Chapter 14

Dominic never liked those moments in the House of Lords when an opponent brought up a good point. In a perfect world, his

would be the only valid arguments, and compromise would mean that he had squashed the opposition. In other words, they would

agree to his logic, and he would generously concede something to assuage their loss.

Very occasionally, he was wrong.

"Stop standing so close to me," Torie demanded. She put both hands on his chest and gave him a little push. "We have no need

for a ‘test.' I understand that you and I—"

Her voice broke off.

"You and I what ?" he asked with interest.

Torie cleared her throat. "I wouldn't vomit on our wedding night. Probably."

Dominic had never stolen a kiss. In fact, he'd never contemplated such a breach of etiquette. When an unmarried lady tilted

toward him with pursed lips, he looked around for the chaperone sure to erupt from a corner and scream about a compromised

reputation. When married ladies did the same, he backed away, having an innate distaste for adultery, compounded over the

years by his sister's blithe disregard for marital vows.

He would have expected to enter Leonora's darkened bedchamber on their wedding night, introduce her to marital intimacy, and

hopefully leave before she lost her supper. Not that they had discussed it; he'd never bothered to imagine her response or

lack thereof.

As he saw it, Torie's promise not to vomit on their wedding night was practically an invitation.

He leaned in, quick as lightning, and brushed his lips over hers. How did he catch an impression of tart sweetness in a mere

second? He felt the shock of that kiss. He went rock-hard, and his heart started up a wild drumbeat.

Torie shook her head. "What on earth are you doing?" she inquired. "You can't run around kissing random women to make up for

your mistakes with Leonora."

"You are not random. You're the woman I wish to marry."

She sighed. "Look, if I put my mind to it, I can find you a bride within the month. Tell me the attributes you're looking

for, other than beauty and ostensible docility."

Dominic swallowed back his frustration. "It wasn't a list of attributes as much as a wish. Or two."

"Such as?" Torie demanded, folding her arms over her chest, which plumped her breasts in an extremely desirable fashion. "I

know I don't meet your standards, but I always hope to learn from my failures."

"It wasn't a matter of success or failure!" he protested.

His conscience prickled to life. Was that the case? Didn't he separate the wheat from the chaff by questions aimed at discovering

whether he and the lady in question would be suitable for each other? Able to successfully converse over the breakfast table?

"I hoped that my future wife and I would have something to talk about in a few years," he explained. "So many couples sit

silently together, even after they've watched a play. It looks depressing."

It looked, though he would never say so, like his parents' marriage. Chilly silences had been the norm.

"I'll give you that," Torie said. "So ask me one of the questions with which you tested my sister for compatibility. Just

so I understand," she added.

"Did you see Molière's Tartuffe ?"

"The French play? Of course I did. Along with most of London, since it was the hit of the Season."

The way her mouth turned down at the edges suggested she shared Leonora's opinion of the performance.

"What did you think of it?" he asked.

She burst into laughter. "You chose your wife based on literary criticism? Leonora's response to a revived French play?" Her

eyes lit up. "You must have agreed with her. Which explains precisely why we would never get along, given our disagreements

over the Odyssey ."

"I didn't look for agreement."

Torie nodded. "I think you missed the mark with Leonora. I don't suppose you noticed her avoidance of idle chatter?"

"Too late," Dominic admitted. He hadn't let himself dwell on it, but he had been disconcerted by the way he and his fiancée

would stand silently together, gazing over a ballroom of babbling guests. Still, she readily offered intelligent opinions

if asked a direct question, and a gentleman never reconsidered a proposal of marriage once a lady had accepted it.

"My sister likely proved her intelligence by offering a sanguine comparison of the performance and original script. I'm sure

she had read the play in French. She adores the language."

Any defense would be foolish, so he held his tongue.

"Unsurprisingly, I haven't read Tartuffe . But I'll tell you what I enjoyed about the performance," Torie said, her eyes mocking him. "I liked the young fellow playing

Damis, especially the scene after he was disinherited, when his shirt ripped in two. I considered that an excellent directorial

choice. My friend Clara sat through the play three times merely to watch Mylchreest prance across the stage half-naked."

"Mylchreest? Who's that?"

"The actor playing Damis."

"I see," Dominic said. If he recalled that scene correctly, Mylchreest's physique had more in common with his own than that

of the Duke of Queensberry, who was on the weedy side. His Grace wore narrow-cut coats with embroidered trim and considered

his rapier an embellishment rather than a weapon.

