Chapter 34

A few weeks later, Torie woke to find herself alone in bed. Her husband had seduced her at dawn, and then leapt out of bed

an hour later, cheerful and energized, whereas she had fallen back to sleep, meaning she'd missed the best light in her studio.

That could not happen tomorrow, she decided, scowling at her own laziness as she rang for Emily. Dominic would have to come

home at luncheon if he wanted to dally with his wife. She needed first light for painting.

Now she thought of it, Dom had been routinely coming home at midday, sometimes not returning for the afternoon session. His

opponents had managed to push the antislavery vote off the agenda once again, with the ludicrous excuse that more information

was needed about how widespread the practice was.

Despite how loudly Dom shouted that even a single enslaved person was too many, the opposition had prevailed.

Emily appeared at the door, holding a tea tray. "Miss Florence would like to pay you a visit, my lady."

She was itching to go to her studio, but... "Of course!" Torie exclaimed.

Florence appeared in the doorway, beaming. "I thought you might like me to read to you while you have tea. It's so boring

to eat without a book in hand."

"I would love it," Torie said, patting the bed. "Slippers off."

Florence agreeably kicked them away and nestled herself next to Torie. Thankfully the children were finally out of mourning; she was wearing an adorable blue dress covered by a long pinafore, because Nanny Grey had discovered that Florence fell to her knees daily—either by accident or because she saw something interesting on the ground. What's more, Monsieur Langlois had the children painting in watercolors, which tended to splatter.

" Castle Rackrent ," Florence said, pulling a book from her pocket. "You'll love it, Torie. The husband is terrifyingly mean! A pestilent rogue!"

Torie sipped her tea, smiling. After a few chapters, Florence went off for her daily trip to Green Park—where the mother rabbit

never deigned to be seen—and Torie decided that she could not spare the two hours needed to properly attire herself. Ignoring

Emily's admonishments about viscountess behavior, Torie pulled a wrapper over her nightgown and went downstairs to her studio.

A rose at the top of the composition caught her eye. With sudden energy, she bundled on her pinafore and set to work. The

petals were too smooth; she wanted the swirl of the stroke to be evident. Her still lifes never tried to capture reality.

They were about ideas, and so her brushwork had to be visible.

Two hours later, the studio darkened as rain showers threatened. Torie began pacing around the easel, watching how light changed

the impression that one rose was falling. Flitwick appeared with two standing candelabras and a bowl of fruit. Torie wasn't

hungry, but she pulled out a fat yellow pear and placed it before the black bowl, where it might balance the falling rose.

A rap on the door made her turn around, vexed. "I don't wish for anything else, Flitwick."

Monsieur Langlois stood in the doorway, his expression diffident... fascinated. In the month since he'd arrived, they had flipped from tutor to student and back again several times, finally settling on friendship.

She was a better painter than he was; in this particular realm, Torie was pragmatic rather than boastful. But he was better

than she at vocalizing what she was doing. He could see into the heart of a painting, whereas she became inarticulate.

"I don't like it," he said immediately, approaching the table. "This pear, she is gauche, bold, gaudy." He snatched the fruit,

waving it in the air. "She is a visit from the world of fertility and light, sensual and delicious."

A throat clearing had Torie turning to see her husband, home for luncheon.

"Torie, your brush is dripping down your sleeve," he said gruffly. "May I ask why Monsieur Langlois is talking about sensuality

in the presence of my unclothed wife ?"

She'd seen that dangerous look before, as when Dominic faced four ruffians at Smithfield Market. It must have been a particularly

aggravating morning in the House of Lords; his jaw was tight and his eyes shuttered.

"The pear is sensual. I am clearly not." She waved at her paint-covered pinafore. "I was considering changing the composition of this painting, but

Monsieur Langlois thinks adding the pear would be a mistake."

The Frenchman drew himself up and said, through pursed lips, "If you suggest for one moment that I would make an invidious

advance to the viscountess, to a woman who paints like—"

Torie cut him off before he embarrassed her. "But you're right about my dressing gown, Dom. I walked in meaning to glance at my painting and remind myself what was left to be done, but that was hours ago, after breakfast."

Langlois blinked at her. "I didn't notice your attire, my lady."

No one could have mistaken his astonishment. He was genuinely uninterested in clothing, and in her as a woman, for that matter.

Paint was all that mattered to him. Paint, and what one could say about paintings.

"Monsieur, may I ask you to put down your pear and leave my wife's studio?" Dominic said through gritted teeth. Apparently

her husband was the one person who could overlook her tutor's surprise.

All the irritation that Torie generally allowed to fall by the wayside bounded into her chest. "Monsieur is my guest, invited

to my studio," she stated, not keeping her voice even.

