Chapter 12

In the following week, Dominic endured any number of impertinent inquiries about his emotional state in the aftermath of his

fiancée's scandalous marriage to Lord Bufford. Infuriatingly, Sir William proved correct in that many interpreted her flight

not as a love match, but as an escape from his foul temper.

Several guessed that the scandalous Dorney children had something to do with it, which resulted in gratuitous, unwelcome advice

about how to stow embarrassing relatives out of sight.

Dominic gritted his teeth, indulged himself in a bout of scathing rhetoric in the House of Lords defending the antislavery

bill, and sent Torie two bunches of flowers.

Both of which were returned by an unkempt footman wearing Sir William's livery, his coat visibly patched at one elbow.

Rather surprisingly, Torie's betrothal to the Duke of Queensberry hadn't yet been announced. Perhaps His Grace and Sir William

hadn't agreed on an appropriate payment, or they were waiting for the scandal to die down.

Thinking to woo Torie, Dominic walked into Almack's and saw the Duke of Queensberry gazing at her with an absurdly infatuated

smile. Simultaneously, he was assaulted by greetings from two marriageable ladies apparently ready to overlook his temper.

He left immediately, realizing that he couldn't court Torie while society watched.

Not given his history with her sister. She was right about that.

He had to find a way to speak to her alone. His returned flowers suggested that she would flatly refuse a morning call. Besides,

what if the Duke of Queensberry had arrived before him? The man who thought Torie the "silliest, most affected husband-hunting

butterfly he'd ever met"? Also the "prettiest," but Dominic didn't like that, either. She wasn't pretty; she was beautiful.

Far more so than her sister, given that Leonora was as thin as a stalk of celery.

It wouldn't help his courtship if he succumbed to irritation and dealt His Grace a blow to the jaw.

The next morning, when he strode into the nursery before leaving for the House of Lords, Florence danced up to him and said,

"Valentine and I would like to go to this exhibition later today."

She handed him a notice cut from the Times .

The Duke and Duchess of Huntington are honored to present the newest iteration of the highly original ducal steam-engine-powered

locomotive, fitted with a new bent chimney designed by Her Grace. The public is welcome to examine the new clack box feed

pipe and speak to the inventors. Those interested in steam power are particularly welcome. The locomotive will be available

at Buckingham House on April 28 from 4 o'clock to 6 o'clock.

Her Grace? He knew about Huntington's obsession with steam, but his duchess designed a chimney?

"Of course you may attend," Dominic said, rather grateful to discover they wanted to go to a wholesome event. So far, Valentine had asked to attend a lecture about Egyptian mortuary rituals, and Florence had wanted to visit a Hammersmith churchyard at midnight in hopes of seeing an infamous ghost. "You may inform your tutor that I approve."

"No, you should take us, because we believe Torie will attend," Florence said.

"Why would you think that?"

"She's interested in steam engines. She has a friend, Lord Lusker, who told her all about his investment in a Scottish locomotive.

She says that someday they'll overtake carriages as a mode of transportation."

Dominic could imagine Lusker telling Torie "all" about steam engines. He'd seen the way she soaked up knowledge, her eyes

shining at whomever was telling her about... anything, it seemed. In the last few months, she'd shown interest in every

subject the twins brought up, including those on the Prohibited List.

It was only the work of the House of Lords that she dismissed as fiddle-faddle. Or was it bibble-babble?

Valentine wandered over and stood beside his sister, their shoulders brushing. "A duchess designed part of this steam engine,

although generally ladies aren't allowed to invent anything. If Torie could read, she would make a better chimney than the

duchess's."

"She could make one now if she wished," Florence said, scowling at her brother. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that book

reading equates to intelligence, Val."

"I shall return at four o'clock," Dominic said, escaping the nursery to the sound of inelegant whoops of joy.

Since it was a sunny day, he drove them in his low-slung, open curricle, the twins crowded on the seat beside him, excitedly

pointing out an apple seller, St. Paul's Cathedral, and an elderly man whom Florence declared possessed by a devil based on

his "pitch-black eyes."

Dominic added "possession" and "possession by a devil" to the Prohibited List.

"At this rate, we shall have nothing to talk about at all," Florence observed dolefully.

Which was precisely why Dominic had tried to find a wife with whom he could converse. Thankfully, they arrived at Buckingham

House before he had to reveal the unfortunate truth that most conversations were as sweet and empty as spun sugar.

