The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,97

and everything. Chloe didn’t just incite his passions; she made him think. Nothing could be more attractive.

One of the waiters jogged up to Lawrence to take his order, then sprinted off to the next customer.

It was the Earl of Southerby, who had not hidden his interest in Chloe.

Lawrence clenched his jaw.

The earl grinned at him. “Couldn’t help but notice your fascination with artwork at that soirée the other night. What is it the Yorks have? A Van Eyes?”

“Van Eyck,” Lawrence corrected. “And no. It was a van der Weyden.”

Southerby gave a snort of jovial self-deprecation. “It could have been a van der Prinny Himself and I wouldn’t have known any better. How do you keep it straight?”

“I visit exhibitions,” Lawrence said. “They have helpful little plaques next to each work of art.”

“Do they?” The earl chuckled. “I’ve a wretched eye for art. Are you a practitioner?”

“No,” Lawrence replied in haste. But that was only part of the truth. “Not until recently.”

Southerby made a face. “I’m horrid at art. Once, on a whim, I hired an art tutor.” He gave a conspiratorial grin. “I’ve never laughed harder in all my life than at the mess I made with paints. Of course, that was nothing compared to the time I fell through the ice at the Thames Frost Fair. What did I know? It was my first time ice-skating.”

Lawrence stared at him in consternation.

Could it really be that easy? To do whatever one was driven to do, even if you ended up hurt or embarrassed? To let your worst failures one day be an amusing anecdote?

Or was that Southerby’s privilege as a wealthy, titled rake? Unlike Lawrence, the raffish earl didn’t need society’s approval. His coin and his charm made up for any shortcomings.

“God save me.” Southerby shot a nervous look over Lawrence’s shoulder. “Here come two patronesses and the Overton woman. She’s determined I should fall in love with her daughter. Or at least the chit’s dowry. Run while you still can.”

Lawrence couldn’t run. He needed to land an amenable heiress. When one’s pockets were empty, one’s social status was the most valuable currency to have.

The earl darted off before they arrived.

“Why, Your Grace,” cooed Mrs. Overton. “What flavor are you dying to taste?”

Chloe Wynchester’s quim was the wrong answer, so Lawrence replied, “Burnt filbert, Mrs. Overton. And you?”

“Maple,” replied Mrs. Overton. She nudged her child forward. “My daughter prefers pistachio.”

Miss Overton was no doubt a fine young lady, but Lawrence was nearly twice her age and very much not interested. He was also, however, not in a position to lose favor with the powerful patronesses. Almack’s was known as a marriage mart for a reason. He could save his dukedom if they helped him make the right match.

Lady Castlereagh’s lips pursed.

Mrs. Overton followed her distant gaze, then yanked her offspring closer to her side.

“What is it?” asked her daughter.

“Wynchesters,” said Lady Jersey with scorn. “In a barouche.”

He tensed as the sound of carriage wheels rolled behind him.

“Don’t worry,” Lady Castlereagh assured him, misreading his discomfort. “Those creatures won’t come over here. They wouldn’t dare.”

Lawrence’s hackles rose. To the haughty patronesses, even a casual interaction with a family as unconventional as Chloe’s was enough to damage one’s reputation. A penniless duke in want of a large dowry was obliged to care very much about the consequences of his actions.

Lawrence’s primary concern, however, was how the onlookers would treat the Wynchesters.

The barouche halted at the corner of the square nearest Gunter’s pineapple sign. First out of the carriage was Elizabeth, who stepped to one side and leaned on a splendidly crafted cane—presumably hiding a lethal blade—as a footman reached up to help the next passenger.

This was a slender, pretty young lady Lawrence had never seen before in his life…until he realized it was Tommy in a debutante-pastel gown and a wig of golden ringlets.

Last came Chloe, her cheeks flushed and her hair perfectly curled and her delectable body clothed in the sapphire walking dress Lawrence had given her that morning. His heart thumped. He could stare at her for hours, days, a lifetime. She was a vision far more beautiful than any painting.

The Wynchesters had not yet spied him standing across the street in the shade with some of the most powerful women in London. Instead, they nipped into Gunter’s Tea Shop with bright chatter and happy faces.

“Wretched how they gad about as though they were the baron’s heirs,” said Lady Jersey.

Lady Castlereagh shuddered. “My husband’s solicitor had it from a colleague