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Chapter 11

Torie was reeling from the news she was to be married to a man who had described her as silly and affected. The whole of it—Leonora's

jilting and her own future—collided in her brain. She and the duke had shared a few suppers, but she hardly knew him. He seemed

well enough, but in her current state, she couldn't bring his features to mind. Chestnut hair and a blunt nose... perhaps?

Lord Kelbourne's words filtered through her bewilderment.

"What is the viscount talking about?" she asked her father, swallowing convulsively. She might throw up on his desk, which

was odd, since she also felt as hollow as a drum.

"He is talking nonsense. I've no need to sell my daughters," Sir William blustered. "You and Leonora are dazzling, dowered,

and delightful in every way."

Torie's heart plummeted to her toes. She knew the sound of her father's lies all too well.

"To the contrary, you informed me that Leonora's dowry had been spent," Kelbourne snarled, moving closer to the desk.

Her lips rounded, and she whispered, "No dowry." Then, in a louder voice, "What happened to my dowry?"

"I suspect it was gambled away," Kelbourne said, his voice sounding like that of a judge instructing the jury to find a prisoner

guilty. "Two years ago, Sir William requested ten thousand pounds for the privilege of marrying Leonora."

"Why shouldn't I have?" Torie's father asked pettishly. "I had the goods, and you wanted them."

"Do I have a dowry, Father?" Torie asked. And when her father looked down at his desk rather than meet her eyes, she asked

again, her voice rising: "Do I still have a dowry?"

He shrugged. "You don't need one. The duke wants you with or without funds. He was most gracious about it." He picked up a

quill as if the conversation was over. "I'll send His Grace a notice about Leonora's love match. Aye, that's how we'll present

it." He threw the viscount a surly look. "There are those who will think she had a fine escape."

"I shall need the fortune I paid to marry Leonora repaid immediately," Kelbourne stated, rapping his knuckles on Sir William's

desk.

Torie swallowed back a string of unladylike curses. Could this get any worse?

"I'll wager you didn't get nearly that amount from Queensberry," the viscount added. "His annual income is insufficient to

put his hands on ten thousand pounds."

Sir William sniffed. "So he claimed."

Kelbourne leaned forward, looming over the desk. "Perhaps you didn't understand me, your lordship. I expect my money to be

repaid immediately. You could take it from Bufford's payment, though he may have declined under the circumstances. In her

haste to escape the horrifying prospect of raising my wards, Leonora likely begged him to take her."

"Papa, did you really take money from the viscount?" Torie could feel a scream rising in her chest.

"This subject is not for a lady's ears," Sir William chastised the viscount.

Kelbourne snorted. "I assure you that your youngest daughter has a remarkable tolerance for unladylike conversation."

Torie's father threw down his quill and slammed to his feet. "Just what do you mean by that? Have you debauched my innocent

daughter by word or deed?"

"Absolutely not," the viscount responded dispassionately.

Disinterestedly.

Torie sighed. "I didn't faint when Florence broached the subject of flatulence."

"That's right, Leonora complained of that. Nervous farters, are they?" Sir William asked, sitting down again. "Likely too

much milk. Hopefully they'll outgrow it. I'll bid you good day, Lord Kelbourne." He uncapped his ink bottle.

"Father, you must repay whatever money Viscount Kelbourne gave you," Torie insisted. She kept a hand on her stomach because

her gut had clenched at the beginning of this nightmarish conversation, and it wasn't calming down.

"Can't," her father said, tapping surplus ink from his quill. "He's right about Bufford, and I've placed a few bad wagers

lately. I'll pay when I'm back on my feet. It's the viscount's own damn fault for scaring off Leonora, forcing her to marry

a man with a foot in the grave."

"I did nothing to scare her off."

"Oh? Because Leonora doesn't want you, Kelbourne. I argued with her, promising on your behalf that you'd banish the fiends to the country. She told me the thought of your wedding night made her want to vomit."

Dominic had never attempted to kiss his fiancée. Perhaps he should have.

He barely resisted the impulse to plant his fist on Sir William's chin. He had struggled with his temper as a boy, although

these days he rarely lost control. Yet now he was vibrating with an inarticulate rage...

That had nothing to do with Leonora. He took a deep breath and realized it also had nothing to do with the ten thousand pounds.

It was about Miss Sutton... Victoria... Torie .

To be clear: his anger was the result of her father's careless treatment, casually betrothing her to a man who mocked her

as foolish. The duke thought it was better that his wife couldn't read?

