Charlotte straightened her back, her mouth tight, as Alex entered the room. She was ready to give him the lecture of his life when she realized he wasn’t alone. In front of him trotted Pippa, her plump legs moving her surely toward the lovely heaps of paper she spied in front of her.

“Stop her!” Charlotte shrieked. Alex managed to catch the big, starched bow on the back of Pippa’s dress as she was about to dive into a pile of paper. Charlotte ran about, gathering papers while Alex held back his howling daughter.

Chloe rose from the couch. “How do you do, my lord?” she said in her quiet way. “You met me last night; I am Chloe van Stork.”

“I remember,” Alex said, smiling warmly. “Are you having your portrait painted?” He had instantly grasped the connotations of the candelabra and the easel.

“Well, not yet,” Chloe replied. “Lady Charlotte is still making sketches.”

“Oh, please!” Charlotte said. “Do call me Charlotte.” She was still picking up paper, watching Pippa out of the corner of her eye. She wouldn’t put it past Alex to let go of his daughter. She finally managed to gather all the sketches together and place them securely on the mantelpiece, weighed down by a candlestick. Meanwhile Alex, carrying Pippa, who was squealing, although a bit more quietly, walked around to see Charlotte’s easel. Charlotte couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of her eye.

He stood absolutely still. His only movement was to drop Pippa gently to the ground. She immediately scooted off and started trying to climb a chair. Still he stood. Charlotte was feeling more and more peevish. Perhaps he couldn’t even think of a pleasant compliment. Finally he raised his head and looked straight into her eyes.

“Why bluebells?”

“Why … what do you mean?” Charlotte responded confusedly.

“Why bluebells—why not rabbits?” His mouth quirked. He walked over to her. “You are going to keep that picture until Sophie marries, aren’t you? I can’t see it joining the stodgy members of the Brandenburg portrait gallery, somehow. So rabbits—fertility.”

“Rabbits, fertility,” Charlotte repeated stupidly.

Chloe cleared her throat gently. “It’s an Italian custom, isn’t it, my lord? In the Renaissance, Italian brides were given pictures of themselves with rabbits playing in the background.”

Charlotte smiled involuntarily. He got it! Her portrait was precisely a bride picture: a woman on the cusp of learning something. Alex’s huge hands grasped her shoulders.

“Your portrait is quite splendid. You know that, don’t you?”

She looked up at him without responding.