Chapter 39

Torie barely stopped herself from gaping at her husband. "I haven't lied to you." She realized she was tugging on her braid

and looked down at her clothing in dismay. She had slept poorly, lying awake thinking of the moment when she told Dom that

she could never love him.

That had been a lie.

Loving him was like breathing: she couldn't stop doing it, no matter how much she wished she'd fallen in love with a gentle

duke.

She wanted her ferocious, burly viscount, with his fiery eyes and even fierier rhetoric.

"Do you mind if we go upstairs?" she asked. "I don't want to be caught in my nightgown by the duke, who rises early."

Dominic glanced down at her bare toes, then nodded. He followed her silently into the huge, echoing entry hall of Huntington

Grange.

"The duke roasted a wild boar in that fireplace," Torie said, desperately trying to figure out why her husband was accusing

her of dishonesty. She rarely lied. She'd had enough of prevarication in her first Season, while pretending that she could

read.

They climbed the stone steps leading to the first floor of the old castle, then turned right and walked down a windy corridor

and through a door that had been unceremoniously knocked in the stone, leading to a newer building.

Not new , since Torie thought it might date back to the current duke's grandfather, but at least it wasn't medieval.

Up another flight of stairs, then around a circular flight of stone steps leading to her bedroom. Their bedroom, if her husband recovered his temper.

Torie walked in. "I have no chairs."

Dominic stood in the doorway, his eyes traveling from the cobwebby ceiling high above them, to the shuttered windows, to the

huge bed that jutted from one rounded wall. The only other furniture was a rickety-looking table holding a basin and a soap

dish.

"It is an insult to place my viscountess in this dusty attic," he snarled, eyes flaring, clearly about to pull out his rapier

and stomp downstairs to blast the duke for disrespecting his wife.

"No!" Torie said quickly. "I chose the turret chamber for its view." She went to the window and pushed open the shutters,

letting in a grass-scented breeze before she turned back to him. "Are you going to tell me why you're so angry?"

"I am not angry." Dominic sat down on the bed. She would have taken that retort as defensiveness, but he sounded bereft.

She came over and sat beside him. "I cannot think of a lie I told you."

"No?"

His eyes fixed on hers.

"Truly," Torie said in some bewilderment. Then, after a pause, "That's not entirely true." She summoned up her courage. "I

was in a rage when I said that I could never love you. It wasn't true. I am in love with you. I hope you can come to love

me in time, or perhaps you already do. But I can't let you believe that I don't love you." A wave of intolerable, itching

embarrassment went over her body.

"I do love you," Dom said flatly.

"Oh." Her mind reeled from that matter-of-fact statement. His voice didn't invite celebration. "I still can't think of any lies I told you."

A shadow crossed her husband's eyes. "You promised that you would never present yourself as someone you are not."

"I'm incapable of pretending to be ladylike the way Leonora does," Torie said, nodding.

"Actually, I would say that you are far more expert than your sister in the art of pretense."

"What?" Torie asked, dumbfounded. "What are you talking about? I feel as if I've been tried and sentenced, and no one has told me my crime!"

"Roses, rabbits, and the occasional kitten. Do I have the subjects of your paintings correct?"

Torie felt the instinctual caution that small animals must feel when a hawk circles overhead. "I don't actually paint cats."

Dom's face was as hard as marble. "Strange, given that your father introduced your artwork by talking of kittens. Baby animals

are ladylike subjects for painting, are they not? Subjects that a gentleman might discount for their association with femininity?"

Torie scowled at him. "Some women painters—"

"Such as Angelica Kauffman? Her historical paintings are renowned."

"Why, yes, they are," Torie said, surprised. "You have heard of Miss Kauffman?"

" Is she Miss Kauffman? I understand that Mary Moser is listed as a Royal Academician under her maiden name."

Torie stared in bewilderment at her husband, seeing the tightness in his cheekbones, the vibrating intensity in his eyes.

