Chapter 20

The next morning, Torie twisted the large emerald off her finger and put it on the windowsill where it didn't risk being dabbed

with paint. She was trying to decide if she'd made a terrible mistake.

The twins were so happy. And so was Torie—when she was in the nursery, or when she was kissing Dominic. The rest of the time

she was plagued by serious doubts about how well she and her husband would get along.

She couldn't help thinking that the Duke of Queensberry would have acquiesced to any reasonable request she made. It wasn't

just that His Grace was malleable: he was ready to get married. He wanted a partner in life.

Dom? Not so much.

The more time she spent with him, the firmer her impression that her future husband envisioned his life unchanged by the addition

of a wife, other than in the bedchamber and, of course, the nursery.

The problem wasn't so much that she and Dominic together were as combustible as kindling, but that he really did consider

her primarily a nanny, not a wife.

Perhaps due to her inability to take over the household accounts, Dominic hadn't introduced her to his steward. Although he had chosen Leonora for her hostessing skills, he had told Torie that she needn't fuss if he invited a few people to dinner, because Mrs. Flitwick knew his preferences. Moreover, he noted that he would frequently dine out and she could al ways eat with the twins. Clearly dinners together as husband and wife were not a priority.

Dominic followed that patronizing announcement by giving her such a scorching kiss that she temporarily forgot to challenge

him.

Did he imagine she would dine in the nursery, waiting with bated breath for the moment when her lord and master strode through

the door?

He wouldn't have assumed that attitude with Leonora. Torie's sister would have demanded companionship most evenings. She would

have insisted her husband accompany her to balls and musicales and all the social occasions that the Season offered.

For some reason, he assumed that Torie would rather stay at home, even though she distinctly remembered telling him of her

love for the theater.

Putting that irritating thought away with her betrothal ring, she pulled on her pinafore, enjoying the familiar smell of paint.

At least when she was in her studio, no one thought she was less than a lady. She had mastered ladylike subjects such as roses and rabbits.

A half hour later, she was staring blindly at her canvas, a paintbrush dripping burnt sienna onto the floor, thinking about

the outcome of their wrangle the night before. Dom had given her one of his rare smiles, pulled her into his lap, and said,

"Can't you guess why we argue so much, darling?"

"Because you are wrong?"

"Because I want to claim you as my own. To toss you onto a bed and lick you until you are hoarse with pleasure." He kissed

her. "And you want the same," he added, his voice dark with anticipation.

Of course Torie's mouth had eagerly opened to his kiss. To her surprise, every kiss seemed more intimate than the last, as if they carried memories of all the previous kisses with them.

Her fiancé only had to look at her, and the feeling of his hands caressing her breasts made her breath catch. A whiff of his

citrusy soap made her legs quiver. She tasted his mouth and stopped thinking altogether.

When she was in his arms, the rest of the world fell away; she could imagine herself married, able to kiss him wherever she

wished, rather than in carriages and dark corners. In truth, kissing was the backbone of their relationship, the only activity

during which Dom stopped being argumentative and snobbish and became abruptly enthralled, looking at her with utter fascination.

The viscount talked in the grip of desire. He groaned words into her mouth, whispered them against her skin, even growled them hungrily in her

ear while they were dancing: what he wanted to do, what he planned to do, how she made him feel.

It was all amazingly educational. At home in bed, she puzzled over his promises until she figured out the postures he described.

Luckily, she had discovered one thing that she instinctively knew how to do well. Painting was hard work; seducing Dom was

not. She needed no instruction to run her hands over his nipples, drawing a low groan from his throat. When he traced her

bottom lip with a finger, she nipped it—and then sucked. After that, he kissed her so fiercely that heat pummeled her body—specifically

her most private parts, the ones no one had glimpsed except for her maid.

Around Dom, she was addled not by words, but by feelings. Though he had only taken off his shirt once, in her studio, her hands often slipped under that garment. Touching his hair-roughened chest made her head swim.

She couldn't wait to bed him after their wedding tomorrow.