No one would buy tickets to see the duke half-naked.

"I'm sure my sister offered intellectual commentary," Torie prompted.

"Miss Sutton thought the translator should have retained Molière's twelve-syllable line," Dominic confirmed. "She found the

performance unconscionably lewd."

"Whereas I enjoyed the half-naked actor. The difference between myself and my sister in a nutshell." Torie stood and went

to pick up her pinafore before hanging it on a hook next to the window. "I think we've been unchaperoned for long enough.

I should probably locate my father and make sure he eats something before his morning brandy."

Dominic didn't like her dry tone. Or the fact her father was a drunk. Or... or anything about her circumstances.

"What of you?" he asked. "What are you looking for in a husband?"

She turned around, mischief sparking in her eyes. "Could I choose the actor? Just think of the fascinating questions we could

have over breakfast about the intricacies of French medieval drama! I can scarcely imagine the pleasure."

"I was a fool," Dominic conceded.

"Yes, you were. Still, you knew what you wanted: a sweet, gentle maiden who was your intellectual equal. I couldn't read Tartuffe, so I know nothing about its syllables. I didn't agree with Leonora's stance that the plot was immoral. I thought the half-naked

man strutting across the stage was delightful. In short, I don't fit any of your parameters."

He opened his mouth, but Torie held up her hand. "Don't lower your standards, Lord Kelbourne. The difference between you and

my other suitor is that the Duke of Queensberry has only one. He cheerfully informed me last night that what he wants from

his marriage is a bedfellow able to take a joke."

Rage consumed Dominic like a bonfire. "‘Able to take a joke' about your illiteracy, you mean?" His hand went naturally to

the handle of his rapier before he stopped himself. He could deal with Queensberry later.

"No. The duke is a kind man. He will never mock me. He merely recognizes that marriage is more successful if both people have

a sense of humor."

The implicit reproach spoke for itself. Dominic had no way to defend himself. He didn't grow up in a household that prized cheerfulness. His father's taunts about his dimples had eradicated any impulses Dominic might have had to smile, let alone laugh.

Torie bit her lip. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you think that my refusal is a matter of not loving Florence and Valentine

enough. I am attracted to you, but I too have ideas about my spouse."

"You want him to be able to jest," Dominic said flatly.

"And have fun , simply put."

Dominic repressed an impulse to inform her that he could ensure she had fun in the bedchamber. "My work is serious, not the

bibble-babble you labeled it. What do you mean by fun?"

"A picnic, for example."

"Eating on the ground, sharing food with insects? Picnics are nursery fare. Though not the nursery I grew up in," he added.

"Nor the nursery run by Nanny Bracknell," Torie pointed out. "That woman is as cold as a gravestone, which may explain why

Florence is so obsessed by ghosts."

"My niece is obsessed by graveyards because her parents are dead," Dominic said, giving a bite to his voice.

"Florence scarcely knew them. Thus her easy ability to consider you her father. She has no understanding of the word father ."

"I don't want to marry to ‘have fun,'" he said. "I'd like a partner with dignity enough to prefer not to sprawl on the grass

and share meals with ants."

Her eyes narrowed at his tone. "You prove my point. Sprawling on the grass is one of my favorite activities. Moreover, I would

like to marry someone who isn't cold, self-absorbed, and serious. Need I continue?"

Silence fell as Dominic weighed various rejoinders. Usually he aligned his facts and formulated a plan of attack long before he entered a debate, but Torie's arguments constantly shifted ground. Her latest accusation was a facer.

He couldn't counter her requirements because he didn't know a single jest. He didn't think he was self-absorbed, but he wouldn't,

would he?

"I shall keep your ideal in mind while finding you a bride," Torie promised. "You'll be glad to know that the Duke of Queensberry

has no objection to my visiting your nursery after we marry. His mama supports parentless children as well, the only difference

being that she visits orphanages."

The blasted duke was fighting dirty, giving his future duchess permission to visit another man's house.

"You will visit the nursery, because you'll be living in my house," Dominic stated. But he already knew that such statements

had no effect on Torie. She had to be the most stubborn woman he'd ever met.

At this rate, she'd end up married to a duke simply because she refused to marry him . Frustration leaped through him before he had an idea.

He did have assets that the Duke of Queensberry did not.

He pulled off his coat and tossed it on the couch, followed by his cravat.

