Chapter 36

As soon as they arrived at Huntington Grange, the duchess helped Torie set up her easel and paints before the red locomotive.

The duke dragged out an overstuffed chair from the drawing room himself, for there was no butler. In fact, there were almost

no servants at all.

That first day, Torie just stared at the machine: walking around it, then returning to her seat. The machine had no life or

sense of time beneath its red paint and shiny curves. But it did have purpose , which was interesting.

She wasn't alone, as the duke and duchess were busy implementing ideas they gained while meeting other steam enthusiasts around

the country. They ignored her, darting here and there around the engine.

The second day, Torie began to sketch, trying to decide which angle to paint from. Not straight to the side, because somehow

she had to give the painting a feeling of speed.

Nanny Grey—who had an almost saintlike patience—came outside to tell Torie that she thought the ducal children weren't being

bathed as much as they might. "No nanny and no nursemaid. The boy, Master Silvester, makes certain his sisters are fed and

in bed, though of course I've taken charge during our visit."

"Oh dear," Torie said, trying to envision mentioning the state of the nursery to Her Grace.

"I'm scrubbing that room down tomorrow with caustic soap." Nanny bustled away, looking surprisingly cheerful.

Torie went back to her drawing, finding herself thinking absent-mindedly that everyone needed to feel needed. She put down

her pencil again.

Dominic needed her. He might not realize it, but he did.

It wasn't until the third day, when she began blocking in the locomotive's shape and thinking about color, that she realized

the most fascinating aspect of the locomotive was not its color, but its creators.

Once she got the locomotive blocked in, she sketched the duchess on top of the engine, throwing her hat in the air, with the

duke down below, laughing up at her.

"I like it," Valentine said on the fourth afternoon of their visit. He was still doing his daily practice making circles,

though it was difficult to measure one hour, as they had discovered that no clocks in the house functioned.

"Come here when the sun begins to sink," Torie had advised him. "When the sky turns purple, your hour will be up."

He squinted at her. "How will I know that it's sinking?"

"Pay attention to the light."

The next two days, he didn't show up at the proper time, but on the seventh day, he appeared at precisely the moment when

twilight began. And his circles were much improved.

After Val ran away, Torie sat down in her chair and looked at her sketch. She had managed to give the locomotive a sense of motion: the duchess was nearly flying off the top, and the duke was caught in mid-laugh.

Florence showed up and wedged herself into the chair. "You can see how much he cares for her."

"He?"

"His Grace," she said obediently. "It's hard to remember that he's a duke." She lowered her voice. "His shirt is ripped, and

I saw a bit of his belly at luncheon."

"I noticed that," Torie said. "Do you think I ought to put that detail in the painting?"

"Yes," Florence said. "He's the only duke with a ripped shirt. Did you know that none of their neighbors will visit, because

they think the duke and duchess are too strange?" She jumped out of the chair. "I don't want to leave."

Huntington Grange was an odd, mad household, but like Florence, Torie felt entirely at home.

The only problem was Dom.

She lay awake at night, aching for her husband as if a part of her body had gone missing. Finally she brought up a branching

candelabra that she found in the neglected ballroom and started sketching something quite different from roses or rabbits

or steam locomotives: Dom's face.

She gave him that look of leashed energy that he took with him through life. His eyes were fierce, but also tender. The dimples

appeared.

Two days later, she was quite sure about her own drawing: she had captured a man in love.

Interesting.