Chapter 15

Sir William was not happy with Torie's announcement. "What am I to tell the duke?" he grumped at luncheon. "What's more, you're

asking me to give up the eight thousand that His Grace offered."

Torie rarely flatly contradicted her father, but this time she leaned across the table and said fiercely, "The viscount will

never pay you for the honor of marrying me. You may consider yourself lucky that he is not demanding that immoral payment you extracted

from him two years ago."

"Christ, you look like your mother when you go all disproving," Sir William snapped. "You shouldn't interfere in men's business."

"You shouldn't have gambled away my dowry," she retorted.

"I suppose you'd better tell Kelbourne to come over tomorrow morning," her father said, ignoring her reproach.

Out of her earshot, Sir William wouldn't hesitate to renew his demand for money. "I shall invite him for dinner, and you may

offer your congratulations then," Torie said coolly. "I shall write to the Duke of Queensberry and inform him of my decision."

"His Grace won't like it," Sir William said, with some truth. "The man's infatuated. You'll never be able to control Kelbourne

that way. You're making a mistake, mark my words."

He wasn't wrong about His Grace's feelings.

Queensberry arrived a mere hour after delivery of her note—written by Emily, of course. He im plored, begged, and generally made it clear that he would be a most amenable husband.

Torie felt genuinely sorry. But at the same time, she couldn't help comparing the two men. The duke was a perfectly fine specimen

of his lineage. He spent his days in his club when he wasn't visiting his tailor.

Moreover, though she hadn't noticed until Dominic pointed it out, Queensberry's legs were toothpicks. White silk stockings

with clocks up the side together with red-heeled shoes were not flattering.

He finally left with tears in his eyes; her father stomped into the drawing room as the ducal carriage pulled away and indulged

himself in a long rant on the idiocy of his daughters. Having heard it before, Torie let the words flow over her while she

considered how to break the news of her betrothal to the ton.

Dominic was right: they had to show everyone a motive for marriage. Yet she didn't want anyone to think that Leonora had married Bufford because her younger sister

had been bedding her fiancé.

It was a conundrum.

They could not circumvent the banns with a marriage license. They would have to wait the full three weeks and then at least two

more, marrying in the cathedral, with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal wedding, albeit royalty in half-mourning.

Her father finished his first diatribe and started a new one to do with his wretched luck as displayed by a wager that a goose

wouldn't eat strawberries. Apparently, the bird in question had gobbled down an entire quart.

Torie ignored him, trying to imagine Dominic looking at her with Queensberry's adoration. He wouldn't.

He couldn't .

She had the feeling Dominic was constitutionally unlikely to fall in love and certainly would never reveal the feeling. He'd

consider it akin to an embarrassing illness. In fact, he would probably be outraged if he felt a prickling of adoration or,

even worse, devotion.

Which was fine, because she didn't adore either of her suitors. She was making a rational decision, considering each man on

his merits.

Emily was in a flutter of excitement. "I just can't believe it!" she kept exclaiming over and over as she was dressing Torie

for dinner. "Of course, he is that handsome, isn't he, miss?"

"Yes, he is."

"How lucky that new evening dress was just delivered."

"You don't think that it's too risqué?" Torie asked doubtfully. Her new gown was in the very latest fashion, a design taken

from a French fashion magazine and worn without panniers or stays, merely a small, unboned corset to support her breasts.

"For whom would you wear it, if not for your future husband?" Emily answered, reverently placing the gown on the bed. "Lady

Bufford would never have worn this gown. You must set yourself apart from your sister, Miss Torie."

It still felt strange to think of Leonora as Lady Bufford. She had the feeling that her sister would consider their engagement

entirely her doing, given that she'd suggested Torie mother the twins. But Dominic desired her; he wasn't marrying her only

for the sake of Florence and Valentine.

The gown had blush-colored skirts and an overskirt of "silver spot lace," or so the modiste called it. Torie had never seen fabric painted with metallic silver paint before. She'd bought the entire roll, thinking that she would drape a table and throw roses carelessly on top, resulting in the kind of still life that Clara adored.

Emily piled Torie's hair atop her head and bound her curls with three silver bands, adding a pearl necklace and earrings,

and finally, white silk gloves. "You are late downstairs, but Lord Kelbourne won't mind once he sees you! Would you like lip

color?"

"Not tonight," Torie said, which made Emily dissolve into naughty giggles. Lip color was for display rather than kissing,

since it tasted like fish oil.

Torie walked down the stairs, smoothing her long white gloves. It was absurd to feel nervous. She wouldn't if the Duke of

Queensberry had arrived to dine. But Dominic was... so much more . More powerful. More male.

The sheer force of his masculinity swirled about him like a windstorm.

When she walked into the drawing room, their butler was nowhere to be seen, and Dominic was gazing out the window. He turned

and froze.

"You have dimples when you smile," she said, walking toward him.

Dominic hadn't even known he was smiling.

He started toward Torie, forcing himself to look at her face rather than the rest of her. Her gown was somewhat gaudy, painted

with odd metallic circles that sparkled under the chandelier. But he didn't care, not when it skimmed her curves so beautifully.