"We can always discuss steam engines!" Florence exclaimed as they turned from Marlborough Road into Pall Mall and saw an engine

on a large cart, surrounded by people.

Dominic had the idea that decorous women like Leonora probably didn't celebrate the Duchess of Huntington's inventions, but

steam engines were certainly better than codpieces. "You might begin a list of approved topics, to balance the other," he

suggested.

"The locomotive is beautiful," Valentine observed, hanging over the side of the curricle to see better. The machine had a

cherry-red cylinder for a body and a chimney that bent to the side, just as noted in the newspaper.

"What peculiar-looking wheels," Florence observed.

"Torie said they will run on steel rails, remember?" her brother replied, leaning even farther as he craned to see underneath the locomotive. "Of course, it arrived here on a farm wagon, as London streets have no rails."

"Don't fall out," Dominic barked. His groom leaped from the stand behind the curricle and moved to the horses' heads.

"She's here!" Valentine crowed.

Dominic glanced over the crowd and immediately saw Torie. No one could miss her, since she was wearing a bright orange hat

with a distinct resemblance to a steam pipe, along with a darker orange, extremely tight walking costume. Most of the men

who'd come to see the locomotive were staring at her curves rather than the puffs of steam emerging from the engine.

Torie was listening intently to a stout, middle-aged woman with a monocle—likely the Duchess of Huntington, since the lady

was gesturing toward the engine.

"Don't be rag-mannered when greeting Miss Sutton," Dominic told the twins.

"Don't you mean Miss Victoria?" Florence asked.

"As her older sister has married, she is now Miss Sutton."

"She's still Torie to us," Florence said with certitude. "Oh, now I see her!" She pointed in an extremely inelegant fashion

and seconded it by giving her brother a shove. "Do get out, Val!"

Her brother pushed open the curricle door and jumped down. By the time Dominic came around to lift his niece from her seat, she had already plummeted to the ground and toppled forward to her knees. Florence popped back up, gave her dusty skirt a perfunctory brush, and dashed after her brother, who was weaving his way through the crowd.

Dominic strolled after them, consciously putting a sardonic twist on his mouth because otherwise he might grin in an entirely

uncharacteristic fashion. Torie had made it clear that she didn't want his title or his temper.

What she didn't realize was how much he relished a challenge.

When he reached his niece and nephew, Torie was introducing the twins to the Duchess of Huntington. He made a mental note

to congratulate their tutor; Valentine's bow was a thing of beauty, and Florence sank to just the right level for a duchess,

undismayed by her dusty skirts.

Actually, she had probably forgotten the state of her dress.

"Ho, Kelbourne," the Duke of Huntington bellowed from where he was standing on the wagon, lecturing the crowd. His Grace refused

to waste time in the House of Lords but had promised to appear on the day of the antislavery vote. Dominic had a whole list

of lazy lords to whom he would send a summons on the morning the bill was— finally —forwarded for a vote.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace," he called. And turning: "Miss Sutton." Torie was hard to take in with one glance: her insouciant

hat, her generous lips, her figure, enhanced by her exquisitely tailored costume.

He'd like to greet her with an open-mouthed kiss. Just looking at her made lust boil up in him.

Despite lecturing the twins on proper comportment, he didn't feel proper at all.

He had discounted the role of lust in his marital plans, never expecting to feel it for his wife. No longer. Not when he could barely take his eyes off Torie's mouth. He felt like an adolescent trying to quell a throbbing groin.

"We asked Lord Kelbourne to bring us," Florence said to Torie, beaming as she hung on to her hand.

A reluctant smile tugged at the side of Torie's mouth. "I understand. Your Grace, may I introduce Viscount Kelbourne?"

The Duchess of Huntington picked up the monocle pinned to her chest by a ribbon, screwed it in place, and said, "Kelbourne,

is it? The unconscionable delay in passing the slavery bill reflects our country's debased values."

"I agree," Dominic said, rather taken aback by the way her monocled eye appeared twice as large as the other.

"Please, let's go look at the engine," Florence cried.

"I have a girl just your age whom I've been trying to interest in locomotives to no avail," Her Grace commented. "My son,

Silvester, is even worse and pretends they don't exist."

A crafty smile spread over Florence's face. "I would be so grateful if you showed me the engine," she cooed. "Showed me and my brother, I mean." Valentine was watching starlings circle overhead. She

kicked him in the ankle.

