Chapter 13

The next morning, Dominic made up his mind to pay Torie a call, no matter what Sir William thought of it. Besides, he had

a shrewd feeling that his lordship rarely emerged from his darkened bedchamber before afternoon.

He had to bang the knocker several times before the butler appeared, looking as if he'd slept in his slovenly attire.

"I wish to pay a call on Miss Sutton."

"She isn't taking callers," the man said, pushing the door closed with one hand as he straightened his toppling wig with the

other. "She's busy."

Dominic shouldered past and walked through a beery cloud wafting from the butler into the entry. "Is she in her studio?"

"Aye, but she's not chaperoned—"

Dominic cut him off. "Show me to her studio, if you please."

The butler thought about that for a while, brow furrowed, before he began trudging up the stairs. Dominic followed him, thinking

that even if he wasn't set on marrying Torie, he'd want her out of this ill-regulated household.

Was it possible to feel well-intentioned concern—and raging desire?

The butler rapped on a door and then stood aside to let Dominic enter the room before backing out without a word. The man

was remarkably thoughtless. What if Dominic had designs on her virtue?

Which he did.

Torie was standing before an easel positioned in such a way that morning light poured over her shoulder, illuminating a vase of big, fluffy flowers. She wore a simple cotton gown, covered by a canvas pinafore smeared with every paint color imaginable. Her hair was caught up in a chignon, curls escaping to frame her face.

She was exquisite, even when scowling at her easel.

"Good morning, Torie," he called, realizing she hadn't heard the door open.

She glanced over and groaned. "Go away, Dominic. I don't want to marry you."

"But I want to marry you," he argued. He walked forward so he could see her painting, instantly grateful that the Duchess

of Huntington had decided not to commission a painting for at least a year, after Torie had some tutoring.

The cut flowers were fresh and colorful, but Torie's depiction was muted and not nearly as pretty. In her depiction, the vase

sat on a checkerboard table that was slightly distorted, as if she had problems with perspective.

He cleared his throat, trying to think of what to say. He wasn't a man who attended art exhibitions, but anyone could see

that Torie could benefit from a tutor.

She stuck her brush into a can of solvent and pulled off her pinafore, dropping it on a paint-splattered stool.

"Your flower painting is very nice," he commented. That didn't sound praiseful enough. He noticed the three fallen petals,

each curled in different directions, so he added, "Meticulous and graceful."

She had been moving toward a group of chairs on the other side of the room; her shoulders froze, and then she kept walking, throwing an amused comment over her shoulder. "I am confident of my ability to paint flowers, Dominic. You needn't strain your vocabulary."

Feeling a flash of remorse—but honestly, what could one say about wilting flowers?—Dominic seated himself opposite her.

"I don't understand your persistence," Torie said, without preamble. "Can you ill afford to lose ten thousand pounds? Marrying

me won't bring back the money. Even if my first action as your wife—which I will never be—was to fire Nanny Bracknell, you

wouldn't save much."

He shook his head. "That's not a problem. Your father would like to screw me out of another fifteen, which I can afford, if

need be."

Torie bit her lip.

Dominic was wearing his most autocratic expression, the one with which he likely bullied members of the House of Lords into

doing his bidding.

Obviously, Florence and Valentine were still pushing him to propose. She was touched, not just by the fact that the twins

cared for her, but that he cared for them enough to make repeated attempts after being rebuffed. She couldn't imagine he'd

ever had to implore a woman to pay him attention.

Just now he was giving her that intensely observant look again. As if he were truly interested in her thoughts. As if she

were the only woman in the world.

She probably found it so seductive because no man had looked at her that way before.

But she did not want to marry her sister's fiancée out of fondness for two children, finding herself relegated to a nanny and tied to an irascible peer who thought a painting that had taken her months was "nice."

"I do feel guilty about my father's demand," she said, clearing her throat. "Perhaps if I weren't so extravagant, Sir William

wouldn't have exacted money for Leonora's betrothal. I have a weakness for colored silk, in particular, and it's horrendously

expensive."

Dominic shook his head. "If you'll forgive my bluntness, your father is a rogue, not to mention an inveterate gamester."

"Be that as it may, I still refuse your proposal," Torie said, trying to ignore the fact that her heart seemed to have migrated

into her throat and was threatening to suffocate her. She couldn't imagine how his opponents in the House of Lords withstood

his demands. Against all her best instincts, some errant part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms and breathe "yes"

in his ear.

