Chapter 35

Dominic strode out of the main chamber of the House of Lords the moment the session was called. Around him, peers were clustering,

discussing where to eat.

He blew past them, ignoring the sideways glances and the way a few pestilent cowards cringed as he strode by.

Yes, he had a temper.

And he could be... mean.

He couldn't stop thinking of the crushed look in Torie's eyes when he implied she was a fool. He didn't mean it. All morning,

the evidence of her intelligence had marched through his mind like soldiers on parade, their brass buttons glittering. The

way she quoted everything from the Bible to obscure Shakespeare plays. The way she countered his arguments, often in more

complex and twisty ways than anyone in Lords had ever come up with.

Even the way she painted.

He knew the house was empty the moment he drew up his curricle. The two large carriages had been standing in the street that

morning, but now it was empty. His butler jerked open the door and came down the steps; obviously he'd been watching from

the drawing room window.

"Flitwick," he said grimly.

The man bowed.

"I gather that Lady Kelbourne has left for the country. Was my wife informed that I planned to return after the session?"

"Yes, my lord."

Flitwick's confirmation made his chest hurt, as if his heart was too stiff to beat.

"But my lady left with the Duchess of Huntington en route to Huntington Grange," the butler said quickly. "They had to begin

immediately, since they hope to reach the Bell & Parrot Inn."

Dominic couldn't have heard correctly. "What did you say?"

"Lady Kelbourne and the twins were invited by Her Grace to pay a visit to Huntington Grange." Flitwick's chest puffed out,

more than a hint of pride in his voice.

"Did Lady Kelbourne indicate how long she intends to remain at Huntington Grange?"

"My lady plans to return in ten days. She says that you are aware that the duchess planned to commission a painting of a steam

engine."

Dominic frowned. Didn't he explicitly ask the duchess to give Torie time to learn some new skills? It was a good thing he

hadn't sent Langlois off with a flea in his ear. The man would have to stop waving around pears and get Torie focused on machinery,

now that she'd accepted the commission.

"I see."

Flitwick hesitated.

"Did the viscountess leave another message?"

The butler winced and then repeated, "‘I shall try not to embarrass him, even given my inexperience in this area.'"

Stinging silence fell between them. Dominic gave him a nod and strode into the house, throwing his greatcoat and gloves at

a footman. He went to his study, shutting the door behind him. Once there, he dropped into a chair and buried his head in

his hands.

He loved Torie—yes, loved her more than anyone else. More than the mother he never knew, his angry, flighty sister, his horrible father. More than the

twins, fond though he was of them.

He felt as if Torie had carved a door in his heart and stepped inside, creating a space that was only hers. Even in the maelstrom

that was debate in the House of Lords, taking a breath and thinking of her would ground him.

Yet he'd betrayed her. First with Gianna, though he hadn't been sleeping with the woman, and then again with this stupidity.

Together with every single day that he didn't tell the world how brilliant she was.

Every single one of those days was a betrayal.

His hands curled into fists thinking about it. He prided himself on his moral superiority? He was the fool. The men bumbling around the House of Lords did their best to get their minds around the ramifications of grain

imports from Portugal and sugar from Jamaica. They were ignorant, most of them, but they went home and treated their wives

with kindness.

The point that made his throat burn was that he had been dismissive, in thought and deed, of his astonishing wife. Of his brilliant, funny, creative wife. Look how he'd gotten

rid of the Duke of Queensberry, so that she wouldn't have a duke to run to.

Immoral. Irreverent. Unkind.

He'd hurt her.

And now she was gone. It felt as if his heart had cracked. He wasn't even sure where she would sleep tonight. He didn't know

if miscreants like Pinkie and Bullet would covetously eye her emerald ring, her beauty, and—

The thought tore at him, and he lunged out of his chair and charged back to the entry. "Flitwick, she set off with Mulberry, Simons, and two more grooms, didn't she?"

"Yes, my lord," Flitwick said. "Mulberry had the blunderbuss, but Simons also had a pistol, just in case they encountered

a highwayman. Very unlikely, as you know, my lord. They'll be following the Duke of Huntington's carriage, and he let me know that he travels

with four outriders who will guard all three vehicles."

"I should have sent outriders," Dominic said hollowly. "Why didn't I think of outriders?"

"Because her ladyship was only going five hours down the road," his butler said patiently. "Overnight is a different story,

but since His Grace travels around the country with that steam engine in tow, he's used to being prudent."

