“I really paint. And I work at it like the devil,” she said frankly. “I’d like to paint your portrait, in profile I think. Yes, that would be best.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes, unconsciously chewing on her lower lip. “Do you think that you could possibly sit for me? A portrait takes a long time, about six weeks, but I wouldn’t need you every day. I work from about eight in the morning to one; any time you could give me would be wonderful.”

Chloe was staggered. Everyone knew that society belles didn’t do a single thing all day long. They sat around and counted their pearls. She gulped rather gracelessly, staring at the elegant woman on the other side of the table. She worked like the devil at painting?

“I suppose so,” she finally replied, hesitating. “I would have to ask my mama.”

“Of course. Perhaps she would like to accompany you? She probably wouldn’t want to just sit in my studio, but I know that my mama would much enjoy some company,” Charlotte said, recklessly ignoring the duchess’s elaborately planned mornings.

Chloe tried to imagine her mother having a leisurely tea with the Duchess of Calverstill and totally failed.

“I doubt it,” she answered uncertainly. “She is frightfully busy, most of the time.” Then she could have bitten her tongue off with embarrassment. Charlotte’s mother probably lay about on a daybed most of the day. Charlotte might think she was being critical.

But an insult had never occurred to Charlotte, who had been trained to run a large household and knew just what an enormous amount of work it was. “Yes,” she said absently. She was still staring at Chloe’s face. She reached across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Chloe’s maid had pulled her hair ruthlessly into a tight circle of braids, but small ringlets were starting to fall out.

From across the large vine-hung arbor scattered with tables Will saw Charlotte tuck up Chloe’s hair and he frowned. She wasn’t planning to transform Chloe, was she? The way she herself changed? He didn’t like it. Chloe was Chloe, and he didn’t want to see her in one of those flimsy French gowns, leaving all the men free to gape at her bosom. He walked over and loomed behind Chloe’s chair, frowning at Charlotte.

“Miss van Stork,” he said with deliberate formality. “Would you like to join me for a stroll? We might look at the mechanical train.”

Chloe sat perfectly still for a second. It really was ridiculous, the way her heart leaped into her throat when she heard his voice. He was a fortune hunter, nothing more. She had read all about his pursuit of Lady Charlotte, for example.