her regard felt strangely intimate and far too perceptive.
“As soon as the painting is hung,” Mrs. York chirped, “we shall all remove to the dining room for a nice, leisurely tea.”
Good God, anything but that. Besides his distaste for tea, Lawrence could not court anyone properly while dodging the unsettling gaze of the woman with the pretty brown eyes. Even now, he was thinking of her instead of concentrating on Miss York. It would not do. Once the painting was hung, Lawrence would bolt out the door and into the sanctity of his carriage.
His driver had better be ready to fly.
Chapter 3
Chloe folded her hands in her lap and did her best not to glare a hole right through the handsome, haughty Duke of Faircliffe.
All of this would have been much easier if Faircliffe would simply return the painting. But addressing His Arrogance directly did not work. Chloe and her siblings had pleaded for months, in countless letters sent to his home and dozens of humiliating attempts in person.
His Infuriating Loftiness was far too superior to see reason…or commoners like the Wynchester siblings.
His frigid blue gaze looked right at Chloe—and slid away just as quickly, having glimpsed nothing to attract his interest.
How many times had she and Faircliffe crossed paths? Hyde Park, Berkeley Square, Westminster. Every disdainful glance in her direction was as indifferent as the last. She lifted her chin. Bean had taught her that, to the right person, she would be visible and memorable. Faircliffe was clearly the wrong person.
Not that she wanted him to notice her, Chloe reminded herself. The continued success of “Jane Brown” hinged on her uncanny ability to be wholly unremarkable under any circumstances. She gripped the soft muslin of her skirt. Tommy might be an unparalleled genius with disguises, but Chloe needn’t do anything at all to blend in and be forgettable.
She possessed one of those faces that was at once familiar yet too ordinary to pick out from a crowd. She was neither tall nor short, ugly nor pretty. Nothing about her stood out.
Her skin wasn’t palest alabaster like Philippa York’s or golden bronze like her brother Graham’s. She was not thin and willowy like Tommy or pleasingly plump like Elizabeth. Her limp brown hair wasn’t spun flax like Marjorie’s, or blessed with glossy black curls like Jacob’s. Chloe was neutral and dull, with nary even a freckle to add a spot of interest.
She was just…there, like a dust mote in a shaft of light.
Her perpetual insignificance had helped her through scrape after scrape. Chloe would never admit how much she wished, just once, to see a flicker of recognition reflected back at her.
Not that her expectations of Faircliffe were high. What type of conceited, coldhearted knave blithely gave away a painting he did not own as a courtship gift?
A villain like that could not be trusted or reasoned with. He’d had his chance to deal honorably. Chloe wouldn’t beg him for the painting even if she could. At this point, the duplicitous, arrogant blackguard deserved to have it whisked out of his hands.
She forced her tense fingers to unclench and folded them in her lap. Soon.
“Thank you ever so much for your charming gift,” Mrs. York cooed loud enough for the entire party to hear, and likely the neighbors as well. “Philippa is overjoyed.”
Philippa did not appear to be overjoyed. Or even middling-level joyful. She bore the same I am here because I must be expression she wore at every social function, save the brief occasions when her mother left her side and the reading circle could actually talk about books. Chloe imagined her far more interested in the duke’s famed library than in the man himself.
Not that Faircliffe seemed particularly infatuated. A man in love would have dreamed up a gift better suited to his bride.
“My gratitude,” Philippa murmured.
The duke looked self-congratulatory. “My pleasure.”
Chloe glared at him on behalf of women everywhere who longed for more than token gestures of false affection.
But Faircliffe’s kind didn’t waste time on matters of the heart. Lords and ladies—or those who aspired to become them—selected their unions with cold practicality. Their minds were muddied not with emotion but with visions of titles and dowries and estates and social connections.
Chloe was delighted not to belong to a world like that.
Mrs. York clapped her hands together. “And now…a celebratory tea!”
The duke’s face displayed a comical look of alarm. “I don’t think—”
“You must join us!” Mrs. York’s hands flapped like frightened birds. “The ladies were about to