He wasn't in the grip of anger; it looked more like he felt betrayed.

An idea struck her like a hammer. Did her painting embarrass him?

"You don't want your wife to paint because it's not ladylike?" she said, dread plummeting to the bottom of her stomach like

a rock.

"No!"

"It's too late," she told him, hearing a queer echoing in her ears. "I cannot give up painting, Dom. I cannot ." Despite herself, her voice broke. "It is the only thing—well, one of two things—that I've ever been any good at."

"I didn't mean ‘No' as in I don't want you to be a painter."

She drew in a shuddering breath. "Oh."

"I recently learned that you are a Royal Academician. As a matter of fact, I was informed by the president of that academy

that you are the best floral painter in the United Kingdom."

Torie froze. "You met Benjamin West?"

"Indeed. I went to Somerset House hoping to convince the Academy to add a woman to their roster. I was informed that hierarchy

in the art world is based not on birth but merit."

"That is partially true," Torie said, biting her lower lip as a sinking feeling came over her. "What a kind gesture on your

part."

"I should have asked you more about your work," Dom said, raw honesty darkening his voice. "That's my fault. But you...

you pushed me away, Torie. You dismissed your own painting by letting me think that your father's characterization of you

painting kittens was correct."

Torie swallowed hard. "I've never spent much time with cats, so I don't paint them."

"This is not about cats," Dom stated. "It's about the way you hid your true self, just as your sister did. I was hoodwinked by both my fiancées. In fact, hiding your talent and letting my ignorant assessment of your work stand is worse than Leonora's bad temper."

Torie saw exactly what he meant. She had hidden the importance of her ideas about time behind society's notion that women

painted frivolous subjects, in the same way that she had hidden her passion for art behind being a silly butterfly.

"I do love you." His voice rasped. "I'm in love with you. I went to Somerset House because I wanted to do something to show

you that I valued you , no matter the disparagement of your work in the eyes of polite society."

"Oh, no," Torie breathed, her gut twisting. "What did you propose?"

The derision in his eyes was directed at himself, not her. "I tried to talk the president of the Royal Academy into allowing

my viscountess to exhibit a painting of kittens in the Summer Exhibition."

Torie's eyes rounded. "In the Summer Exhibition ?"

"The same." The corner of his mouth curled up but without humor. "I was prepared to bribe him handsomely. West was horrified—until

I informed him that my wife's maiden name was Victoria Sutton, and yes, she likely signed her paintings V. Sutton. You can

imagine how quickly his expression changed."

Alarm shot through her. Her viscount was bad-tempered—and proud . West would dine out on this story for many a night, and Dom knew it.

"I misled you," Torie admitted, twisting her hands together. "I do hide behind kittens when my paintings are discussed."

"Why? Why not just inform the polite world that you are a great painter? Or if not them, why not tell me ?"

"My father approved of my painting ladylike subjects," she said, faltering. "I failed him in so many other respects."

"His judgment of you stemmed from your inability to read, not your painting. As I recall it, he boasted of your ability when

you first met the twins."

Torie took a deep breath. "He doesn't mind that I can't read. If you'll remember, he thinks that women have no need to read.

Yet if I, an illiterate ninny, tried to paint historical scenes, the mockery would have been deafening. My inability to read

is always taken as an indication of ignorance. No one criticizes a lady who paints adorable animals. Do you see what I mean?"

"I think your father is contemptible, and I do see the parallel between talk of kittens and the jests you offer in ballrooms,

hoping to head off criticism based on your illiteracy."

"I suppose you're right," Torie said, never having thought of the two in parallel. "My point is that a woman who paints kittens

is not trying to rise above her station. The subject itself admits her presumed foolishness."

Dom bit off a curse before she heard the whole word. "That wretched situation doesn't explain why you concealed your artistic

success. I gather you could have sold one of your paintings for two thousand pounds or more. Surely Sir William's lack of

interest reflects his ignorance of their worth."

