“It looks good,” he said as evenly as he could. He replaced the bandage and rewrapped it to keep the stitches from catching on her shirt, casting about for a topic of conversation that would distract him from the feel of her body beneath his hands. “Why this commission?” he asked as he finished, stepping away from Charlotte and all the temptation that she was.

“I beg your pardon?” She straightened her shirt and began to tug the laces tighter.

“Why did you come here? Why not take something in London? Something that might gain you more recognition?” He had thrown out the original question without much thought, but now he found himself waiting intently for her answer.

She finished with the ties. “Recognition,” she repeated with a slight scoff. “Recognition for whom? Charlie Beaumont?”

“There are women who are successful artists, you know,” he said with a slight frown. “Clare Wheatley Pope, for one. She’s a very accomplished miniaturist. She’s even taught members of the aristocracy. And Maria Cosway has painted—”

“And would the clergy and directors of St. Michael’s have consented to having either of those two women on this commission?” Charlotte asked.

Flynn’s frown deepened. “Probably not,” he admitted.

Charlotte turned in her chair to gaze up at him. “I don’t want to paint miniatures. I don’t want to teach the aristocracy how to execute watercolor renditions of damask roses. I want…” She trailed off.

“What?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“I want to create something that is greater than myself. Greater than all of us. I want to leave something behind for those to come. Something that has the power to elicit inspiration and contemplation that will endure the test of time.” She paused, her eyes sliding to the panels behind him. “I’ve spent a great deal of time copying the works of others, and it has taught me everything I know. But now, I want to write my own story.”

“Which is what?” Flynn’s throat had gone dry at the passion and the fire in her eyes.

“Redemption. Reinvention. And this commission is both of those things.” Her gaze came back to his. “Tell me what this commission is to you.”

“Reinvention. Redemption.” He hadn’t understood that until this very moment. And without Charlotte Beaumont, he wasn’t sure he ever would have.

He saw her raise a brow.

“I’ve spent too long chasing the wrong things.”

“Like what?”

“The chance to exhibit my work on the walls of the Royal Academy.”

“Any number of artists have realized substantial success from that sort of exposure. Portraitists in particular.” A furrow had appeared in her forehead. “There is nothing wrong with wanting that, especially when your work deserves a place on those walls.”

“Not if it requires me to be a version of myself I no longer recognize. Not if it requires me to be something I’m not.”