Chapter 3

February 13, 1802

The Drawing Room

Kelbourne House, London

The twins were holding hands.

They were a peculiar-looking pair, to Torie's mind: light-framed and pallid, with pale green eyes and narrow chins, perhaps

ten or eleven years old. Their black clothing made them resemble skinny ravens.

The children had not been invited to attend their parents' funeral or the interment, since outbursts of violent emotion—such

as offspring of the deceased were likely to experience—were discouraged at such occasions.

In truth, they showed no signs of grief.

The girl was twisting one foot behind the other to rub her ankle; her heavy black stockings must itch. Their nanny cuffed

her on the shoulder, and she subsided before switching legs and starting again. Her brother stared straight ahead, as if he

were pretending to be elsewhere.

Torie could sympathize.

Viscount Kelbourne cleared his throat. "Miss Sutton, Miss Victoria, Sir William, may I present my late sister's children,

Miss Florence and Master Valentine. Accompanied by Nanny Bracknell."

Neither child moved nor said a word until the nanny shoved Valentine forward. He bowed; Florence curtsied.

"They seem well enough," Torie's father said. "Not overtaken by grief, eh?"

"They have resided in the country," Kelbourne remarked.

Presumably the twins had had little acquaintance with their notorious mama, Lady Dorney, and given the scandal after their

birth—when all society competed to guess which of Lady Dorney's lovers fathered the children—Lord Dorney likely kept his distance

as well.

Torie looked sideways at her sister, but Leonora was twirling an emerald bracelet that Kelbourne had given her last month,

after she finally allowed him to set the date for their wedding.

Torie nudged her in the ribs.

Leonora started. "What?"

"The children," Torie whispered.

Her sister jumped to her feet. "Please forgive me. I am Miss Sutton," Leonora said, "and I am betrothed to your guardian.

I offer my sincere condolences."

Torie stood up too. "I am her sister, Miss Victoria. I'm so sorry about your parents' passing."

The children gave them clear-eyed looks and chorused, "Thank you."

Her sister's fiancé was regarding the orphans with the air of a man who had inherited a puzzle box without a key. His eyes

were shadowed, and his face drawn.

Kelbourne had clearly loved his scandalous sister. Torie was certain that he had felt grief during the funeral, though the only outbursts of violent emotion came from Lady Dorney's former lovers, who

revealed themselves as such by sobbing inconsolably throughout.

Whether the viscount could love his sister's orphaned children was another question. He certainly wasn't exhibiting paternal warmth now. He nodded curtly at Nanny Bracknell. One bow and a curtsy later, the woman escorted the children away.

As soon as the door closed, Sir William bounded out of his seat and headed for the brandy decanter. "The boy's a bit weedy,

isn't he? Can't see a resemblance to Dorney, but that's a moot point."

"I assure you that young Valentine resembles his paternal ancestors," Kelbourne stated.

Torie winced at his lordship's grim expression. Unfortunately, her father had his back to the room.

"Of course!" he threw over his shoulder, pouring himself a drink. "Bad luck the Dorneys were in that carriage together, given

that they lived apart by most accounts. You did the funeral good and proper, Viscount. The mourning coaches were a nice touch.

None of the gossips can claim that you didn't give your poor sister an excellent send-off, even given her free-spirited ways.

Must be a relief, but you didn't let on."

"I shall never consider Lady Dorney's demise to be a relief," Kelbourne said, his voice as frigid as arctic ice.

Sir William drained his brandy and poured himself another finger before he turned around. Even a man as oblivious as Torie's

father couldn't overlook the warning note in his lordship's voice. "Damme, but I always put my foot in it," he cried. "I'll

ask you to forgive me for my lack of good breeding. It's not as if we don't have free-spirited women in my own family."

Leonora looked up and then back at her bracelet.

"My wife was inclined to dance to the beat of her own drum," Sir William said. "Ah, but she was a delightful lass, high-spirited, dazzling... flirtatious. She couldn't help herself. Ravishing, the picture of your own Leonora."

He finished his glass and turned back to the decanter. "Sure I can't give you a slug?"

"No, thank you," the viscount replied. Torie had a sickening feeling that Kelbourne wouldn't stand for more of her father's

loutish sentiments.

Leonora was staring at the emeralds ringing her wrist with the keen attention of a jewelry merchant.

"Course, my wife looked like Leonora, but that was the end of their similarity," Sir William added. "It's our Torie who takes after her mama. Never

met a lad she couldn't charm."

Torie managed a smile. "Thank you, Papa. It's quite untrue, but I appreciate it."