Guilt was burning in Torie's gut, but now resentment was prickling to life. "Of course he would have been interested. If I sold a painting, the money would have been Sir William's, not mine. As his daughter, I had no claim to money made from my own work."

"Nor have you as my wife." Dom's jaw was steel. "Are you saying that you concealed your artistic success fearing that I would

confiscate any money you might earn, as your father undoubtedly would have done?"

"No!" Torie cried. "I never thought that. It had simply become a habit. It takes me months to finish a painting, and sometimes

I abandon it in the middle. If my father saw my work as a source of money, he would have expected me to churn out a painting

a week."

"I understand."

"If you—we—ever need money, I would be happy to sell every painting I make. I didn't mean to hide myself from you. I genuinely

never thought of it that way. Ladies don't..." She faltered. "I was taught not to boast."

"Sharing yourself, your passions and successes, is not boasting." Dom ran his hands through hair already tumbled by a long

drive in an open carriage. "Your lying by omission hurt because you're everything to me: my family, my lover, my best friend."

A sob rose in Torie's chest.

"Standing in front of Benjamin West, realizing that I deserved his mockery because I didn't know my own wife, felt like a

knife twisting in my gut."

"Oh, Dom, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to!"

"All those afternoons after we made love on your settee, you never thought of telling me about your work? You never considered sharing your talent, your ideas about time, your fame... nothing?"

Torie swallowed hard and shook her head.

"Why not?"

She told the truth. "It didn't occur to me." She looked down and saw his hand curl into a fist, white-knuckled. Not rage but

sadness.

"Yet you shared it all with Langlois." His voice was even.

"He already knew," Torie said, trying to explain. "Not at first, but after he came into my studio, he recognized the painting

I gave you."

"How could he recognize it? I thought no one visited your studio?"

"My work is recognizable to other artists. I truly didn't mean to speak to him and not you," she said, her voice trembling.

"I don't like talking to other artists. I can't talk fluently about what I do, the way Langlois does. I avoid the Royal Academy."

"He's of your world," Dom said huskily. Uncompromisingly. "I feel like such a fool. I don't know you, and yet I love you."

His eyes were dark with betrayal.

Torie pressed a fist against her stomach. She was sorry, but a germ of anger was growing inside her chest. "To be honest, I didn't think you were interested."

The words hung in the air between them.

"I deserve that."

With a quick movement, she swung off the bed and went to the window, looking over the unkempt garden, the weedy lake, the

fields that stretched into the distance.

Behind her, always the gentleman, Dom rose as well.

Torie turned about and leaned against the window, allowing the breeze to cool her neck since she felt as if she had a fever.

"I was protecting myself," she said, the words wrenched from her raw throat.

"From me?"

"From your judgment."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I know nothing of the art world. Calling a painting worth thousands of pounds ‘meticulous' shows

my ignorance. I would have..." He cleared his throat. "I would have loved to learn, had you chosen to tell me."

"It's not about my art," Torie said baldly. "You think I'm silly, Dom. You think that, my husband. I know it, and while you may not have allowed yourself to realize it, you do as well."

"I disagree." He folded his arms over his chest and gave her a ferocious scowl.

"I love the fact that you offer to fight duels against those who insult me," Torie told him. "But warding off society's unpleasantness

is not the same as disagreeing with their judgment. In your world, a world of letters and education, a person who can't read

is a fool."

"That is not true."

"It is true! When you tell someone in Lords not to be a fool, you say it because you believe he is stupid. You told me that those men refuse to read accounts of the slave trade, so logically, when you told me I was a fool, you meant

it."

"They are fools because they are unethical and immoral," Dom stated. "They could read the accounts, but they choose not to,

making them fools as they have no desire to learn."

"I agree with that, but reading is not the only way to learn, Dom."