The only problem was the rest of the time, when he stalked around as if the world was his castle, and his pronouncements had

the magical ability to become fact.

Those pronouncements brought out the worst in her, Torie had to admit. She fought the impulse to counter whatever he said, whether it was as simple as a dislike of picnics, or as complex as an assessment of her relationship with her sister.

One bitter argument had broken out when Dominic announced that he didn't want Leonora invited to the wedding.

He had demanded with raw anger that Leonora not "sully" the ceremony.

"Because she jilted you?" Torie had choked out, appalled to think he cared.

He had barked with laughter. "Hell, no. I won't have her in the church, putting you down. That is not negotiable, Torie!"

How many things would he decide were not negotiable? Would he domineer over all aspects of her life?

Torie had a nauseating feeling that the answer was yes. Dominic always thought he knew best, even when his ideas were based

in ignorance. He didn't understand the relationship she had with Leonora, the sisterly bond that he would never grasp.

On those nights after their nanny withheld Torie's supper because "only lazy children refused to read," Torie would climb into Leonora's bed. Her big sister would give her a roll that she had hidden in her pocket and then read aloud the book that Torie had been instructed to read for the next day. Torie's memory was such that she could "read" perfectly for some time, but inevitably she would continue when she should have turned a page, and Nanny would erupt, instructing her to hold out her hands, palms up.

With a violent shake of her head, Torie dismissed those bad memories and turned to her painting, drawing her brush again across

the cake of burnt sienna.

Two hours later, the door swung open. Out of the corner of her eye, Torie saw Clara close the door in the butler's face.

"Hello, darling," Torie said absent-mindedly. A glow of satisfaction was humming through her body. After months of work, the

painting was finally coming together. It was done. She squinted. Almost done... perhaps a bit more sienna in the lower

right.

Clara moved to stand next to her. "Torie, it's... well, it's not precisely lovely. It's—it's so sad ," she burst out.

Torie dropped a kiss on her cheek. "You think so?"

"Anyone would."

"Dominic described it as ‘nice.' Oh, and ‘meticulous.'"

"Men are philistines," Clara said. "I haven't met one who understands my darling reticules. If not sadness, what were you

aiming at, Torie?"

"I was trying to capture a feeling of time."

"Because the flowers are dying?"

Torie nodded. "A vase of flowers exists for a flicker of time in my life or yours. Think how many blossoms wilt and are thrown away before we even notice a new bouquet appearing on the sideboard. We have so many days, and flowers have so few. Yet we discard them as soon as their petals begin to discolor."

"Not just sad but tragic," Clara muttered, staring at the painting.

"In my painting, at least, the flowers exist for themselves, in their own time," Torie said, knowing her objectives made no

sense to anyone but her.

"It makes me think how fragile everything is. These are beautiful still, even while dying."

"The ironic thing is how many flowers have wilted and died in the months I've been working on the piece, just so I can get

the details right."

"Absolutely worth it," Clara said. "Is this one good enough to hang on your father's wall, or will you give it away?"

Torie gave her a one-armed hug. "I thought I might give it to my husband."

"He'd better treasure it."

"If he doesn't, I'll take it away and send it to you. It's just as well the piece is finished, given the wedding tomorrow."

"I have to tell you something," Clara said, her face suddenly pinched with worry.

"Is your family all right?"

Clara's words tumbled out. "It's Kelbourne, Torie. He took Gianna Peccati to Vauxhall last night. She was wearing a ravishing

diamond necklace, and people say it was a gift to convince her to forgive his marriage."

At first Torie couldn't understand; Clara's words had jumbled in her brain as if they were written down on paper. Then she turned away sharply, realizing her hands were shaking as she took off her pinafore and hung it on the wall.

"Did you know he still had a mistress?" Clara asked. "Because, of course, many women don't care about such matters."

Torie looked blindly out the window rather than at her friend's face. "I didn't."

She hadn't believed his dictum regarding his mistress pertained to her, to their marriage. Not given the way they were together.

The things he said to her. Their kisses.