"Why?" Those blue-gray eyes were known for terrifying opponents during debates. Just at the moment, they weren't fierce as

much as—as confused. "True, Queensberry has a higher title, but I have Valentine and Florence, and surely you agree that the

twins trump any benefit that a higher title might bring."

Torie swallowed convulsively. "Because you were going to marry my sister! You were betrothed to Leonora for over two years.

Can't you see how humiliating it would be for me to marry you?"

"No," he said, uncompromisingly. "I feel I am an excellent marriage prospect."

"I promise to remain friends with the twins," she offered.

"Only my wife can see Valentine and Florence both morning and night," he replied, a distinctly calculating tone to his voice. "Only my wife can be there if they fall ill, or... or begin missing their dead parents. Grieving for them."

He caught her expression. "Fine, the last is unlikely. I need a wife who will love the twins and help me talk Val into going

to Eton, rather than banishing them to the country."

She felt as if her heart was being torn in two. "I wouldn't do that unless Eton opens its doors to girls. I do love them.

You know that."

"I do."

"However, I think of you as my brother-in-law. Can you imagine the gossip if I married my sister's fiancé?"

He shrugged. "Who cares what people think?"

That was easy for him to say. The viscount reportedly shouted at anyone who dared disagree with him. Shaming remarks would

follow her around a room, and she couldn't bully the gossipers into silence.

It was one thing if a duke was infatuated enough to overlook her deficiencies. People seemed to find it particularly romantic

that Queensberry proposed despite her addled brains.

It was quite another if she ended up married to her sister's jilted fiancé. The duke looked at her with adoration, the viscount

with calculating interest.

Everyone would be certain that Torie had been forced to accept him. That money had been involved somehow. And they would talk...

oh, how they would talk. Most of the shame would fall on her, but people would mock him as well.

"I care," she told him, embarrassed to be revealing the truth, because generally she pretended to blithely ignore insulting chatter. "Leonora loathes gossip, but I think I hate it even more. People have always chattered about her because she's beautiful and intelligent. That has not been my experience."

"No one will say disparaging things about my wife." Dominic folded his arms, looking for all the world as if he could stop

the tide from coming in to shore.

"In case you're hoping, you will not be able to teach me to read. It won't work. I cannot read. I will never be able to read."

"I understand."

"No, you don't," Torie said. "It's not merely the question of accepting me as a substitute for my more desirable sister. They'll

mock you for marrying me. If we ever have children, they'll be judged witless before they speak their first word. What's more,

I can't cipher, so you'd have to hire someone to keep the household accounts."

"My steward keeps them now, and he can continue. You're overlooking a key point."

She frowned at him. "Which is?"

"Your family should have been defending you. Instead, they left you to face society alone. In fact, they joined in the mockery. That will not continue when you are my wife."

Torie couldn't hide her curiosity. "Just how would you hope to suppress belittling on the part of non-family members?"

"Do you see this rapier?"

Since he was still in deep mourning, Dominic was clothed in black; his black sheath lay almost invisibly against his leg. When he drew out the blade, it wasn't a gleaming silver color, but black as midnight.

"Is that a mourning rapier?" Torie asked, rather fascinated.

"Dull black for the first stage of mourning. I have five rapiers for the various stages."

"You must be joking."

"I never joke about rapiers."

"Leonora said—"

"She thought I should give up the practice as it was causing my muscles to be ‘gracelessly bloated,'" he said dryly. "A direct

quote. Added to your revelation about admiration for golden lads with slender thighs, my deplorable physique presumably led

to her hysteria regarding our wedding night."

"My sister can be very blunt at times," Torie murmured. "Are you proposing to slash your way through polite society in defense

of my wits?"

"I won't stand for anyone hurting my wife's feelings," Dominic said, sliding the blade back into its holster. "A duel or two

will solve that problem. I won't fight to wound but to make myself clear."

He was mistaken—such a duel would cause gossip to flourish—but Torie rather liked the idea of someone offering to defend her.

She habitually fended off mockery through charm, humor, and self-deprecation, but the experience was never pleasant. She'd

rather not label herself silly and frivolous.

"You will marry me because you love Valentine and Florence." There was a surprisingly warm glint in Dominic's eyes, given

that he usually looked as chilly as the north wind.

Torie shook her head, somewhat regretfully. "As I said, I do love them, but I cannot give up my life for them. You want a nanny, not a bride."

"We can have our own children, and by then the twins will be yours too." He hesitated. "Though I do intend to send them to

school."

"I have different ideas about how to raise Valentine and Florence. My ideas do not involve Eton, Latin, Greek, astronomy,

or ciphering half the day, as they are doing now."