"You have an astonishing belief that if you simply say that I'll marry you, the ceremony will miraculously occur," Torie said, before she noticed what he was doing. Her eyes widened

as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. "What on earth are you doing? I've made up my mind to marry the duke."

"Your betrothal hasn't been announced. I mean to convince you otherwise." Dominic untied the knot behind his neck and then reached backward and wrenched his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor.

Torie's lips rounded, but he saw no apprehension in her face. She trusted him. He put his hands on his hips, letting her look

her fill. Some women in polite society wanted their men to resemble reeds. Others did not. He had more breadth in his shoulders

than the young actor in Tartuffe .

Torie appeared to be struck dumb.

Remembering the scene, he pulled out his rapier before he dropped onto a chair, throwing his leg over an arm precisely as

Mylchreest had in the play. "Close enough?" he asked Torie, waggling his eyebrows.

Some women liked rippling muscles. He swung his rapier in case she was one of them.

Torie made a choking sound. "You are cracked." There was a giggle in her voice—and more than that, an undertone of raw desire.

Dominic slung one arm on the back of the chair in case she'd like to assess his biceps. His tailor regularly grumbled that

he was built like Hercules.

He looked over to assess her reaction—and froze. She was standing in front of the window, and her cotton gown followed every

line of her body. The dress was caught up just under her breasts in the new style, designed without the panniers.

Desire roared through him. Every inch of Torie was perfection, from those glorious breasts to the natural curve of her lush

hips, to the surprising length of her legs, given how petite she was.

"Are you having fun yet?" he asked, threading a sensual invitation through the question.

A tide of color swept over her face. "Put your clothing back on," she hissed.

"We haven't finished that scene," Dominic objected. "Though I'm not going to strut across the stage."

Then he rethought it, bounded to his feet, and sauntered toward her. All the time her gaze flicked over him, watching the

play of muscles in his chest. When her teeth bit down on her bottom lip, he knew he had her.

Caught like a fish—his lure being the body Leonora loathed. Not that he really cared about his former fiancée's distaste,

but no one wanted to be told that a woman anticipated gagging after he took off his clothing.

Once he was standing just before Torie, Dominic drawled, "I do know how to have fun, Torie. I have many sportive tricks to

show you."

Her pupils were dilated. She was definitely not queasy.

"I will laugh at your jokes, but never at you," Dominic promised. "I will strut across the room without my shirt whenever

you ask, with no need to purchase tickets. We will have a good marriage, Torie. Better for not agreeing about play productions.

Do you know what I think of that scene?"

She shook her head. He flexed his chest muscles, which made him feel ridiculous but gave her something to look at.

"That actor's shoulders were twice the width of His Grace, the Duke of Queensberry, and mine are broader than his. Perhaps

you didn't consider such shallow traits when imagining yourself a duchess?"

She dragged her eyes away from the trail of hair that disappeared into his breeches. "Certainly not." She almost managed to sound disdainful, but her voice was too breathy to achieve it.

"I didn't when proposing to Leonora, either. She and I would have had a wretched marital life, our intimacies limited to unhappy

encounters aimed solely at creating an heir."

Torie cleared her throat. "Clothe yourself, if you please. What if someone walks in?" Her eyes narrowed. "Don't think I'll

marry you because you compromised me. I won't, even if you stroll out of here naked as a jaybird."

He put his hands on his waistband and waggled his eyebrows. Thereby proving he did have a sense of humor.

"I wasn't suggesting that!"

"I would never coerce a woman to marry me," Dominic said.

"A terrible basis for marriage," she agreed.

"In choosing Leonora, I was stupid enough to think that the kind of affinity you and I share was unimportant."

"Affinity?" she repeated.

"Desire. Your sister looks like a toothpick," he said, deciding that only brutal honesty would prove his case. "You"—he let

his eyes caress her generous curves—"don't. Ours won't be the marriage I foolishly thought I wanted. It will be better." He

reached out and took her hands, drawing her slowly toward him before he turned her palms against his bare chest.

She startled, so perhaps she felt some of the visceral shock that exploded in his body at her touch.

"We'll be true partners," Dominic said, his voice rough with desire. "I don't need a wife who can read in French or English. I've no interest in syllabic lines. I don't care if you have no idea of the prime minister's name."

She had been staring at his chest, but she looked up at him, frowning. "As it happens, I have met him several times. Did you

actually have requirements ?"

"No," Dominic said. He hesitated, but then decided to be honest. "Leonora impressed me with a coherent discussion of the latest

farm bill, as reported in the London Times . Obviously, you can't do the same, but it's not your fault."