"I've learned that from you, because you are one of the most intelligent women I know." His voice was uncompromising, his

eyes fixed on hers. "You have an eidetic memory. Your argumentative skills are wilier than mine. I take the commonplace route

when analyzing the Odyssey . You offer judgments that are fresh and new. I don't think you're foolish, Torie. Not at all."

He didn't? The label he'd hurled at her stuck in Torie's memory, and she stared at him mutely.

"What I said was inexcusable," Dom continued. " I was the fool between us. I must learn to think before I speak. That insult comes quickly to my mind because my father often

disparaged me with that same word. I am trying to banish his voice from my memory."

Torie's lips parted in surprise.

"He told me repeatedly that I was a fool, that I couldn't allow a woman to control me, that my dimples were effeminate, that

I was too weak to be a real man."

Tears pricked her eyes. "That's absurd! You are everything a man should be."

"I will always defend you, Torie, because I can't bear to think of you being hurt . I know how that feels." The words rasped in his throat.

Torie felt anger draining out of her.

"In that moment, my father's voice came out of my mouth."

She took a step toward him, but Dom shook his head. "I need to tell you the whole of it. From the moment I left the nursery, he controlled me absolutely, and yet he loathed everything about me, from my smile to my walk. I couldn't fight back when he said I walked like a woman. I chose to fight with the rapier, thinking that the skill would prove me manly." His eyes were dark with pain. "He died before I realized that his opinion was worthless."

A tear ran down Torie's cheek.

"I was terrified that people—that you—would gain power over me the way he had." His voice hitched. "On the drive here, I realized

that it's too late. Even if you don't love me enough to share your art, even if you never give me a painting of my own, you

have me. Every part of me."

Torie threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "How could you think that I don't love you? I already gave

you my most recent painting, and you can have every single one that I make for the rest of my life. I will spend hours explaining

them, as long as you understand that I'm incoherent on the subject."

"I knew that you give paintings to people you love, but—"

"I love you !" she interrupted, smiling through her tears.

"I was waiting," he finished. "I kept hoping you would take it off the wall and truly give it to me."

"I made something even better," she said, turning to her bed and reaching under the pillow where she kept her sketchbook.

"In case you don't think I love you..." She opened to a page that would have horrified polite society. There was her viscount

in the naked flesh: burly, rough, masculine. The look in his eyes wasn't gentlemanly.

Not at all.

Neither was the rest of him.

Dom looked in silence for a moment and then burst out laughing. "That's no clothespin. It looks like me, doesn't it?"

She nodded. "I'm good," she said with satisfaction. She tapped the sketch. "You're laughing." Her eyes blurred with tears

again. "I make you happy."

Dom wiped the tears away and then cupped her face in his large hands. "I love you so much, Torie."

A sweet buss on the lips wasn't enough for either of them, so she tossed away the sketchbook and went up on her toes, pushing

her fingers into his disheveled curls and drawing him into a stormy, fierce kiss.

When Torie finally pulled back, breathing hard, she was on the bed, sitting in Dom's lap. "The twins won't wake up for an

hour or two." She licked the strong column of his neck. "Mmmm. Parfum de dust."

Dom rolled sideways, his weight settling over her. "I must bathe before I make love to you."

"There are no baths," Torie said, smiling at his appalled expression. "The duke only has a few servants, and Emily can't carry

more than a pitcher of water up all these steps."

"I brought grooms with me."

"So did I, but the tub—the only tub—rusted out last year." She put a finger across his lips. "No, we aren't moving to an inn,

because the children are happy here, and so am I."

He nipped her lower lip. "What about all this dust?"

Torie felt joy swirling through her. "Come look at my view."

"What?"

At the window, she leaned against Dom's chest and pointed to the lake, shining limpid blue in the early morning sun. "The duchess swims there in her chemise, so the children and I have been joining her."

Dom bent his neck and nipped her ear. "I see water."

She smiled up at him.

"And willow trees so thick that the shore can't be glimpsed from the castle."