He frowned. "They need to be stimulated. They are brilliant."

"And quite bizarre," she pointed out. "I know something about being strange in the midst of polite society. It is not a pleasant feeling."

Dominic's eyes softened. "I'm sorry. But taking away their books won't make them any less intelligent."

Torie suppressed a snappy observation about the fact that her intelligence was constantly in question merely because she had

no book-learning. "They are suffering from lack of attention. You should eat with them every single day."

"In the nursery?" He seemed dumbfounded.

Torie belatedly realized that she did sound like a nanny. She shook her head. "Becoming a nanny would be so belittling, don't

you see? As if I was inadequate to be someone's wife. As a duchess, I'll know my husband prized me , not my child-raising skills."

"You wouldn't be a nanny," he said stubbornly. "You'd be a viscountess."

"You wish to marry me for one reason. No, for ten thousand and one reasons, but mostly for one. The duke will marry me because he's infatuated, and everyone knows it. That's an emotion celebrated by society." She took another deep breath, because she still felt as if the room was short of air.

Rather than accept her logic, Dominic started smiling in the brash manner of men who think they know better. "You're leaving

something out of the calculation."

"What?"

"Let's do a test." He moved and sat down beside her. "A scientific test. Val would approve."

Torie scowled at him. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"I never kissed your sister. Had I tried, I would have uncovered her inclination to vomit while contemplating intimacies with

me. She wouldn't have fled to the dubious protection of Lord Bufford, because we would have mutually agreed to end the betrothal."

Dominic wasn't the first man to suggest that kissing was a way to prove or disprove compatibility. Torie had always refused

on principle. And because she had a horror of bad breath.

Yet she could smell faint peppermint on Dominic's breath, which suggested he used Dr. Peabody's Solution to cleanse his teeth,

just as she did. She felt a little dizzy, so perhaps all the close attention he was giving her had gone to her head. Just

now, his eyes were smoldering, but not with irritation, as when she won at Riddles.

Lust, she registered. It wasn't her first experience with male lust, but the first that her body had acknowledged. Her breathing

sped up again, and a wave of heat swept down her legs.

"Kissing won't change my mind," she said, trying to stick to the main point. "I would still be a gossiped-about nanny."

He frowned. "What role do you envision playing in your husband's life?"

"I'm holding out for a love match."

"Although you'll drop that ambition for the title of duchess?" he said with an edge.

"Queensberry adores me, and love will come in time," she said equally sharply. "The bride you want doesn't resemble me." She

cleared her throat. "To put it a different way, you are planning to fight duels with your oh-so-black rapier because you are

protective of your family, not because you think society's assessment of me is incorrect."

"I shall always be protective of my wife. You may be unable to read, but I see no reason why that fact should be repeated

within my or anyone else's earshot."

Torie drank in the intensity of his gaze, reminding herself that her response was a reaction to novelty. Her head was spinning

because Dominic looked interested in her, in her opinions and desires. It was unsettling.

Well, that and his sheer physical beauty.

But this was her future they were discussing. Her happiness. Her whole life from now on. "What were you looking for in a bride?" she asked, taking

another deep breath.

She followed his gaze to her breasts. Thankfully, her morning gown had a sensible bodice, but he made his point. Apparently,

her bosom qualified for spousal status. Right now, he needed help with the twins, and he liked her appearance, but what would

happen in a few years?

Her deficits would sink in.

"You said that my sister fulfilled your every requirement for a wife," she prompted.

His eyes were suddenly wary. "Yes."

"Do I have any of the attributes you were looking for?"

She had learned a great deal about Viscount Kelbourne in the last months. He didn't lie. He was brusque, impolite at times,

but never false.

"No," he said with obvious reluctance. "You do not." He stood up and brought her with him. "My idea was misguided. It didn't

include this ."

"What?"

"Your appreciation of my shape, as Shakespeare had it," Dominic said, his voice lowering to a rasp. "My body and the way it's

‘shaped for sportive tricks.'"

Torie scowled at him. "Perhaps I too like golden-haired men."

He shrugged. "I can wash my hair in lemons."

She managed a wry smile, eyeing his black-as-midnight hair. "My point still stands. You've only changed your mind about what

you want in a wife because of the twins. In the long run, you would do far better to marry someone who is your ideal. The

twins will grow up and leave, and you'll be stuck with me." She hesitated. "I really can't bear being a disappointment again.

For the rest of my life, in the case of marriage."