"Frivolous, the both of you," her father said. "I've always said it, especially when governesses would complain that Torie

couldn't read. Why shouldn't a lady be frivolous? Why should a woman read or write? It's like asking a pig to sing opera."

Torie didn't flinch. It wasn't as if she hadn't been compared to livestock before.

Leonora cut in. "What do you plan to do with the children, Lord Kelbourne? Perhaps an aunt or some such can raise them in

the country. The boy might be sent to Eton—after all, he has inherited the title—but what of the girl? What's to be done with

her?"

"I am the twins' only relative," the viscount said flatly. "We have no aunts, living in the country or elsewhere. According

to my brother-in-law's will, I stand in loco parentis ."

"Nothing much to it when they're this age," Sir William said. "Put them under the care of a good woman, and you're set. It's when they're older that they get to be a nuisance. Must be escorted to balls and such."

"Yet we see you so rarely during the Season," Leonora said, acid creeping into her voice.

Torie's heart sank. Leonora was never her best when strong emotions were being bandied about, if "her best" could be described

as maintaining an illusion of docile, ladylike perfection.

"Neither of you needs me to find eligible suitors," Sir William pointed out. "I'm kept busy turning down men wanting to marry

Torie." He threw Kelbourne a manly grimace. "I don't bother with balls, son, but you'll see me at the wedding. And the first

christening, provided it's a child of Leonora's, naturally... Better get on the stick. As you can see, I ended up with

two girls. Should have married younger."

Kelbourne appeared as horrified as a man with such strict control over his features could look. Torie wasn't certain if his

disdain resulted from being addressed as "son" or from the implication that he might father a child outside marriage.

"Even for you, Father, that suggestion is grossly improper," Leonora observed. "Must I remind you that weddings are not conducted

during mourning? Given Lord Kelbourne's tragic loss, we shall not marry for another year."

Her fiancé turned his head and looked at her beneath drawn brows. "Under the circumstances, I believe that polite society

would forgive our breach of that rule."

Torie managed not to roll her eyes. The viscount didn't know Leonora if he thought she would contravene a social rule— any social rule.

Sure enough, her sister replied with undisguised distaste. "If you mean to suggest that I would overlook convention and marry you in order to act the part of a mother to two orphans, you are quite mistaken, Lord Kelbourne."

There was an uncomfortable pause during which the only sound was Sir William gulping brandy.

Torie didn't know Kelbourne well, having spoken to him no more than a handful of times over the two years of Leonora's betrothal,

but she didn't like the look in his eyes. He'd gone from offended to enraged.

"I am certain that your insensate manner doesn't reflect your true sensibilities," he stated.

"To be blunt, Kelbourne, given the uncertainty surrounding their paternity, it would be kindest to raise your wards with modest

expectations. In the country."

The viscount's eyes narrowed. "You surprise me, Miss Sutton. I'll say again that Valentine and Florence are unquestionably

the direct descendants of Lord Dorney."

Did Leonora have to discard her docile demeanor today, of all days, when her fiancé had just buried his only sister? "I'm

sure you'll come to love the twins, Leonora," Torie put in.

"My affection is not the question. Society's stance cannot be overlooked. Valentine has a title and an estate, but given the

late Lord Dorney's public statements regarding his marital felicity, Florence's chance of making a decent marriage is slim."

Sadly, that was true. Lord Dorney had celebrated the birth of the twins by getting drunk and announcing in his club that he

avoided his wife's bed for fear of bumping into another fellow on the way out the door.

Leonora's mouth firmed. "Questions about their parentage will dog their footsteps. Florence cannot be presented to the ton."

Given the viscount's frown, he finally suspected that his fiancée's demure mannerisms were skin-deep. Leonora had spent the

last two years agreeing with everything he said—while absolutely refusing to set a wedding date. That should have given him

a clue about her malleability.

Torie's heart thumped into a faster rhythm. Her sister prided herself on never having met a man whom she couldn't manage—or

bamboozle—but Torie had the feeling Leonora might have met her match.

"When Valentine and Florence are of age, my wife and I will introduce them to polite society as the noble members of the peerage

who they are," Kelbourne stated. "I seem to have neglected a signal question during my proposal two years ago: Do you plan

to mother our children, Miss Sutton? Or are they to be discarded in the country like unwanted kittens?"

Leonora raised an eyebrow. "My understanding is that children are happiest and healthiest when they are not breathing the

coal dust of London, but I am happy to consider differing opinions. In my answer to your proposal, I promised you two sons.