"As would I, Your Grace," Valentine said, bowing.

"Our guardian, Lord Kelbourne, will entertain Miss Sutton," Florence announced.

The duchess was likely startled to find herself walking away with two children, but Florence had a way of presenting her wishes in a manner that stifled protest. Dominic regularly found himself doing things he wouldn't have imagined only months earlier, such as courting a woman who couldn't read and scowling at men oozing desire for her—at least, until he terrified them by putting a hand on his rapier.

The public had been corralled behind a rope, but Her Grace pulled it back and ushered the children through to greet her husband.

"I hope she keeps Florence's skirts away from the coal box," Torie said. She dropped a curtsy. "Lord Kelbourne. It's a pleasure

to see the children outside the nursery."

He removed his hat and bowed. "Miss Sutton." The crowd eddied about them, pushing them so close that he could see the raspberry

sheen on her lower lip and the black color she'd smudged in a narrow line under her eyelashes. Since he'd warned off lecherous

louts, no one was paying them any attention.

"Have you rethought your rejection of my proposal?" Not that he actually had hope, but it was worth a try.

Torie shook her head.

She was trying to work out why the twins had forced Dominic to attend the demonstration. In Torie's opinion, Florence would

only be interested in a locomotive if she added a ghost, turned it into a haunted steam engine, and described it running amok

and killing any number of innocent bystanders. Valentine was gazing blankly at the machine, either making up an overwrought

sonnet or doing mathematical figures.

Which meant the twins were forcing Dominic to renew his lukewarm proposal.

She summoned up a sympathetic but firm smile. "While I cannot marry you, Lord Kelbourne, I do promise to keep close contact with Florence and Valentine."

"Dominic," he corrected her. "Or even Dom, if you please. No one is listening to us. Is betrothal to the Duke of Queensberry

standing in your way?" His tone was amiably polite, as if he were offering her a choice between a scone and a lemon tart.

"No, I am refusing you on your own merits," Torie said, succumbing to irritation. Even a woman being proposed to as payment

for ten thousand pounds would prefer her wooer didn't appear so nonchalant. "Frankly, I don't understand why you persist in

your proposal, given your freely expressed horror after I offered to care for your wards in the country."

"You offered to ‘take' them, but they're my children," the viscount replied, his eyes sharpening. "No one can take the twins from me." He took a step closer, but Torie

stood her ground. She couldn't think clearly when he crowded her, but she knew instinctively that she couldn't quail at all

this... this maleness.

Standing right in front of her. Throwing himself about and making irrational decisions based on irrationality, looking as

bullheaded as an ancient Greek soldier.

His appearance at this event meant that his proposal had nothing to do with the money her father demanded. It was all about

Valentine and Florence, who surely missed her. Likely he missed her too, given that in the last few months she had arranged

decent menus for the children, ordered new clothing, taught them to paint, and more.

"I can help you find a good nanny," Torie offered. "Once I'm a duchess, I will spend every morning with the twins again. I miss them horribly." Relief spread through her as she realized the implications of marriage to Queensberry. A married woman—a duchess!—could certainly remain in contact with orphaned children, even treat them as if they were her own young relatives.

Dominic was staring at her with more attention than he had ever paid her, except perhaps that time when she beat him playing

Riddles. He wasn't used to losing and had started glaring at her with hawk eyes.

"Even a duchess cannot visit the house of an unmarried man without causing a scandal," he said. "Given my sister's affairs,

I am well aware that gossips eagerly condemn married as well as unmarried women." The biting note in his voice spoke for itself.

"I shan't mind a few dents to my reputation," Torie assured him. "When I am a married woman, no one could claim I was compromised

and force us to marry. Don't you see that it solves our problem, Dominic?" She curled her hand around his forearm, feeling

his muscles flex with a little thrill.

His brows drew together, and she dropped her hand.

"Duchesses appear in the gossip columns no matter what they do," she insisted, falling back a step. "That's why Leonora decided

to become a viscountess." She snapped her mouth shut.

Too late.

"‘Leonora decided to become a viscountess,'" Dominic echoed, his eyes cooling. "She decided ?"

"Well, yes," Torie admitted. "In the nursery. My point is that duchesses are always chattered about, so I shall have to reconcile myself to being the subject of gossip." A happy thought occurred to her. "I can also help you find a new fiancée! I will be in an excellent position to survey the available ladies and find one who will understand Val and Florence."