Torie touched his sleeve, and he glanced down at her. He knew precisely why Queensberry didn't care about his future duchess's

literacy: he wanted a wife with soft white-blond curls, a delicious mouth, generous breasts... but more, a wife whose joy

bubbled up in her eyes, no matter how often the world seemed to kick her in the arse.

From what he'd seen, Torie's own family had been so routinely unkind that she was surprised by decency.

Having been betrothed to her sister when they met, he had never allowed himself to consider Torie's appeal. He had deliberately

ignored such shallow traits when looking for a wife. He'd even told himself that he didn't care if his fiancée was plain,

as long as she had the attributes he considered essential to a partnership.

Staring down at Torie, he felt the long-nosed bluestocking of his imagination slipping away. "Leonora mentioned that requests for your hand in marriage had been withdrawn on being told of your illiteracy," he told her. "I think it more likely that the men in question couldn't pay your father the amount he demanded."

Her hand dropped from his sleeve, and she swiveled to face her father. The blustery defiance on Sir William's face spoke for

itself. Torie's whole body flinched. She turned away and looked back up at Dominic.

"I am truly sorry about your ten thousand pounds, Lord Kelbourne. I will speak to the Duke of Queensberry. Leonora can speak

to her husband, now that she is Lady Bufford."

"Aye, there's a plan," Sir William said, putting down his quill before he'd written a word and pouring another measure of

brandy. "Bufford will be as dead as the Roman Empire in no time. You can have your ten thousand out of Leonora's widow's portion."

"No, I'll take your daughter instead," Dominic stated.

Torie gasped. "What?"

"Bufford ain't dead yet," Sir William snapped. "Even a viscount can't get around the law."

"Not Leonora," Dominic said, matter-of-factly. "I want Victoria in her stead."

Sir William laughed aloud. "My feckless illiterate? Even if I hadn't promised her to Queensberry, I'd judge you mad." The

edge returned to his voice. "You'll get your reparations—the new Lady Bufford will use the wealth of her estate to see you

made whole, and we can put this unpleasantness behind us."

"You can't promise that Leonora will repay that sum, Father," Torie said hollowly. "At least, not without speaking to her and her husband. Where are they now?"

"Bufford's estate in Scotland," her father said. "He's got a castle there or some such. He told me that they'll wait out the

scandal and return to England in the fall."

"Bufford also has an heir who might decline to pay a widow's share to her father," Dominic pointed out. "Moreover, his lordship

shows no sign of dying in the near future." He leaned a hip against the desk, arms folded over his chest. "We're at an impasse,

Sir William. I want restitution— now ." He glanced around the room. "You could sell these furnishings, but they can't be worth more than a hundred pounds."

"You wouldn't!" Torie cried.

"I would," Dominic replied. A feeling of satisfaction was tearing through him. Torie needed protection from her grasping,

unkind father. He needed a mother for the twins. True, he had hoped to marry a woman who would challenge him intellectually,

but he could reconcile himself.

Hell, he had all the challenging conversations he wanted in the House of Lords. For a moment, he pictured the despicable faces

of the men opposing the current bill against slavery in the colonies. He didn't need a wife to point out their avaricious

motives. He could do that himself.

"Both my father and I are sorry that Leonora impetuously broke your betrothal without having the courage to tell you herself,"

Torie said, her eyes shining with earnestness.

"Oh, aye," Sir William said. "I've always thought Torie was the fool in this family, but it turns out that Leonora takes the crown. I flatly told Bufford that if his fourth wife dies before her time—that is to say, before he does—I'll be at his front door with a cocked pistol."

"Torie is not a fool," Dominic stated. "I'll take her in lieu of the debt you owe me, Sir William."

Torie was shaking her head. Dominic ignored it. She'd be under his protection, and anyone who spoke slightingly of his wife

would answer to him.

Given his skill with a rapier, a single duel would ensure that no one ever, ever called his wife stupid. In fact, he'd probably challenge any man who mentioned Torie's inability to read.

Perhaps he'd challenge the Duke of Queensberry first, on general principles.

Unfortunately, he couldn't challenge Sir William, but he would make his opinion clear later, in private, when she wasn't within

earshot. He didn't want her lummox of a father to ever hurt her feelings again.

"Torie, I told you once that you were a luxury commodity, and still you persistently undervalue yourself," he said. "You cannot

marry a man who thinks you silly and speaks of you so disparagingly, even if he is a duke." He turned away from the desk.