I never hesitate to do my duty, Lord Kelbourne."

Which was what?

Bear two children, or introduce said children to society? Torie was guiltily aware that Leonora considered bedding the viscount

an unpleasant chore to be delayed as long as possible.

Her sister liked slender men with golden locks and winsome expressions. Viscount Kelbourne was black-haired, burly, and bad-tempered. And blunt. An alliterative plethora. Plethora was a word Torie had just learned in the funeral service, when the archbishop talked of a "plethora of grief and loss."

"No matter where they grow up, your responsibility as my wife will include introducing my wards to the ton," Kelbourne said

flatly.

Torie held her breath while silence pooled in the drawing room. Not even Sir William's glass clinked.

Just before the stillness became unbearable, Leonora gifted her fiancé with a sweet, utterly false smile and murmured, "As

I said, I shall never neglect to do my duty as your wife. Florence promises to be beautiful, and of course that will help

her marital prospects."

Sir William stepped forward so quickly that liquor slopped over the rim of his glass, its fruity odor swamping Leonora's perfume.

"A lady does require a nanny," he said, either missing the subtext of the conversation or ignoring it. "My household always

had one, along with three nursemaids. My wife wouldn't have accepted anything less."

In Torie's opinion, the veil of Leonora's ladylike composure would shred at any moment, so she jumped to her feet. "If everyone

will please excuse me, I shall greet Lord Kelbourne's wards in the nursery."

"I would be delighted to escort you upstairs." His lordship rose.

Leonora's eyes brightened. " You may not have an unmarried aunt in the family, Lord Kelbourne, but we have Victoria. She could raise those children in a cottage on your country estate."

Torie forced her lips to curl into a smile. "I am not yet an old maid."

"This Season is your third," Leonora retorted. "I have no expectation that a worthy man will overlook your inability to run

a household."

"Your sister has received several proposals of marriage," their father declared, setting down his glass with a click.

"Mostly withdrawn," Leonora said dismissively. She leaned forward and gave Torie an encouraging smile. "You would do better

to retire to the country, Victoria. You could indulge in your painting. Just think of all the rabbits hopping around the countryside."

"I'm afraid that I must decline," Torie said. "I am holding out for a love match," she told Kelbourne.

He gave her a disbelieving stare, but Torie shrugged. She had not yet met the man she hoped for.

Leonora finally lost her temper. "You're holding out for a miracle! A merely respectable dowry, a thick waist, and the inability

to read or write... All the charm in the world won't win you a worthy man. You'll end up living under Lord Kelbourne's

roof, so you might as well make yourself useful now."

Torie swallowed hard. Leonora was snappy when she was fraught emotionally, but she was still Nora , the big sister who always cuddled Torie after Nanny beat her hands with a ruler, shouted at her, and took away her supper—and

often her breakfast as well—all because she couldn't learn her ABCs.

"You paint rabbits?" Kelbourne inquired, acting as if his fiancée's string of insults had not occurred.

"My younger daughter is a painter," Sir William put in, his words slurring just a touch. "Kittens, roses, and bunnies, isn't that right, Torie? Any gentleman would be fortunate to marry her."

Torie drew herself as upright as possible, regretting that she didn't have Leonora's stature. Height made it so much easier

to appear dignified. She raised her chin and met Kelbourne's eyes. "I think kittens and roses are excellent subjects for paintings,"

she said defiantly. "And rabbits as well, though I find their hindquarters difficult to manage."

"A distasteful remark," Leonora commented.

"You eat a rabbit leg fast enough," her father pointed out. "Would you rather we refer to a rabbit rump?" He chuckled. "Rump

of rear rabbit!"

"I can find my way to the nursery without an escort," Torie said. She dropped a curtsy and treated the company to a glowing

smile. "Sir William, please be so kind as to send our maid upstairs when you are ready to leave."

Leonora had insisted on Emily accompanying them to dinner on the grounds that their father might collapse into a sodden heap,

at which point chaperonage would be required.

"We're supping here," Sir William reminded her, picking up his brandy snifter again. At this rate, her father would pass out

before the meal commenced.

"I shall dine with the children," Torie said. She rationed the time she spent with her family members, and today's limit was

reached.

Exceeded, really.

The viscount opened his mouth, but Leonora continued before he could speak. "It's best that Victoria come to know your wards,

Kelbourne. One never knows what the future may hold."

Except her sister did seem to have a clear view of the future: one in which Torie mothered orphans and never had a family of her own.

Torie held her smile as she walked away, which felt like a triumph.