Not that she'd met such a woman yet, but there was always next Season.

"Let's go back to your sister. How old was she when she decided to become a viscountess?" Dominic asked.

"That's no longer relevant," Torie replied. "In the end, Leonora chose a lord over a viscount. Her marriage to Lord Bufford

must be true love."

"I doubt that."

"Well, you would doubt it, wouldn't you?" Torie asked. In her experience, men rarely accepted logical conclusions. "What other

explanation is there? Don't bring up the twins, because Leonora could have forced you to put the children in school."

"She never wanted to marry me, just the title," Kelbourne said, acting as if he'd received a blow to the gut.

Torie sighed. "Surely this isn't the first time you noticed the appeal of your title?" Then she felt a twinge of guilt. "Or

were you in love with her?"

He shot her an incredulous glance. "I chose your sister carefully."

"A face that inspired poetry, together with the promise of ladylike docility. You weren't the only man to fall for it," Torie

said. "You don't seem to have given any thought to the attributes she might have been looking for in a spouse."

"The title of viscount," he snarled, all too obviously wallowing in a feeling of injustice.

"True, you were lucky that Viscount Cornwell married the year before," Torie said. "Leonora would have chosen him over you." She was starting to enjoy the conversation. "Because of the attributes she would have preferred in a husband, given the chance. The ones you never considered."

"Which are?"

"Golden locks and slender limbs."

Dominic's mouth curled with distaste. "She wanted a man who would ‘caper nimbly in his lady's chamber to the lascivious pleasing

of a lute'?"

She looked him over slowly, registering not for the first time that her list of attributes would include burly thighs and intense eyes. "You're no Richard III, so Shakespeare's next line is entirely

inappropriate." Heat came up in her cheeks; a lady shouldn't mention bawdy innuendos, but her dratted memory had served up

the speech in its entirety.

"Being ‘shaped for sportive tricks'?" Dominic's slow smile was a triumph of sensuality. "I may not be good at capering, but

I'm dead certain that I can manage ‘sportive tricks.'"

"Your future wife will be happy to know it," Torie managed. "Can we please return to the subject of this conversation? We

are planning how I, as Duchess of Queensberry, will help you raise the twins. For example, I would be very happy to chaperone

Florence's debut, if you haven't married by then."

"I would prefer that you chaperone my daughter as her mother," Dominic said, one side of his mouth quirking into a smile.

His eyes glittered at her from under heavy lids.

Torie decided to ignore that stubborn comment— and the smile. Though she was amazed at how the expression changed his face. One might think that such a bold profile would be feminized by dimples, but Torie found the opposite: they made her imagine that he might smile, even laugh—in bed.

"By the time Val and Florence are sixteen," she said quickly, "the twins will have perfected the arts of enchantment. Further,

as a ranking duchess, I will be able to secure their invitations to all of the Season's premier events. They will rule polite

society. I am certain of it."

After a pause, Dominic conceded. "You are right."

Torie drew a breath of red-hot air into her lungs. Of course she was happy that he had reconciled himself to the inadvisability

of marrying her. She would never suit him. Even this... this tension between them was evidence of that.

She couldn't be this close to him without catching a whiff of bergamot and clean man that made her body prickle awake. Leonora

would have been horrified by the sensation, whereas Torie felt yearning surge inside her. She and her sister were as different

as chalk and cheese—yet Leonora was the kind of woman whom Dominic wanted to marry.

He could find another bride who was both ladylike and tolerant of his condescending manner. And of the twins.

And of his thighs.

"There's Florence now!" Torie said brightly, shoving away her irrational feeling that a woman who married him for his title

wouldn't make a good wife: a category that included her own sister.

Apparently, Valentine had been converted to steam engines, because Florence grabbed Torie's hand and said, "You must come and extract Val. He just offered to help His Grace with some calculations. He's forgotten that he's only eleven!" The duke had hoisted Valentine up onto the farm wagon beside him and was talking energetically.

Dominic watched as Torie turned her back and walked away with Florence. Perhaps he shouldn't have made that jest about being

shaped for sport.

But she brought up the Shakespeare line; he didn't. She had never seemed prudish before, but suddenly her cheeks had gone

red, and she'd thrown him an irritated glance. He'd blundered.

Or had he?

