The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,90
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 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?”
“You are, if it makes it better.”
Something in her eyes indicated she understood his reluctance as