She had assumed... assumed ! What an idiot she was. His life was continuing in its usual path, marriage or no. Obviously, that life included a mistress,

just as Odysseus's afterlife included a nymph—never mind the fact that Penelope had waited all those years for his return.

"Kelbourne wouldn't have paraded that woman in front of all society if he were marrying Leonora!" Clara said, spitting with

rage like a wet cat. "He wouldn't have dared. He disrespected you, Torie. It wasn't a masquerade night, and no one was wearing

masks. He sat there beside her in the open, eating ham and drinking pink champagne."

"Apparently her tastes haven't changed," Torie said, grimacing. She walked over to the sideboard and began to rub speckled

paint from her fingertips with an oily rag. She felt sick with anger—at him and at herself. Leonora had clarified the question

of faithfulness when she planned to marry him, so why hadn't she?

She knew the answer. It was her own bravado. She had spent her time worrying about whether she would be enough for him—smart enough, in teresting enough—but she assumed that she would be enough in bed , because she walked away from their kisses tingling all over, longing for their wedding night.

Now that emotion sickened her. Perhaps he had been kissing her and then taking his carriage over to Gianna's house and—

Torie wrenched her mind away. She couldn't bear to imagine him in bed with another woman. It wasn't just that the Italian

woman was reputedly so beautiful. Gianna was brilliant; she spoke three languages and could sing in several more. She was

everything Torie wasn't, except Torie was a lady. A possible viscountess.

Obviously, Dominic would have married Gianna, if his mistress had a claim to gentle blood.

"I'm so sorry," Clara said miserably. "I hated to tell you, because I know you genuinely like Kelbourne. But I thought...

it's not too late to rethink this marriage, Torie." She paused. "There's a rumor going around that your father owes him ten

thousand pounds, and you are being forced to marry him rather than the Duke of Queensberry as a result."

Torie sank onto the sofa and put her face in her hands.

"It isn't true, is it?" Clara asked. She plopped down beside her and started rubbing Torie's back. And then, when Torie didn't

answer, she said dismally, "It is true. No wonder Leanora ran away! It's so unfair, Torie. Why should you pay Sir William's debts? It's grotesque, like the

old stories of wives sold at Bartholomew Fair to the highest bidders!"

Torie choked back tears until she trusted herself to lift her face. "That's not true about my father's debts."

Clara pulled her into a hug. "Gentlemen aren't supposed to behave like this, especially not when they're about to be married. My father probably accompanies his mistress to Vauxhall, but only on a masquerade night when he couldn't be recognized. Could you persuade Kelbourne to behave with more decorum after the wedding?"

"I doubt it," Torie said, sitting upright again. "Remember, he told my sister that he would never be unfaithful with a lady,

but that a mistress doesn't count as adultery. Maybe he takes her to Vauxhall every week."

"Poppycock!" Clara growled, her face as bulldoggish as was possible for someone often compared to a cherub. "What if you and

I went to the gardens one evening, and there he was? Eating ham with her ? Could there be a more humiliating moment in a woman's life?"

Torie sighed. "Many men have mistresses. The practice is widespread, Clara. You know it."

Sickeningly, this shame felt worse than being called addled. She was used to that. Starting in her second Season, she had

stopped hiding her illiteracy, admitting her failures with a chuckle.

But this?

True, gentlemen had mistresses, but those men didn't flaunt their coquettes before their wives—or almost-wives. How was she

supposed to react? Was she supposed to chuckle when her husband strolled by, arm in arm with a diamond-clad woman?

He was the one who suggested they befuddle the ton by kissing in public, but how could she claim to be marrying him for any

reason other than coercion when he paraded his mistress before Torie's acquaintances two days before their wedding?

" Please rethink your betrothal. I have a terrible feeling about your marriage." Clara clasped her hands together. "I know you didn't

read Castle Rackrent , but there's a cruel husband named Sir Kit Rackrent who reminds me of Viscount Kelbourne."

"Dominic is not cruel. He can be very kind."

"Kind! Did you hear that he lost his temper the other day and shouted that Lord Bellybrook was ‘false as Hell'?"

