than realizations,” he said. “I’ve changed, hopefully for the better. I hope you can give me a chance to prove my remorse is real.”
Graham sent a sideways glance toward Chloe. “I assume we’d be tarred and feathered if we did not.”
Chloe’s cheeks flushed pink, but she held her brother’s eyes.
“Consider this your good-faith second chance.” Jacob’s dark gaze pinned Lawrence. “Don’t make a hash of it.”
Lawrence coughed. “I’ll try my best.”
He could not stifle a thrill at the idea of having an opportunity to be near a family like this. To be close to Chloe. To have a second chance with her.
“Oh, good.” Great-Aunt Wynchester rubbed her hands together as a pair of footmen carried heavy silver trays into the dining room. “Tea at last.”
Lawrence’s stomach turned at the prospect. At this point he would have to gag some down out of politeness. He hoped there was an extra tureen or two of sugar to make it more palatable.
The footmen set the trays in the center of the table. One was piled high with meat pasties. The other bore a jug of lemonade, a carafe of coffee, and what looked like a decanter of fine port.
Neither tray held a teapot.
He swung his startled gaze toward Chloe.
She batted her eyelashes at him innocently. “Don’t follow the rules. Create them.”
“That’s the Wynchester way,” Elizabeth agreed, and reached for the port.
“I begin to think you might all be secretly related after all,” Lawrence grumbled, but he helped himself to lemonade.
“We wouldn’t keep it a secret,” Jacob assured him.
“We keep other secrets,” Great-Aunt Wynchester agreed.
Her nieces and nephews tried to hide their chuckles.
Lawrence cast a suspicious gaze about the table. “No…”
They were not nieces and nephews. They were orphans of disparate parentage. Which meant none of them was related to the old woman seated across from him.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you even a Wynchester?”
“I told you he would start to suspect,” Chloe crowed.
“He got partway there,” Graham admitted grudgingly.
Jacob waved a hand. “Go on, Tommy. Help him out.”
Who was Tommy? Lawrence glanced over his shoulders, but no other siblings had entered the room.
“Oh, all right.” Great-Aunt Wynchester set down her meat pasty with an aggrieved sigh, reached her liver-spotted hands up to her thin white hair…and pulled it off her head.
Lawrence dropped his fork with a clatter. “What in the…”
She ran her fingers through a shock of short brown hair, then pulled a stoppered glass bottle from her reticule. After dousing her serviette with some sort of fragrant oil, she swiped the wet cloth down one side of her face.
The age spots and wrinkles smudged onto the linen.
“You’re…not…” His voice failed him.
Great-Aunt Wynchester added more drops of oil from her vial and proceeded to erase every trace of age from her face, neck, and hands.