He could swear there was desire in her eyes when she looked him over. Leonora might have wished for a husband with slender

limbs—which was true of Bufford if you overlooked his barrel-shaped middle—but Torie didn't. She liked the muscular shape

of his legs.

A cautious optimism filtered through him. He could use that to his advantage. No bride wanted to vomit on her wedding night.

The Duchess of Huntington had escorted Florence to Torie's side, but rather than return to the locomotive, she nodded. "Odd

children you have. I like them."

"So do I," Dominic said.

"Someone told me a few years ago that you were betrothed, but Florence says she hopes you marry Miss Sutton."

"My former fiancée chose someone else. After she fell in love," Dominic added, disliking the duchess's shrewd gaze. Like everyone

else, Her Grace probably thought that the jilting was the fault of his temper.

"In my day, happiness in marriage was a matter of chance," Her Grace observed. "I got to know my husband in the carriage after

our marriage ceremony."

She couldn't possibly mean what he thought she meant.

The glint in her eye suggested that was precisely what she meant.

"I expect marriage is always a gamble," Dominic said cautiously.

"Domestic fetters are hard for a woman to accept," the duchess told him. "You could do worse than Miss Sutton."

"Thank you for the advice."

"I suppose you want to be worshipped? Revered? Treated as a mystical being? I doubt she'll do that. She's not the type."

"I have no such expectations," Dominic said, starting to feel distinctly nettled.

The duchess picked up her monocle again and gave him a long stare. "I suspect you chose your previous fiancée based on some

fool notion of a good wife."

He managed not to flinch.

"Tried to find a woman with ladylike skills," she chortled, pleased with herself. "The ability to stitch a sampler and paint

a watery landscape doesn't help a marriage thrive."

"Not everyone can design a chimney," Dominic said, dimly feeling he should defend Torie. "Miss Sutton is an excellent painter

who works in oils rather than watercolors."

"Good," Her Grace said, distracted by the new subject. "I shall commission her to paint the steam engine. It's our fourth

iteration, and only oils can do justice to its red hue."

"I think she mostly paints flowers, not engines," Dominic said.

The duchess's preferred mode of communication seemed to be a snort. "Because the woman's never been allowed to paint anything else." You dunce hung in the air, unspoken. "I don't suppose you've escaped the House of Lords long enough to attend one of the Royal Academy's

exhibitions?"

"I have not," Dominic replied.

"Still life is the lowest genre," she told him. "Biblical paintings are highest, because men love to spy on Bathsheba unclothed, or depict Judith serving up Holofernes's head on a platter. After that comes mythological,

portraiture, landscape, animal paintings... with still life at the very bottom of the list. So, what are women allowed

to paint? Anything that doesn't move!" She snorted again. Loudly.

"Torie also paints rabbits," Dominic said.

"If you manage to persuade her to marry you, get her a tutor, for God's sake. We're taking a trip to Venice, and I'd like

to give a painting of the locomotive to my husband on our return."

"I shall do my best to convince Miss Sutton to become my viscountess," Dominic said, accepting the duchess's point about a

tutor. Certainly Sir William wouldn't have bothered to pay for one.

"I have faith in you, viscount. I'll wait a year or so and commission it then."

"Miss Sutton, whether or not she becomes my wife, will paint only what she wishes," Dominic said with frosty emphasis. "She

has no need to take a commission."

Her Grace's lips parted, and he braced himself for a ducal setdown. Instead, she bellowed with laughter, her monocle spinning

at the end of her ribbon as her bosom heaved.

He caught a whiff of Torie's honeysuckle scent and turned just as she arrived at his side, Florence in tow. "I had no idea you could be so entertaining, Lord Kelbourne," she murmured.

"I have moments," Dominic said. Sunlight turned her curls to beaten silver. "You'd have to marry me to benefit from them."

He leaned over and muttered, "And my sportive tricks."

Torie rolled her eyes at him.

"I should like you to pay me a visit in the country," the Duchess of Huntington said to Torie. "You could bring your easel

and paint some roses, though I admit that the flowerbeds at Huntington Grange have run to weed."

"Dandelions?" Florence asked with interest. "Do you know what a dandelion is?"

"A weed of some sort," the duchess replied.

"No, a dandy-lion is a big cat wearing a dapper hat!"

Torie broke out laughing.

"I miss that," Florence said, slipping her hand into Dominic's.

He looked down, eyebrow raised.

"Her laugh. Torie laughs better than anyone in the world."