Chapter 18

May 16, 1802

Kelbourne House

Two weeks later, a groom in majestic livery appeared in Torie's studio. "His lordship the Viscount Kelbourne, Miss Florence,

and Master Valentine request the honor of your presence at the evening meal." He paused and added with emphasis, "To celebrate

the third reading of the banns pursuant to your upcoming marriage."

"All right," Torie said, amused. Presumably that meant the twins' table manners had finally met their tutor's exacting standards.

The children were being allowed to eat in the dining room.

He bowed again and retreated backwards, leaving her to wonder how such a stately household would feel the first time she rose

at midnight and went to her studio, bundling a pinafore over her nightgown.

Perhaps she could paint in a room next to her bedchamber, so the household staff wouldn't be aghast to find the viscountess

downstairs at dawn, unkempt and half-dressed. Of course, the chamber next door would presumably be her husband's...

Their marriage was only two weeks away, which meant that Dominic would soon sleep in a bed close by. A mind-boggling thought.

She was prying open a tin of oil-resin gel when a thought struck her, a natural segue from the question of bedchambers. Should she have declined his invitation to dinner on the grounds that she would be unchaperoned? She had been blithely visiting the nursery, but a formal dinner with an unmarried man, albeit one's fiancé, was decidedly more audacious.

Yet did anyone really care?

Biting her lip, Torie ground crimson powder into the "gumtion," as her chemist called the gel. Her sister had left without

bidding her goodbye. Her father was meandering along in the pleasant life he'd chosen, all the hard edges rubbed off by a

golden haze of brandy.

The gumtion dried faster than she liked, and her fight to get the luminosity of a petal just right made her late to dinner.

When she finally walked into the drawing room—unchaperoned—she found Dominic seated in an armchair, with Florence and Valentine

perched on the sofa opposite him. The twins were immaculately dressed and obviously on their best behavior.

"‘Trifle not,'" Florence intoned with a dramatic shudder. "‘Hasten to tell me what you saw in the great chamber upon opening

the door.'"

Torie waved at Florence as she walked in, mouthing, "Don't stop."

"‘Tell me, I adjure thee by the souls of my ancestors, what thou seest? What hath thou heardst?'" Florence demanded.

"I don't like ‘heardst,'" Val objected. "Anyway, I think it should be ‘heardest.'"

"Never mind. She's finally here!" In moments like this, when Florence's arms wound tightly around her, Torie knew deep inside

that she was right to marry Dominic. Her girlish dreams of marrying for love?

She was marrying for love.

The conversation at dinner turned to the Odyssey , specifically the Greek idea of Elysian Fields, the afterlife peopled by golden-haired, welcoming nymphs.

"It's only for heroes? What about Odysseus's wife, Penelope?" Florence demanded, her little mouth turning down in disgust.

"Where will she go?"

Torie let Dominic take the lead on that tricky issue. He floundered about, explaining heroic traditions rather than answering

Florence's question.

"Not good enough," Florence retorted. "If Odysseus is married, he shouldn't be with anyone else." Her voice was ferocious.

"Neither of us thinks adultery is a good idea, given our mother's behavior," Valentine remarked.

From Dominic's appalled expression, he had had no idea that the twins were aware of his sister's reputation. He looked to

Torie in desperate appeal.

"You and I are not yet married," she reminded him. "Surely this is a moment for paternal advice."

"Please." Dominic so rarely admitted a need for help that she gave in.

"Your mother's behavior does not reflect on you," she told the children. "We try to think kindly of the dead, so let's concentrate

on Lady Dorney's best characteristics."

Dominic was supposed to leap at her prompt, but he just dragged a hand through his short curls, which gave him an adorably

rumpled appearance.

Very unlike the Viscount Kelbourne of debating fame.

Florence kicked the table leg so hard that the wood groaned. "I still don't understand why Odysseus would bother with these

golden-haired nymphs. He had Penelope."

Once again, Dominic didn't respond, so Torie tried to explain. "Some people feel that a spouse isn't enough. They dream of variety."

"Variety in appearance? Was Penelope described as having yellow hair?" Valentine asked. "I can't remember."

"Homer describes her as loyal and intelligent, which is far better," Torie replied.

There was a brief digression after Florence uttered a comment that she'd overheard in the stables, which was instantly added

to the Prohibited List.

"Odysseus had connubial relations—Torie, connubial refers to the marital bed—with all sorts of women," Valentine pointed out. "He wasn't faithful to Penelope. He was the sort

of man who prefers variety."

Dominic promptly added "connubial relations" and "marital bed" to the Prohibited List. Torie was growing distinctly irritated

by the fact that her fiancé seemed to consider the censorship of improper words his sole responsibility, as if Val could discuss

adultery without them.

"Some men view infidelity as an ambition rather than a prohibition," she said. "And now I think we should talk of something

or at least some one else. I'm tired of Odysseus."

That led, as she expected, to a firestorm of protest, taking the conversation in a different direction.

After the twins returned to the nursery, Dominic escorted Torie back to the drawing room, where Flitwick offered her tea,

sherry, port, or hot chocolate.

"A cup of sherry would be lovely," she said, drifting across the room to look over a stack of books.

"You should never have said anything so inappropriate about infidelity," Dominic stated once Flitwick left the room. "In fact, you should have headed off the entire unseemly conversation."

Rumpled and adorable as he sometimes appeared, he had a positive gift for chilly observations. Rude observations. That tight jaw wasn't adorable at all.

Just as she had feared, it seemed a nanny's twill dress and apron had dropped over her head.