"Do you know how condescending you sound?" Torie demanded.

"I suspect that marrying you will knock that out of me." A sense of well-being spread through him, and his arms circled her

waist. "All we have to do is show the ton precisely how we feel about each other, and no one will mock our marriage. Do you

know how few married couples—in polite society, at least—have any fun in the bedchamber?"

"Queen Charlotte and King George," she said instantly. "All those children."

Dominic bent toward her and brushed his lips over her generous mouth. "I don't mind having fifteen children with you. I think

it would be f—"

She cut him off. "Don't say it."

"We could conceive one of them on a picnic," he said, running his tongue along the line of her bottom lip. "Surrounded by

ants."

She giggled even as her flush deepened. "You can't— We couldn't—"

"I'd prefer a blanket to sprawling in the grass, but Torie? I'll make love to you anywhere you'll have me."

"Outside the bedchamber?" she asked, apparently flabbergasted by the notion.

Of course Torie was a stranger to passion; she likely believed lustful acts could only be performed on a marital mattress. Her mother was long dead, and Leonora was hardly the sort of woman to discuss connubial matters. He shelved that problem for another day. "May I kiss you?"

"Oh, bloody hell," she muttered. "This is going to happen, isn't it?"

Dominic froze and let the words filter through his mind two or three times before he allowed himself to recognize that she

had just accepted his proposal: not gracefully, but resignedly.

They were getting married. He'd won the argument with a strategy he'd come up with at the last moment.

He wanted to snatch her up and take her back to the couch to engage in debauchery that most ladies wouldn't abide before marriage,

and perhaps even after marriage. He had the feeling that Torie would match his inventiveness, if he didn't scare her off before

the altar.

Not that she was at all like Leonora.

"Yes, this is going to happen," he stated. "You're mine." Still, one thing was making him uneasy, and he had to bring it up

to ease his conscience while she still had a chance to turn him down. He frowned, considering how best to phrase it.

"Something is bothering you. My children may be unable to read," Torie said, her voice brusque.

"I had no intention of asking that!" Dominic said, startled.

"Like me, my mother couldn't read. My father had no idea until she signed the parish register with an X."

Despite himself, his jaw tensed. The idea of a Viscountess Kelbourne signing the family Bible with an X was daunting. On the other hand, that X would have made his father burn with rage, which was an excellent reason to marry an illiterate woman.

"I can sign my name," Torie snapped.

"That wasn't what was bothering me," Dominic said. "My question is about what you want in a husband. You told me that you

wanted to marry for love, and I am not a man who falls in love," he said, trying to be as clear as possible. "I doubt it's

in me."

Torie's eyes lightened to an exquisite cornflower blue. " That's your oh-so-important concern in response to my acceptance of your proposal?"

"You didn't precisely accept," Dominic pointed out. "I would describe your comment as a disgruntled recognition of reality.

Not a desirable reality, apparently."

"I am putting away childish things," Torie told him.

"Did you mean to quote Corinthians?"

Her mouth tipped up on one side. "Chapter 1, verse 11. ‘When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I

thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.' Let's turn that from ‘man' to ‘woman,' and define

‘childish things' as the dream that someday I would fall in love."

Dominic raised an eyebrow. "But the duke loves you, no?"

"His Grace did tell me I was driving him mad, and his insanity could only be cured by marriage."

What an idiot.

"His adoration didn't spur yours, I gather?" Dominic asked.

"No." She gave him a rueful smile. "This is my third Season, and I've seen the best that London has to offer along with a great many of the worst on offer. I haven't felt the slightest pang of love, let alone come close to madness."

"Neither have I," he offered. He grinned back at her, thinking that he had found just the right woman. How often had he silently

rolled his eyes when gentlemen claimed to be in love? "After the disaster of my first betrothal, there's only one thing that

I desire in a wife. Honesty."

Her forehead pleated. "Fidelity?"

"No, honesty. Just being yourself as opposed to the proper lady you think I want."

"As it happens, I am not good at being anything else. My defects are far too well-known for me to fool you or anyone else,"

Torie said with a distinctly happy note in her voice.

Dominic picked up her hand and regarded it: slender fingers, fine bones, speckles of paint, a callus. He rubbed it.

"From holding a paintbrush," she explained.

He kissed her hand. She smelled of turpentine and paint.

"This is going to happen, isn't it?" he drawled.