"So you might as well marry me."

" You think I'm silly," Torie retorted, her scowl deepening. "When I pointed out that Odysseus was a terrible leader because he

lost so many men, you said that I didn't understand a Homeric hero's thirst for glory. Frankly, I thought you proved my point

in labeling his motive, but you blathered on about courage and intellect."

Dominic raised an eyebrow. "You're refusing to marry me based on an interpretative point in a Greek story? I didn't say you were silly, though I do think your argument is irrational."

"When I said that a man who sacrifices six men rather than risk a bad sea voyage is a rotten leader, you said that I had a

schoolgirl's understanding of a great epic."

Dominic frowned. "I don't remember saying that."

"Torie remembers everything," Sir William commented. "Can quote me back chapter and verse on every Sunday sermon too, not

that I'd ever ask her to. Frankly, I agree with her about the Odyssey. The man came far too close to allowing a woman to turn him into a pig."

He dipped his quill in the inkpot again. "I suppose that was a whatsit... a metaphor . In fact, I shouldn't be surprised if a witch turning men to swine isn't a metaphor for marriage," he mused. "Didn't understand

that when I was a boy, of course."

The fool was ignoring Dominic's demand and scratching out a greeting to the Duke of Queensberry.

"Torie is often surprisingly astute," Sir William said chattily.

Dominic reached over and tweaked the quill from his future father-in-law's hand. Ink splattered across the desk. "I'll take

Victoria in lieu of my ten thousand pounds."

"You just ruined a perfectly good piece of parchment," Sir William snarled. "Do you know what your trouble is? You're too

used to having your own way. The money is lost. Accept it. If I have a string of good luck, I promise to think of you."

Torie cut in before Dominic could respond. "Lord Kelbourne, I will not marry you under any circumstances. As of last night, you were betrothed to marry my sister . And since both of my prospective husbands think I'm silly, obviously I'll choose a duke who has not already proposed to

a family member!"

"The Duke of Queensberry is no great shakes himself in the intellect department," her father said encouragingly. "Your children

might be a bit muddled, but one never knows. Perhaps the heir would be a throwback to some Oxford-educated chap. I never made

it there myself," he said to the viscount.

"If Torie doesn't marry me, I shall sue you for breach of contract," Dominic stated, cutting to the chase.

"I don't want to be sold to Dominic or anyone else for ten thousand pounds!" Torie cried.

He saw her fingers trembling before she curled them into fists, which made him feel a flash of shame—but no. She needed him

to save her.

"You're already calling him by his first name?" Sir William said. A calculating expression crossed his face. "Perhaps you

should marry him, Torie. He's rich as bejesus. Since I don't have the ten thousand pounds, I'd take it as a courtesy."

"No, I am betrothed to a duke," Torie reminded him.

Dominic thought fleetingly of the hundreds of ladies who had made it clear by word, deed, and fluttering eyelashes that they

would love to marry him. The desperation in Torie's voice wasn't very complimentary.

It stood to reason he'd decided to marry the one woman who didn't want him. His father had pointed out years ago that Dominic always chose the hardest route to success.

Sir William shrugged. "Marriage will cost you more than ten thousand pounds, Kelbourne. You'd have to match the duke's offer—nay, exceed it, because your title isn't as high or as old as his."

"I'm rich as bejesus, and that's more useful to you," Dominic reminded him.

"You would be paying exorbitantly for the nanny you want, but there's no accounting for taste. I will say that Leonora was

far more likely to turn you into a pig. My youngest has a sweet nature."

"None of this matters since I refuse to marry my sister's leftovers... her slops !" Torie cried.

Not the most positive word she could have chosen. Pink had surged into her cheeks. Unlike her sister, she was not a woman

who would ever be able to hide strong emotion. "Perhaps you could think of me as a legacy, a gift from Leonora," he suggested.

"You may not have noticed, but she and I are nothing alike," Torie retorted. "I have no interest in marrying a man who seems

to have forgotten how to smile and is best known for shouting in the House of Lords." She folded her arms over her chest.

"I won't do it."

"In that case, I shall remind you, Lord Kelbourne, that you cannot sue me for breach of contract, as we had none," Sir William

said, rising to his feet. "I'll ask you to leave my house directly. You want a nanny? Hire a nanny. We will bid you good day."

He bowed.

Sir William was right. Dominic's demand for repayment wouldn't hold up in court; it had been a gentleman's agreement.