"I would have preferred that you step forward and manage that conversation yourself, given that your sister's behavior was

at the heart of the matter," Torie said, keeping her voice cordial with an effort. "But one grows used to male cowardice."

"Cowardice had nothing to do with it!" he snarled.

Torie leaned back against the mantelpiece, rather enjoying herself. "Yet the great debater of the House of Lords, the man

famous for his withering setdowns—not to mention his bellowed retorts—couldn't steel himself to answer questions about a Greek

epic?"

"Valentine referred to my sister's infidelity. What in the hell was I supposed to say? How did they know that?"

"The whole world knows of it, unfortunately. Having met Lady Dorney only once, I was unable to list your sister's better qualities,

so I gave you the chance to do so." She took a sip of sherry and raised an eyebrow.

Dominic's mouth tightened.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Torie cried. " Your only knowledge of your sister springs from her dalliances with men? Or you were so overwhelmed by her sins—which gentlemen

of every stripe indulge in daily—that you have forgotten who she was as a person?"

"I didn't know her," he said.

Torie found herself, for the first time in her life, thinking that she might sketch a face rather than a rose, trying to catch

the interesting panels of Dominic's cheeks, the curl on his broad forehead, his dark eyes. Offended eyes.

"I was sent to Eton at the age of seven, and even before that, we had little contact."

"You must have overlapped in the nursery," Torie said.

"She was sent to seminary when I was five."

"Then you should make something up. Those children need to know more of their mother than her scandals."

"My point was not in reference to my sister's lamentable marriage, but to your remarks about infidelity."

"Ah," Torie said sweetly. "You didn't care for my observation that men consider fidelity a vague suggestion rather than a

commandment? After all, I have heard it said that sleeping with a courtesan doesn't count as adultery. Yet I believe that

Exodus 20:14, also known as the seventh commandment, would not concur that payment creates a special exception."

Dominic put down his sherry with a click. "The subject is unsuitable for children."

"One could say that Odysseus earned the nubile nymphs in the afterworld by right of his meandering heroic adventures with various goddesses, pigs, one-eyed giants,

et cetera," Torie continued, ignoring his sour comment. "But is that the same as the hero offering coin to such a nymph? Or

a husband to a mistress?" She tapped her chin with one finger.

Dominic looked furiously annoyed—and then suddenly amused.

Torie's heart thumped. He was handsome when he lost his temper, eyes flaring and all the rest. But when his face softened

into laughter?

"Thankfully, I am not in charge of legislating morality within marriage or literature. But I do remember a story that I could

tell the twins about their mother."

Torie picked up her sherry and let a spicy swallow course down her throat. "Yes?"

"One Christmas, I was home from Eton and she from seminary. I must have been seven, so she was around nine. She was looking

out the window of the nursery at the drive before the house when she suddenly turned around and bolted out of the room."

"Did you follow her?"

"I? No. I was memorizing Latin verbs."

"Of course you were."

"She returned to the nursery with a soggy young rabbit in her apron. She'd fished it out of the Italian basin that marks the

center of the shell drive."

"The rabbit was in the basin?" Torie repeated, fascinated.

"It's a large fountain that my mother had imported from Florence, with a looming statue of Poseidon with two hippocampi."

"Which are?"

"Sea horses spewing water."

"Did the rabbit survive?"

"Yes. My sister dried him out by the fire. He spent two days in the nursery."

"Your sister was heroic," Torie said with satisfaction. "She rescued that poor animal from the grim fate of drowning. Did

she give it a name?"

"Parsley," Dominic said, frowning at the floor.

"Named for his favorite food, I assume. She was softhearted and loving. What happened to Parsley?"

"We let him go in the woods when Nanny refused to let him stay another night in the nursery. I'd forgotten... She cried

for hours that night."

Dominic's hand was clenched around his sherry glass. Torie walked over to him. "I like to think of the two of you setting

Parsley free."

"I was afraid of the dark woods, but she wasn't. She was never afraid."

He looked wary and uncomfortable, as if he'd surprised himself with that memory.

"Another quality to share with her children," Torie pointed out.

Dominic gathered her into his arms, even though they had no audience. "You smell of soap and turpentine."

"I had a bath, but the fragrance lingers. Do you find it bothersome?"

He started kissing her neck. "I shall require closer proximity to reach a conclusion."

Torie relaxed against him. For all her middle-of-the-night fears about this marriage, there were moments—during Florence's

hugs or Dominic's kisses—when she was surprised by happiness.

Before her betrothal, joy came after a painted rose petal finally caught the light the way she had imagined: a private emotion

based on satisfaction.

This was altogether different, and yet the intensity, the utter concentration, felt the same. If a painting was going well, the image was all she thought about. She ate absent-mindedly, thinking how to give a petal the luminosity of silk. When she was kissing Dom, the world faded away in the same manner. Instead of petals, she focused on the silk of his tongue, the rasp of his voice, the rising heat in her body.

She drew a line with one finger from his forehead, down his nose, to his lips. "I'm about to say something shocking."

"Go ahead." Why should two words, two small words, make her flush and imagine all the many ways she could go ahead ?

Torie cleared her throat. "I am looking forward to marriage, especially that..." She couldn't bring herself to say it.

"Especially, I hope, to the marriage bed?"

"Yes, to the marriage bed," Torie said. She cleared her throat. "That."

"Yes, that ."

"When you smile like this"—she touched his bottom lip again—"no one in the House of Lords would recognize you."

"Good." His lips drifted along her jaw. "No one has ever seen this expression on your face before, either."

She wondered dimly what he saw, but his lips covered hers in a deep, open-mouthed kiss that burned away her focus—and bubbling

up in its stead?

Happiness.