"I shouldn't worry that others will discover your secret dimples, given that you smile so rarely," she told him as they met

in the middle of the room.

"I've hated them since I was but a boy, yet I can't stop smiling around you," Dominic said, capturing Torie's lips with his own.

She tasted of peppermint and tea. Fire exploded in his loins as her tongue met his with sensual joy, her arms winding around

his neck.

He brought up his hands to cup the back of her head, plunging greedily into her honied mouth as his tongue dipped between

her lips over and over in a carnal dance, a seduction, an erotic invitation.

"God, I want you," he muttered, words erupting in a husky growl. "I want to throw you on a couch and rip off your dress. I

want to kiss you for hours, licking my way down your body."

Leonora—and most other ladies, for that matter—would have fainted at his hunger to bed her, let alone his frank expression

of desire.

Not Torie. Her inarticulate gasp encouraged him to deepen the kiss, turn it hotter, rougher, less gentlemanly. It turned to

a possessive statement, a silent way of informing her that now she was his. She was his .

"May I unbutton your gloves?" he asked hoarsely.

She nodded, and he slowly peeled them back and then kissed every bare finger before pushing back his coat and flattening her

palms against his linen shirt. "I am not wearing a waistcoat," he told her. "Just in case I was lucky enough to feel your

touch."

When he finally pulled back from that kiss, Torie's hands were roaming his chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

She let out a low, breathy sigh as his hands slid around her head to frame her face while he waited for her to meet his eyes. Long lashes finally swept up. "We'll be incredible in bed," he told her, low and deep. "I'll work you until we're both covered with sweat, and then I'll lick your sweat from your body. You'll ride me until you're panting and my heart is about to burst from my chest."

"Dom!" Torie sounded outraged, but her eyes betrayed fascination. She didn't squeal and run from the room.

"No one has called me Dom since my sister died." He loved hearing the name on Torie's lips.

"You said... Those things you just said were vastly improper." Torie kept her voice steady, but an aching undertone betrayed

her.

"You are no lady," he said, nipping her lower lip.

"I am," she retorted, slinging her arms around his neck and, to his infinite delight, nipping him back. "I know everything

about being a lady. How to curtsy, how to giggle, how to paint roses."

"Ladies kiss by pursing up their lips as if they were hiding a treasure behind their teeth."

She wrinkled her nose. "I kiss like a man?" He loved her wry tone.

"You kiss like a woman." He put his hands around her waist, allowing his thumbs to caress the generous swell of her breasts.

"No stays? No whalebone?"

"These new French dresses are worn with a little corset." She blinked. "Surely ladies' undergarments are on the Prohibited

List?"

"Miraculously, they haven't come up in conversation yet. I thought you weren't wearing stays yesterday." He knew his smile

was wolfish, but on the other hand, she liked his dimples.

"I don't wear one while painting," Torie confessed. "No one can see under my pinafore."

Jesus. Lust coursed down his limbs, sanity lost.

"I shall put a couch in your painting studio in our home," he promised hoarsely. "I'll come back from the House of Lords at luncheon just to see you. Throw you on your back and wrench up your gown."

Torie bit her lip.

"Watch you sprawl before me, laughing. Push your legs apart and lick you, because I'm so hungry for you that I've had a cockstand

all morning."

She made a stifled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. "I've never heard of such a thing."

Dominic nodded, seeing an opening for a question he'd wanted to ask. Torie couldn't read; her mother was long dead; her sister

had fled. "What do you know about copulation?"

She frowned.

"About ‘having' in the Biblical sense?" he amended.

Her eyelashes fluttered, but being Torie, she didn't gasp with ladylike horror at the question. Instead, she met his eyes

with her clear gaze. "I've watched animals... rabbits."

If he grinned this often, it might become a habit. "How do rabbits mate?"

"The male rabbit grips his mate's throat with his teeth," Torie said primly, but her eyes were dancing.

"Like this?" He pulled her more tightly against his stiff cock and nipped her neck.

A shiver went through her. "Yes," she said breathlessly, pulling away. "Then he passes out."

"What?"

"It's true! I've seen it several times. He falls unconscious and topples to the side."

"Bloody hell," Dominic muttered, feeling sorry for males of the Lepus genus. Poor blokes.

"I have wondered if that was true of men, but I haven't had a chance to clarify it, for obvious reasons."

"Not in my case," Dominic said. "Perhaps I can give you so much pleasure that you pass out. We'll have to test the hypothesis

that men and women are like rabbits. Scientifically, by repeating the test many times. Of course, we may end up with fifteen

children, like Queen Charlotte."

"As do rabbits!" Torie said, gurgling with laughter.

Dimly, amid one of the most scorching kisses of his life, Dominic realized that he didn't give a damn about theatrical criticism

or parliamentary debates. Or anything other than her, the woman standing before him smelling like honeysuckle, her fingers

leaving an impression like hot coals on his chest.

They should have a short betrothal.

Very short.

"Is Sir William joining us?" he asked.

"He is supposed to chaperone us," Torie said, catching her breath. "Which brings me to an important point, Dom. There will

be no preempting the wedding night." She fixed him with an uncompromising gaze.