The Frenchman's eyes widened, and his gaze bounced between them. "I shall see if Master Valentine wishes to work on his circles."

He bowed with an air of wounded dignity.

After the door closed, Torie said, "For goodness' sake, Dom! That boy has no designs on my virtue, if that's what you are

implying."

Her husband gave a bark of laughter. "He's no boy. He's your age. He looks at you as if you hung the moon and the stars, Torie."

"As far as Langlois is concerned, I'm not a woman," Torie said, trying to explain. "I'm simply someone whom he can talk to

about painting."

"The way the Duke of Queensberry liked to talk to you about fashion?"

Torie hunched a shoulder. His Grace had taught her a great deal about gilt buttons and the latest fabrics coming from India. "Why is that relevant?"

Dominic didn't answer. Instead he walked over to her painting. "Very pretty." He picked up the pear. "Why didn't Langlois

want it in the painting?" He held it up against her canvas. "It would add a dash of color."

He had no idea that his comment felt impertinent, if not condescending. Torie took a deep breath, but all the same, a ball

of resentment burned more brightly in her stomach.

"Eustache felt that the pear existed in a different world, a more sensual—"

" Eustache ?" he cut through her sentence sharply.

"A more sensual world of fertility and light."

"Bullshit!" Dominic snarled.

Torie couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Did you just curse at me? With your voice raised?"

"Not as high as yours," he retorted.

"I didn't curse at you." She managed to suffocate a few appropriate words that were struggling to erupt from her mouth.

" Eustache is in love with you." His lip curled. "I'll have him out of the house by nightfall."

"He is not!" Torie cried, her stomach curdling. "You don't understand."

Dominic scoffed. "Don't be a fool."

The room went bleakly silent. Torie couldn't believe what she heard—or rather, what she didn't hear. But she knew how that

rebuke ended. How could she not, having heard versions of that word her whole life, from every frustrated nanny and governess

who had tried to teach her to read?

She was too furious to think clearly, but her heart chipped and fell in two like an ormolu clock striking a stone wall.

"Don't be a fool," she repeated, trying not to take it personally. It was a common phrase, after all. She had already recognized

that Dominic's defense of her didn't mean disagreement with the world's opinion.

He simply insisted that the world was not allowed to express its opinion to her face.

Yet somehow his opinion accidentally made itself known, whether he was meeting with Gianna or calling her a fool to her face.

She saw remorse in his eyes. "I apologize," Dominic said immediately. "You are correct, and I will try to..."

"Try to do better," she said wryly.

"Not for the first time," he acknowledged. "The insult is a commonplace that we throw at each other's heads in the House of

Lords. Lord Peyrenes shouted it to me this morning."

"An admonition like that is always meant to belittle the recipient," she said. "Thus the Duke of Queensberry's reluctance

to take up his seat in the House of Lords. More importantly, even if most of London didn't already consider me a fool, it

would never be an appropriate insult for a husband to hurl at his wife. Ever! "

"I agree."

"I have always known that it's hard to keep one's opinion secret." She dropped down on the wide yellow chair, the one that Dominic had thrown himself into when he stripped off his shirt long ago. "You think that Leonora is unkind to me, but she defended me for years. Yet when she was in a rage, her opinion leaked out. It didn't mean she doesn't love me. I always forgave her, but coming from my husband , it feels more galling."

He sat down on the couch, obviously lining up his arguments in his head, the way he did at dinner or in Lords. "Surely you

can understand that it is a shock to walk into a room and find one's wife in her nightgown talking in intimate terms with

another man?"

Even if she could have understood it, she had no intention of doing so.

"Do you know my shock?" she demanded. "I've been stupidly thinking I might be falling in love with you... almost in love with you. We said

we weren't going to talk of such things—or feel them, for that matter—but I don't mind telling you of my idiocy, because obviously

I was so wrong ."

She couldn't see any response in his face, in his eyes, in his mouth. Anywhere. Except perhaps the fact that one fist was

curled at his side, likely because emotions made him so uncomfortable. "You and Leonora really were a perfect couple," she said, tipping her head back and staring at the ceiling far above rather than his rock-hard jaw.

"I don't agree."

Torie shrugged. Her throat was aching, and her heart was aching. "I think I shall go to my father's country estate for a brief

visit. I've been wanting to show the twins the glade where the rabbits play."

Dominic moved sharply. "No."

"I'm not running away," Torie said exhaustedly. "I merely need to recover my temper. Like the twins' previous governess, I

would be perfectly happy to throw a clock at your head right now."

"I see."