Curses were pounding through Dominic's head, but he forced himself back into his study. Where would Torie sleep tonight? Would

they reach the inn in time? Would she be safe?

She would be fine. The children would be fine. Mulberry was steadfast and deeply loyal. Most importantly, Dominic couldn't

scamper after her as if she held a leash. His father's thundering voice reminded him to be a man.

Every night in the following week he lay awake, staring into the darkness, knowing in his bone marrow what it meant to love

a woman—and lose her. It felt helpless: the worst emotion he could imagine—but one he recognized.

Helpless was what a little boy felt when his father's temper was like an arctic wind. When that father was impossible to please,

and his whip always ready to hand.

That father's voice resounded through space and time, telling him what a bloody fool he was. Telling him that there had never been such a stupid viscount in the history of the Kelbournes. The same voice that

told his sister over and over that she had a jezebel's heart and a slut's hips.

As the days passed, Dominic began to delay his return to the silent house until late at night—and why shouldn't he, since

he couldn't do any of the things that made Kelbourne House a home? He couldn't throw open the door of his wife's studio and

snatch her into his arms. Couldn't run up the stairs, find Torie at her dressing table, and banish giggling Emily. Couldn't

listen to ghost stories in the nursery, meeting Torie's amused eyes over Florence's head, or carefully assess Valentine's

latest lopsided circle.

One morning Dominic came to a simple realization: he needed to be where his family was. He would try not to hurt Torie's feelings

ever again. He would sit in her studio and beg her to explain why a pear didn't belong in a painting. He would inform society

about his wife's brilliance.

He would never listen to his father's voice again.

He just didn't know how to convince Torie that he truly loved her, not when he kept disrespecting her.

A far-fetched idea came to him, an idea that might be possible with enough money to grease the way. He would go to that bloody

Royal Academy. He'd pay them to let in women, and insist they elect Torie, same as they did those fellows like Gainsborough,

whom she admired so much.

Thankfully the man was dead, or Dom might truly have competition for her affection.

Torie had said she was almost in love with him. He'd take it. He'd take it, and take her, and throw enough money at the Royal Academy to make her feel confident and happy about herself and her work.

He'd even let that Frenchman stay in the house.

After querying Flitwick, Dominic tracked down Monsieur Langlois in Torie's studio. He was standing before the largest window,

coat off and shirtsleeves rolled up, wearing a pinafore not unlike Torie's. A bowl of fruit sat on the table to the side.

He was dabbing at his canvas, dripping paint on the floor of the former breakfast room, but Flitwick had long since given

up that battle.

When Dominic entered, Langlois threw a distracted glance over his shoulder and looked back at his painting. Dominic strolled

over and surveyed the painting. "Interesting," he said.

" Pas bon ," Langlois groaned. "Not good, not good!" He threw his brush to the floor, and orange paint splattered in all directions.

"What's the matter with it?"

The Frenchman moaned and clutched his hair in a Gallic frenzy. "You are a philistine, so I shall not waste my time. Why are

you here? This is a sanctuary." He picked up his paintbrush.

Dominic looked at him. "A sanctuary?"

"She is here, she is everywhere, she works here ."

Bloody hell. "You're in love with my wife." The words came out like bullets, but there was a limit to what a man could take.

"Philistine!" Langlois screamed.

He didn't resemble a man in love. Queensberry's eyes had had longing in them that Dom was pretty sure could be seen in his

own eyes now. To the contrary, Langlois looked outraged.

" You are in love," the Frenchman snorted. " L'amour is not for me. I am a man of great seriousness, I!"

His English was disintegrating. Langlois turned his back and started vigorously swirling his brush around, mixing colors before

he darted at his canvas.

It wasn't unlike how Torie painted. Sometimes Dominic walked in and found her staring at her easel. Then she would fly at

her colors and swoop over the painting and... do something to one leaf, or one petal.

But when he tried to ask what, she brushed him off, saying that she couldn't explain it.

"Langlois," he said.

That earned him a Gallic stare.

"Explain this painting to me." Dominic pointed to the painting hanging on the wall, the wilting flowers Torie had given him

for their wedding, but never really given to him. It had gone up on the wall of her studio, and sometimes he found her peering

at it, almost as if she intended to wipe it with turpentine and start over.

He should probably rescue it.

Twenty minutes later he was as bewildered as if the Frenchman was talking of pears. Not flowers, but time. Not just time,

but time passing, time dying, time caught in time. " Le temps qui passe ," Langlois concluded, picking up his paintbrush and going back to his hapless pear.