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Or at least, the painting did, its unexpected existence here. Evelyn placed a hand on her bosom, trying to calm her panic, but the movement did nothing to quiet her.

What was it doing here—what were any of her paintings doing here? How had they—had her father—

“…truly remarkable…”

“I have never seen such shading…”

“…see the landscape of Venice? My word, such an exquisite…”

And that was when Evelyn was almost certain that she was going to faint.

In her hurry to move from painting to painting, focused on nothing but seeing her art on the walls and uncomprehending of how they had gotten there, Evelyn had been wrong. There were people here.

In fact, there were several. None were people she recognized, and they moved past her without giving her a second glance. Instead, they spoke to each other, speaking of her art.

And what they said was good.

“This is probably my favorite,” a lady wearing the most outrageously oversized hat said to her companion.

The gentleman nodded. “Oh, yes. I have never seen a use of the color blue in such a bold way.”

Evelyn almost swallowed her tongue, but she managed to stay upright—which in the circumstances, she thought, was in fact to be applauded.

Here they were: all her studies, her practices, her paintings, all the things she’d thought had been not quite good enough, sketches she had worried about, paintings that had seemed not to hold any merit…

And people liked them.

Wait a moment. Evelyn shook her head, attempting to make her mind focus. People liked them because people could see them, and people could only see them because someone had placed them on the walls.

Who had done such a thing? What was going on?

“I’ve never seen this particular artist exhibit before,” a dark-haired woman murmured as she and a woman who had to be her sister stepped gently behind Evelyn. “I hope he is featured again soon.”

“She.”

The singular answer was a whisper, and it was one that sent a shiver of anticipation down Evelyn’s spine.

Turning, she caught sight of the astonished look on the woman’s expression.

“No! A woman?”

Her sister, for that was who Evelyn presumed she was, nodded with shining eyes. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Isn’t it wonderful”?

Laurent stepped softly beside her. “My lady, are these works your own?”

“They are,” Evelyn whispered, careful not to be overheard.

“They are remarkable,” said Laurent. “Well done, my lady. Well done.” Then her eyes darted over Evelyn’s head, a small smile forming on her lips. “Excuse me. I shall have to examine them all.”

Evelyn was too numb to do more than nod. A lump rose in her throat. It was more than she could have hoped for; more than she could have dreamed of. It was beyond all her expectations and it had happened in a way she still did not understand.

Her hopes swelled as she listened to the praise, gentle yet clearly honest, milling about her.

None of the people here other than Laurent knew that the paintings, the sketches, the studies on the walls were hers.

There was no reason for them to admire her work audibly, other than their genuine enjoyment of her art.

She’d done it. Somehow, inexplicably, beyond all sense… she was truly an artist.

“I hope you can see yourself now how I see you,” said a quiet voice from just behind her.

Evelyn did not hurry to turn around. She knew the voice—would know it until her dying day. Seeing its face would remove all power of speech, she knew that, but it did not stop her gasp as she finally saw…

Richard.

He looked tired. Weary, even. There were lines around his eyes she had not seen before, and as someone who had carefully examined his face for hours—for the sake of her art, nothing else—Evelyn was fairly certain they were new.

His cravat was poorly tied. His waistcoat was inaccurately buttoned. And his face—

The lump had returned to Evelyn’s throat. He looked exhausted. And happy. A weak smile broke through the grimness of his tired expression.

“I shouldn’t have lied,” Richard said hastily before Evelyn could even think to say a word.

“It was foolish, idiotic of me to keep the truth from you. I wish there were an impressive explanation, but if I am quite honest… Well. It kept you out of the rest of my life. It kept you separate. I thought it would keep you safe.”

And all the elation that had risen at the sight of him, the hope that it had been Richard who had put this plan into motion to make her see just how worthy her art was of being on walls…

It all disappeared.

Evelyn swallowed, hard, but could not dislodge the lump that had become a knot in her throat. He had wanted to keep her separate. Separate from his life.

He did not want to introduce her to his family, or his friends. He wished to keep her from his real life. From the reality of his existence.

She was just some secret he was ashamed of.

But—“‘Safe’?”

“What I experienced in France was not pleasant, Evelyn, and I cannot promise that the danger will never touch these shores,” he said in a rush. “I wanted to leave that part of my life behind and it was so easy, so terribly easy, to lose myself in the dreams of a future with you.”

“I… I see.” How Evelyn had managed to speak, she did not know. She had kept her voice low, hopeful that no one would overhear her.

They did not need to be burdened with her misery.

“No—no, I don’t think you do,” said Richard hastily. “Oh, damn, I practiced this, but speaking rationally in front of you is… It is difficult. You make me want to be a better person, Evelyn.”

That is all very well , she thought, trying to dampen down the joy that had sparked when he had spoken her name. But is he?

“I thought by keeping you out of the rest of my life, my dull life, that you would be… be mine. Mine to treasure, not tainted with the nonsense of my past,” Richard said quietly. “I’m not… I’ve not always made the best decisions, Evelyn.”

“Yes, I know,” she could not help but say.