"Of course," he said readily. "I suggest we marry by special license." He could buy one in the morning; they could marry in

the afternoon.

She shook her head. "Absolutely not. If we intend to... to give the polite world the impression that we are happy to marry—"

"Because we are," he growled, snatching her into a kiss.

Later, Torie said breathlessly, "We can't marry by special license."

Dominic tried to look inquiring rather than aggravated. The marriage date was a lady's purview, which had proved problematic during his first engagement, although in retrospect, Leonora's hesitation had been for the best.

"Don't scowl at me like one of those tigers in the Royal Menagerie!"

Apparently he hadn't achieved placid inquiry. "I'd like to marry you tomorrow," Dominic said, somewhat surprised by the desperation

in his voice.

"I thought about it most of the night," Torie told him. "If our marriage is to be accepted as an affair of the heart—as per

your idea—then our betrothal must be conventional and include the reading of banns."

Affair of the heart?

Dominic flinched. He was going to disappoint her.

"Don't be so silly," Torie said, rolling her eyes. "I'm not in love with you. I'm merely asking you to perform not Tartuffe but Romeo and Juliet. Supposedly the greatest love story ever written. We can pretend to be lovesick fools, because we can scarcely tell society

the truth, can we?"

"That I want to smoke your chimney and ring your chimes?" He grinned because, damn it, he did have a sense of humor, albeit

of a particular sort.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'll explain at a later date," Dominic said, deciding the drawing room wasn't the place to inquire about her orgasmic experiences,

if any.

"If we wish to convey the idea that you are overlooking my deficits due to infatuation, we have to kiss in front of a great

many people."

"You have no deficits," Dominic said instinctively.

She didn't roll her eyes, but the feeling hung in the air.

"We're giving them a reason why you're marry ing me, other than that you need a nanny or my father owes you money. Yet we can't risk people thinking that Leonora fled with Bufford because her younger sister shamed her by seducing a viscount. Her viscount."

"Ah. I see that," Dominic conceded. "At the moment, they think that she fled my temper."

He no longer cared what they thought about his broken engagement. He wanted Torie, and if he had to wait to marry her, he

would.

"No rabbiting?" he asked, just to be clear.

"None."

"When do we perform Romeo and Juliet ?"

"Tomorrow, because the play is opening at the Theatre Royal Haymarket." She laughed. "I know that Clara will attend as Mylchreest,

the actor she likes, is playing Romeo. She'll certainly be surprised by our kiss."

"I have no box at Haymarket," Dominic remarked. "My father preferred Drury Lane."

She flicked him a look from under her lashes. "Then you'll need to take a box by tomorrow night, won't you?"

Dominic nodded. "You should wear this gown. The spots will glitter under the candelabra and catch every eye."

"Do you like it? I've never worn it before."

"Yes, certainly the... the shape of it," he said cautiously. "No stays. Every man in the theater will celebrate French

gowns. The fabric? Not as much."

Torie narrowed her eyes. "Your honesty is refreshing, sometimes ."

"It's a bit gaudy."

She folded her arms over her chest. "Like a circus costume?"

"I've never been to the circus. I don't care what you wear to the theater," he said with rough sincerity, drawing her back into his arms. "Wear nothing at all," he said, kissing her neck. "Please."

When Torie laughed, Dominic couldn't believe that he hadn't grasped two years ago how sensual she was.

"This gown will scandalize half of London, but there's no need to send them into apoplexies with nudity," she said.

"Kissing me in front of everyone will scandalize the other half," he pointed out. "I'll have the banns read for the first

time on Sunday, and for two consecutive weeks... and then we marry, Torie."

"At least two weeks after the third banns," she said firmly. "I shall wear a gown in this style, making it clear I am not

carrying a child." She looked down. "Not that my stomach is as flat as yours."

"If we don't have a child for nine months after marriage, no one can possibly think I married you for that reason."

"As long as there's no rabbiting," she said. "I attend performances at every theater, by the way. So we can polish our roles

every week before our wedding."

Thankfully, he caught back a stupid question just in time. Of course she went to the theater weekly. Unless someone read aloud

from the Odyssey or another book, she lived in a world without stories.

"It's acceptable for a betrothed couple to attend the theater without a chaperone, but I think it would be wise if we were

prudent," Torie added.

"I'll invite the Duchess of Huntington and her husband to join us at Romeo and Juliet ," Dominic said. "The two rarely visit London, and their presence in our box will ensure that all eyes will fix on us."

"Very clever," Torie said approvingly.

"Husbands and wives don't only dance the horizontal jig in bed, you know." He brought her hands up to his mouth and kissed

first one, then the other.

"Oh?"

"A husband could read aloud to his wife in bed. Not epics or gossip columns, but perhaps novels?" He scoured his memory. "Florence

likes Castle Rackrent , which I believe you gave her."

"You would read that aloud to me?"

He nodded. He would do almost anything to make her happy, but he quickly buried that thought.

Torie's soft mouth trembled before curving into a smile. "Bed may become my favorite place," she whispered.

Dominic groaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest. "Until now, the debating floor of the House of Lords has been mine."