"I expect that Bellybrook is one of those people arguing against the antislavery bill."

"Yes, he does have sugar plantations, so my father says," Clara agreed. "Bellybrook is despicable. But shouting ? In the House of Lords?"

"Dominic is passionate. He cares . The bill is important to him."

"I wish he cared as much for you," Clara said flatly. "That you were as important to him."

Torie swallowed hard. No matter how ignorant Dominic was about gossip columns, he had to have recognized numerous acquaintances

last night; Wednesdays were the most popular night of the week to visit the pleasure gardens.

He surely knew that the truth would filter back to her.

Even worse than not caring for her reputation, he didn't care about her feelings.

"Now everyone in London is whispering about your wedding again, and not in a good way," Clara said.

"Luckily, my entire life has prepared me to walk down an aisle tomorrow morning with mocking whispers on both sides." Torie

managed to keep her voice steady.

"Oh, please, won't you jilt him?" Clara implored. "I don't believe you about your father, Torie. Even I know that he gambles to excess. Why should your life be sacrificed as a result?"

If it was just a matter of money, she would jilt him. She would walk the three blocks between their houses, scream an insult or two, and throw the emerald ring at his

face, hopefully taking out an eye.

"The Duke of Queensberry has fallen into such a melancholy that he's fled to Bath," Clara continued. "He would marry you by

special license, and you'd be a duchess. Just think, Torie: yours would be the romance of the Season! No one could call you

‘poor woman' then."

"I can't jilt the viscount," Torie said heavily. "It's too late."

She felt the truth of that statement in her bone marrow. Since their betrothal, she had spent time every day with the twins.

Her feelings for them when Leonora ran away to Wales were nothing to how she felt now, after accepting them as hers , her children. She had so many plans for their happiness and well-being. The morning after the wedding, Torie planned to

fire their grumpy nanny.

As if she were Persephone, she had eaten the pomegranate seeds and doomed herself to the underworld. She would do anything

for Valentine and Florence.

"Pooh!" Clara cried. "Even my mother, who loathes a scandal, thinks you should jilt him. No one would blame you."

Likely that was true. She would only blame herself.

"Shall we go have a cup of tea?" Torie asked, desperate to end the conversation.

Clara waved her hand before her nose. " You have need of a bath, my dear. All I can smell is turpentine. I'll leave you to think about it. I don't like Kelbourne, but please know that I will stand with you no matter what you decide."

Perhaps no one liked him. Dominic wouldn't give a damn.

After Clara trotted down the stairs, Torie sat down and tried to think clearly. She didn't have to accept public humiliation.

She could demand that her fiancé dismiss Gianna. Thinking about the woman's neck glinting with diamonds made her feel positively

feral.

She didn't care for diamonds, but she'd turned into a possessive wretch.

Yet if she demanded that he let the woman go, issuing an ultimatum— keep her or marry me —what would happen?

Dominic was not a man who would respond well to an ultimatum. He didn't like to be told what to do. He'd made it clear in

small and big ways, in complaints and growls. So far, she had stubbornly growled back.

Her stomach screwed into an even tighter knot. If she gave him an ultimatum, he might choose Gianna. After all, they'd been

together—if that was the proper term—for years. At least four years. Quite probably he loved her.

He was merely fond of Torie. His quixotic plan to fight anyone who humiliated her signaled affection, yet the shallowness

of those affections was evident in the fact that he was the one who had humiliated her.

His actions told the world that he not only didn't love her, but he had no respect for her.

After Torie took a bath to wash off the turpentine, Emily helped her put on a promenade dress, burnt sienna just like the

final dabs on her painting.

"The color turns your hair to burnished silver," Emily said, handing her a lacy parasol. "Are you certain you don't wish me to accompany you, Miss Torie?"

"I'm only walking to Kelbourne House," Torie said, looking in the mirror. "I think a bolder lip color, Emily, to balance the

color in my gown."

Emily darted over to the dressing table and came back with a round box. Popping open the cover, she proclaimed, "Love's Last

Sigh. Deep red."

Brilliant.

Just brilliant.