"So you might as well indulge in all the late nights you warned me about before we married. Remember? You said that it was important to dine with important men so you could bend them to your will in a more polite manner than by emphasizing their idiocy."

His eyes flared with anger, which gave Torie a strange satisfaction. He might not be in love with her, but he wasn't indifferent

either.

"I shall take respite in the country," she said, getting up. "I'll bring the children with me. You are welcome to join us,

but I'm sure you have more important things to do than sprawl on the grass in a rabbit-filled glade."

His lips opened and closed.

"I know your work is important," she added, exasperated. "I had no intention of belittling the bill."

"That bill is delayed while awaiting reports from the Caribbean. But—"

"I know. You truly do have more important things on your mind than the three of us."

His eyes glittered at her. After a silence, he said in a rasp, "Langlois shall not accompany you."

Torie had the odd idea that it pained him to say that sentence. Of course, he thought a great deal of himself; it must be

humiliating to imagine his addled wife taken from him by a young Frenchman.

She shrugged. "Eustache will be grateful for an opportunity to work on his painting for the French Exhibition."

His mouth flattened to a line.

"No, I am not going back to addressing him as Monsieur Langlois. He is a fellow painter. I've learned from him, and he's an excellent influence on the twins. I think Valentine might be a painter someday."

His face didn't change, so it must have been the air around him that darkened.

"Yes, just imagine," she scoffed. "Lord Dorney became a painter rather than spending his time gambling, the way his father

did. What a shame."

"I would have concerns about Valentine's ability to support his estate. His father did not leave him much money."

She shook her head. "As if you aren't repairing that estate yourself. I'm sure that you have set up funds for both children.

Moreover, Gainsborough's Blue Boy sold four years ago for thousands of pounds."

"Valentine is still drawing lopsided moons and lop-eared rabbits. I don't think we should count on his earning a living with

his craft just yet."

"Painting is hard work ," she said fiercely. "If I'd been able to read, I doubt I would be as good as I am now. I had nothing else to do. If Valentine

decides to focus, he will be a very good painter, perhaps a great one."

Dominic's shoulder hitched. She didn't think he would ever respect the profession, but it was Val's fight, not hers.

"I would ask that you return in ten days."

"All right." Torie would come home whenever she felt like coming home, but she saw no point in arguing about it.

"You just made a promise," the viscount said sharply. She couldn't think of him as Dom, her Dom. Not this glowering, chilly

man. Glowering, chilly, and jealous.

"I will return," Torie said, exhausted. The children would miss him.

When she woke in the morning, she had a faint memory of strong arms around her, and there was an imprint of his head on the

pillow beside hers, but he was already gone.

"Toast!" Emily shrilled, coming in the door with a tray. As Torie drank tea, her maid bustled about, packing more clothing

even though she'd already sent a trunk down to Mulberry the night before.

A trunk for ten days in the country, where one didn't ever dress for dinner, especially when one's spouse remained in London. "Are

my pinafore and paints in the carriage?"

Emily nodded. "Mr. Flitwick took care of those himself."

"Excellent," Torie said, forcing herself to finish a piece of toast. There was nothing worse than growing hungry on a long

stretch of road.

"The twins are ready to go, though they had a terrible row over that dratted rabbit this morning."

"Why?"

"Miss Florence says the rabbit must accompany us, as he'll be lonely by himself. Master Valentine says if the rabbit comes

to the country, the creature will run away."

"If he's in the coach with us, we'll have to be constantly throwing pellets out the window."

"I shouldn't admit it, but I am very happy to be following you in the second carriage, given the odor. I can't think how Nanny ignores that smell in the nursery, but she says one gets used to it." Emily turned up her nose. "That would never happen to me. Oh! I forgot to tell you that Lord Kelbourne intends to return to say farewell after the morning session in Parliament."

"Unfortunately, we're leaving directly, as I informed him yesterday," Torie said, climbing out of bed.

Emily opened her mouth, but Torie caught her eye.

"Yes, my lady," her maid said.

"I should like to leave within the hour, since the children are ready. I'll wash at the basin and wear a plain dimity."

"Within the hour," Emily echoed with a gulp, starting to rush about.

The three of them were loaded in the coach on time, with Oddie in his cage on the floor, Mulberry and Simons on the box, and

two liveried footmen in the rear.

"His lordship's orders," Mulberry said when Torie suggested the two footmen could travel in the second coach with Emily and

Nanny.

"It will be so dusty and uncomfortable."

But Mulberry shook his head. She could see the blunderbuss stored at his feet.

As they were about to set off, the coach door suddenly opened again, and Mulberry's face appeared. "The Duchess of Huntington,

my lady." He withdrew, and the cheerful face of English's top steampipe designer appeared in his stead.