Sir William was no gentleman.

From the corner of his eye, Dominic saw Torie curtsy, her mouth still pressed in a tight line. He bowed. "Good day, Sir William."

He turned and bowed again. "Good day, Torie."

What neither of them understood was that when Dominic made up his mind... he made up his mind. The twins were his .

And Torie was his , even if he had to pay out another ten thousand pounds.

He wasn't certain where his conviction came from. Likely it was because she'd been so kind to the children. When he visited

this morning, rather than writing about severed limbs, they were both painting misshapen rabbits.

Perhaps because she never bothered to flatter or agree with him. Leonora had agreed with any opinion he aired, which seemed

peaceful at the time, but now...

Boring.

He had been introduced to Leonora; they had conversed; they had understood without words that they would marry. He couldn't

even remember whether he actually proposed to her. Once he paid her father, the deed was done.

Now the exhilaration of a hunt sparked in his chest.

Torie didn't escort him from the study, so the last glimpse he had was of her mutinous scowl.

He found himself smiling as he let himself out the front door. There was no sign of the hungover butler, who was probably

lying down with a wet cloth on his forehead.

Once home again, he bounded up the stairs. The twins were still painting. Valentine's rabbit had a grotesquely enlarged eye

but was recognizable. Florence's was not.

"Did you see Torie?" his niece asked, whirling to face him. She had flecks of paint in her curls and a splash of pink on her

chin.

"Yes. She won't be coming to visit today."

"You're smiling," Valentine observed in a surprised tone.

"Miss Sutton married another man this morning."

When the twins smiled back, Dominic discovered that Valentine had inherited the dimples he loathed. Or rather, the dimples

his father had despised and mocked him for.

On Val, they were endearing.

"Now you're free to marry Torie!" Florence cried, clapping.

"I asked, but she turned me down," Dominic said.

Valentine frowned. "I thought that might happen."

Dominic raised an eyebrow. "You did?"

"She'd have to balance being our mother against becoming a viscountess," Valentine explained. "We never managed to enchant

our own parents, let alone a fairly new acquaintance."

Florence came over and stood beside her brother. "I don't agree. If Torie won't marry you, it's not because she doesn't care

for us, because she does. More than she cares for anyone. Her father isn't nice to her at all." Her chin jutted out, surprising

Dominic with its resemblance to Torie's. "You'll have to try harder."

The twins fixed him with their pale green eyes. "Put your best foot forward," Valentine advised. "Flowers and such. It's a

pity that codpieces are no longer in fashion."

Even given that the twins regularly surprised him, this comment was startling. "Add codpieces to the Prohibited List and never

mention such articles of clothing before your sister," Dominic ordered.

"I already know what a codpiece is," Florence reported. "I do not think that an adornment of that nature would win Torie's approval. You have to be nicer ."

She put her hands on her narrow hips and fixed Dominic with a look verging on a glare. "You are not nice enough. I've seen

you look at Torie in a haughty way, and doubtless she has noticed too. You look as if you're scowling even when you are just

waiting for a cup of tea. You were rude when we discussed Odysseus."

"I could write you some poetry or a love letter," Valentine offered. "Torie gave me a rhyming dictionary."

"That is very kind of you, but I'm confident I can court Torie on my own." He hesitated, remembering the impassioned way she'd

labeled him "slops," as in scraps thrown to pigs. "I will do my best. I know how much you love her, but unfortunately, she

is being courted by a duke."

"That's a better title than viscount," Valentine said. He looked Dominic over. "It's a pity you're still in deep mourning.

Black isn't very flattering, is it? Do you think if you stopped eating scones for tea, your legs would shrink?"

Dominic spared a moment to remember the life he had imagined, with a flatteringly adoring wife and children. "No," he admitted.

"These are muscles, not fat."

"Our father wore horsehair pads on his thighs," Valentine told him. "At least you don't do that. Imagine if your wife caught

you taking them off at night."

"Torie would be the very best mother for us," Florence said, palpable longing in her voice. "She likes us."

"Flattery is key to courtship," Valentine said. "Remember when Homer said Circes was ‘lustrous'? Actually, don't use that word until we have a chance to define it for Torie."

"She knows it already, because we read it aloud," Florence said scornfully. "Torie remembers everything ."

"Well, I suggest using a more approachable word, like lily . For example: ‘Your skin is as white as a lily.'"

"And you are very silly," his sister retorted.

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