Richard winced at the edge in her voice. “I just… I have never had anything as precious as you to worry about. And it was a… an artistic stretching of the truth. I never lied—”

“You never told me you were a—”

“I know, I know that,” he said hastily, raising a hand as though that alone could placate her.

Only then did Evelyn notice that her hackles were raised. What was this? An apology, an explanation, or something in between? Was he instead merely attempting to justify himself?

Perhaps Richard could see her thoughts in her eyes. He sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t trust me if I were you. I was wrong. I should have said something, should have been more honest.”

“I thought I knew you,” Evelyn could not help but whisper.

He flinched this time. Perhaps the softness, the longing in her voice, was more painful than the edge. “You knew the parts of me that mattered. My interests. My humor. My devotion to you.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Evelyn breathed, unable to help herself, her heart thundering.

“I know,” Richard said simply. “That is the trouble with love, I suppose. It happens all unexpectedly, not so much creeping up on you, but surprising you by its presence. It was there for so long without me noticing, I cannot tell you when it began. And now I have lost you.”

It was not a question. He made the statement calmly, and Evelyn shivered to hear the despair in his voice.

“So then what is… is all this?” she asked, glancing about them.

Once again, her eyes were drawn to the painting of Richard with which she was still not happy. When her attention meandered slightly to the left, it fell on the real Richard, a man with whom she was still not happy.

But something inside her told her that she would never be happy without him.

“I wanted you to know how talented you were. How your art is ready for the world, even if you are not,” Richard said with a wry smile. “I could not think of another way.”

“You… You did all this, for me?” Evelyn whispered.

It did not seem possible, yet she could not refute the evidence before her eyes.

Here she was, standing in the Dulwich Picture Gallery, and it was her art on the walls, her art that people were looking at, her art people were praising. And she could not understand just how it had happened, and she was grateful, and angry, and she loved him so much.

That was the trouble, wasn’t it? Despite everything, or perhaps because of everything—she was not quite sure—she loved him.

“I suppose I have an apology of my own to make,” she said wryly, her gaze dropping to her hands for a moment before she took a moment to collect herself and then looked back up at Richard.

“‘Apology’?” he said blankly. “Evelyn, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“I should not have reacted so strongly to the fact that you had already spoken to my father about… about us,” Evelyn said in a rush that petered out at the end. “I… I should have trusted you. I should have trusted him.”

“Yes, you should have,” said an amused voice.

Evelyn groaned to see her father and mother step toward her, arm in arm. “I should have known you’d be involved in this!”

“And why not?” asked the Earl of Lindow, raising an eyebrow. “You think I was going to wait around for you to realize how talented you are?”

“We took bets,” her mother added, her eyes twinkling. “I have rendered the bets forfeit, now that your father has intervened.”

“And you’re not upset? You’re not worried, about me displaying my art in public? You always forbade it,” asked Evelyn, her voice quavering.

Warmth. Comfort. A hand in hers.

Evelyn looked down. Richard had stepped to her side, just a few inches behind her so that she could continue talking to her parents—but it was his hand that had enclosed her own. It felt right. It was right.

“‘Upset’?” Her father took in the pair of them and Evelyn flushed, heat burning her cheeks. “I am old, my dear.”

“George!”

“Oh, Dodo, there’s no harm in saying it!

I’m not young anymore,” the earl said with a dry laugh.

“Times are changing. Sometimes they change far swifter than I can keep up with. Sometimes they change in ways I don’t like, don’t expect.

And sometimes… sometimes they change for the better.

Even an old codger like me can see that. ”

Evelyn’s delight soared as her father reached out and cupped her cheek.

“Only do what you want, girl,” he said seriously. “If you want to marry this bounder—”

“ George !”

“—then you should do so,” her father continued, ignoring his wife’s exclamation. “But because you want to. Because you see in him something that only a wife’s eye can see.”

Evelyn swallowed. “And what is that?”

The Earl of Lindow glanced at his wife for a moment before smiling. “Potential. No one is perfect, Evelyn, and no partnership is. But it can become close to perfect. With practice.”

Richard squeezed her hand and Evelyn turned to him, her thoughts all a muddle save one.

“And you still want to marry me?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “After all this?”

Richard’s smile was loving, and it was wistful, and it was one she had not seen before. The crinkle around the left eye, the way his chin tilted, almost with defiance. Yes, it was definitely new. She would have to sketch it.

“Yes,” Richard said quietly. “Yes, I want to marry you. Rather badly, actually.”

Joy flooded Evelyn and before she could think, before she could halt herself, she had thrown her free hand around Richard’s neck and pulled him closer for a heart-stopping kiss.

It was magnificent. His arms were comforting around her and he smelled wonderful and his tongue trailed a dazzling delight across hers and she wanted to melt into him and be with him and—

“Put that man down!” Lady Romeril’s eyes were wide…but so was her grin.

Evelyn and Richard broke apart with flushed cheeks and wild smiles.

“Ah,” said Evelyn awkwardly. “People. Right.”

“It’s scandal, then, after all,” Richard said ruefully. “I hope you don’t mind?”

She could not help but laugh at that. “I don’t see that we have any choice. Shall we get married, then?”

“Yes,” he said softly, his smile adoring. “I suppose we should.”