"We were coming to see you!" the duchess said. "Hello, twins."

Florence and Valentine jumped up to curtsy and bow, Valentine's head just grazing the top of the carriage. "Good morning,

Your Grace," they chorused.

"I'm afraid that we are on the very point of going to the country," Torie said smiling, because grim though she felt, she

genuinely liked Her Grace.

"I want to commission you to paint my red steam engine."

"I'm afraid that isn't my forte," Torie said apologetically.

The duchess waved her hands. "Yes, so your husband said. He thinks you can't do anything more than flowers and kittens."

Torie ground her teeth. Dominic had seen her paintings. Surely he knew that she was choosing to paint flowers, rather than being confined to that subject. But then, she'd never wanted to boast, had she?

She just kept hoping that one day he would stride into her studio, look around, and recognize that she was a real artist,

not a lady dabbling in a hobby.

"Kelbourne said that he would get you a tutor, and you might be able to manage a locomotive in a year. Didn't want me to ask

you before then in case you were embarrassed."

"I see," Torie managed, even though her throat felt thick. Actually, Dom was embarrassed. That's what it came down to.

"I made a few inquiries amongst my friends about your painting ability," the duchess continued, a distinct note of triumph

in her voice.

Torie felt herself turning a little pink.

"She can draw a perfect circle!" Florence said.

"Precisely," Her Grace said, taking that comment on board without flickering an eyelash. "Your stepmother can certainly paint

a steam engine. I suggest that you all come to Huntington Grange. My husband and I were just stopping by to commission the

painting before we left for the country. Your coach can follow ours. We'll stop midway and spend the night in a nice inn."

"We were going to watch rabbits playing in a glade," Florence objected.

Torie made a mental note that somehow she had to impress upon Florence that young girls were expected to be seen and not heard,

especially in the presence of a duchess.

"We have rabbits!" Her Grace said, thankfully showing no signs of affront. "More rabbits than you can imagine. We've taken

to leaving the front door of the Grange open, and now and then one hops in for a visit. A few months ago, a wild boar wandered

straight into the main hall."

Valentine looked up at that. He was trying to finish his hour of practicing circles before the coach made it impossible.

"Did you kill the boar?" Florence asked with relish. "Shoot it with an arrow?"

"Of course," Her Grace said with aplomb. "I wasn't personally involved, but the boar was cooked in the fireplace and served

for dinner. Four footmen brought it in, with a ruff around its neck and a velvet hat adorned with pearls on its head."

"Why?" Valentine asked.

"Why what?" Her Grace looked confused.

"Why a velvet hat? Was the boar a female?"

"I have no idea. Why shouldn't it wear a velvet hat? I added a tiara on top of the hat."

Florence clapped her hands. "I shall write a story about that boar!"

"Excellent," the duchess said. "You may read it to my children. I haven't had the time to hire another governess since the

last one left."

"Neither did our mother," Valentine said cheerfully. "I expect we shall get along with them very well. Do you think this is

a true circle?" He held up a sheet.

"No," Her Grace said. "It is a shade flattened on the upper left. When one is designing machinery, even the smallest details count. Now, shall we leave immediately?"

One of the reasons Torie had gotten along with her husband until this point was that she had the ability to see another person's

viewpoint. Right now, it was crystal clear that the duchess would not be angered if they didn't pay her a visit, but she would

be hurt.

After all, "we're going to watch rabbits" wasn't a very compelling excuse.

"We must inform our butler," Torie said.

"Of course," the duchess said, her head disappearing.

"Would you like me to write a note for Father?" Florence asked. "I know you usually ask Emily, but she is already in the other

carriage."

Torie felt color spilling into her cheeks. "No, thank you," she managed. "I'll just let Flitwick know where we've gone, so

the viscount doesn't worry."

"He won't worry," Valentine said. "He knows you're with us."

Flitwick appeared at the door of the carriage.

"We shall pay a visit to the Duchess of Huntington," she told him. "Please tell Lord Kelbourne, as well as Emily and Nanny

Grey. I would be grateful if you would inform the viscount that the Duchess of Huntington has commissioned a painting of her

steam engine. I shall try not to embarrass him, even given my inexperience in this area."

The butler disappeared, and the carriage trundled away.

"Father would never be embarrassed by your paintings," Florence observed.

"I was feeling cross, or I wouldn't have said it," Torie admitted. "I shouldn't have said it."

Val was frowning. "I can't imagine any reason he would ever feel embarrassed by you, other than perhaps your inability to

read."

"Which doesn't matter," Florence said. She pulled out Castle Rackrent . "You have me!"