Rutledge was tracing the lines of Adam’s arm as he reached up, his fingers hovering just over the canvas, careful not to touch the paint. He was completely silent, his expression giving nothing away. She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, Rutledge not speaking and Charlotte wrestling with uncertainty that she had done the right thing by showing him.

“It’s incredible,” Rutledge said.

Charlotte felt something warm blossom inside of her. She had done the right thing.

“It is,” she agreed. “In my opinion, Michelangelo’s work is second to none—”

“No, I mean this is incredible. What you’ve done. This painting.”

“It’s only a copy,” Charlotte said, shaking her head.

Rutledge was scowling fiercely. “It’s a glimpse of something most people will never have the chance to see.”

“Perhaps,” Charlotte allowed.

Rutledge held it up reverently.

“Keep it,” Charlotte said on impulse.

His head snapped around. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can. I’m giving it to you.” As much as Charlotte had initially doubted the wisdom of showing it to him, gifting him the painting came with a sense of certainty.

He was shaking his head. “I won’t—”

“Keep it to look at whenever you need to remind yourself that your ambitions and dreams are always yours. Return it to me when you return from Italy if you must.” Not that that would ever actually happen, because Charlotte couldn’t begin to imagine what she might be doing months or years from now that would still involve Flynn Rutledge. That thought was oddly dispiriting.

“Why would you do that for me?” he asked, and he was gazing at her with that familiar intensity that made Charlotte fear he was looking right through her. Butterflies were suddenly beating a frantic tattoo against the inside of her rib cage.

She turned away from him before she blurted something stupid that a boy from Aysgarth would never, ever say. Before she responded the way a besotted woman might.

She shrugged. “Because I can,” she said carelessly over her shoulder. “And because I am hopeful that we might complete this commission as friends, Mr. Rutledge.”

He didn’t answer, but she could feel his eyes following her every move.

Charlotte reached for her previously discarded scarf that still hung on her scaffold, suddenly anxious to escape the undercurrents of emotion that were threatening her composure and put a much-needed distance between them. “Thank you for the tea, Mr. Rutledge. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She cringed at the complete artlessness of that.

“Wait. Where are you going?” The words came out in a rush.

Anywhere that wasn’t here. “I don’t know. To get something to eat. I’m famished.”

“There’s a tavern on the south end of Warwick Lane. It serves a decent stew and a passable ale for a reasonable price.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”