Chapter 5

Dominic could scarcely believe his own ears. He dropped Torie's hand and said sharply, "My mistress?"

He didn't want to think about Victoria Sutton in the same breath as Gianna. Torie was charming, fresh, and funny. Useless,

perhaps, but enchanting.

Especially when she was facing down her father and sister with that beaming, courageous smile.

His mistress was... Well, Gianna was a tempestuous Italian with the propensity to throw crockery at the servants.

His future sister-in-law bit her plump lip, a wash of pink rising in her cheeks. "I shouldn't have said that," Torie whispered.

"Could we pretend I didn't?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I am appalled," Dominic said grimly. "A gentleman's private arrangements are never to be discussed in polite company."

"You're unreasonable," Torie countered, raising her chin. "Why should I pretend not to know of Miss Peccati? She is reportedly

ravishing, if temperamental, and the two of you are a favorite subject of gossip. Moreover, my sister told me that you had

been remarkably frank with her on the subject."

"Leonora told you about our conversation addressing my mistress ?"

"Of course she did! I'm her sister. In my opinion, you distinguished yourself by scrupulous truthfulness. You informed her that you sought to marry an excellent hostess who could soften your reputation and improve your standing in the House of Lords—not the most romantic of reasons, but refreshingly direct. You promised never to betray her with another lady but specified that

a mistress doesn't count as adultery. Once again, applause for your candor, though I would have kicked you and your proposal

out the door." She grinned and added, "To be honest."

Dominic was nonplussed. It was as if Torie didn't understand the nature of marriage at their rank.

"In case you're wondering," she continued, "Leonora is an excellent hostess, and she will never take a cicisbeo. She is ruthlessly

conventional and will give you two sons of your own bloodline . Did I miss anything?"

"No." He made the word as forbidding as possible.

Torie rolled her eyes. "You're not a prudish dowager, so why should I pretend that I don't know of the existence of your mistress?

Or my father's mistress, for that matter?"

"Such indelicate matters should never be bandied about."

"You and Leonora are a match made in heaven: she too likes to proclaim rules as if airing her opinion will make people agree.

All I meant to say is that according to the gossip columns, Miss Peccati reportedly drinks pink champagne for breakfast, which

I applaud. Pink champagne is much prettier than plain wine, in my opinion."

"Such details appear in newspapers?" Appalled didn't cover his feelings.

"Regularly. Bellowing in the House of Lords wins you frequent notices as well. You weren't aware?"

"I've never seen such a column."

"You are right to ignore them," Torie said blithely. "I won't bring Miss Peccati up again since you don't wish me to. There's nothing worse than being teased about one's secrets, don't you think?"

"Are you referring to your inability to read?"

"Pretty much," she confided. "After everyone learned the truth in my second Season, life became easier. The year before, I

was always dodging comments about the latest novel."

Dominic drew in a deep breath. No one had ever spoken to him in such an impertinent fashion, but it was clear that Torie meant

no disrespect. Instead, she was explicitly disregarding convention on the grounds that they were family. It was as if she

were an American. He'd once spent a few months in Boston and had conversations with forthright ladies that would never occur

in polite society on this side of the Atlantic.

At his silence, Torie gave a little shrug before she turned and headed for the stairs to the second floor. "My sister and

father will be displeased if you don't return promptly."

Victoria Sutton was shorter than Leonora, and yet her personality was far larger. She was bursting with life. Even her laugh

was vibrant; he felt her deep chuckle in his bones.

At that thought, he had a sudden sharp realization: thank God he hadn't betrothed himself to a woman like her, someone flamboyant

and irritating and far too sensual. He pushed that ridiculous thought out of his mind and followed her up the stairs. They

creaked under his tread, and the walls were still painted olive-brown.

Torie reached the landing and paused to wait for him. "Come along," she said, diving at the nursery door before he could touch it.

The occupants of the room didn't look up. Florence was seated on a settee that Dominic recalled from his childhood as having

cushions like rocks. Valentine was lying on his back on the floor, his booted feet propped on the seat beside his sister.

The room was clean enough, but dreary.

Just as he remembered.

Two beds, the hard settee, a tin tub surrounded by a yellow curtain hanging from clattering iron rings.

"Has it changed since you were a child?" Torie whispered.

"It is precisely the same." Just as depressing. He could feel his spirits sinking.

"‘As for the severed heads, he had placed them amongst the items of the rest of his collection, in a line of almost military

perfection along the windowsill,'" Florence read aloud from a sheet of foolscap.

Torie caught Dominic's arm and put a finger to her lips. Her eyes were dancing with laughter.

"I like that line," Valentine said, staring up at the ceiling. "Where'd you get the idea of the severed heads?"

"In the drawing room," Florence replied. "The way they all stared at us. Next line: ‘I could imagine him, late at night when

his mistress had gone to sleep, rustling their hair with all the strength in his long fingers until the heads crumbled.'"

"Mistress?" Dominic muttered in disbelief. Even children knew what a mistress was? Then it occurred to him that severed heads

were more problematic. Shouldn't his niece be writing a story about fairies and frilly ball gowns?

"I'm not sure I like what comes next," Florence continued, scribbling. "‘The fresher heads were brushed to one side as they lay before the open window.'"

"You need to set the scene.... ‘Before the open window, bathed in steady flows of moonlight,'" Valentine amended.

"Personally, I think that ‘bathed' and ‘flows' are jarring in the same sentence," Torie put in. Weathered floorboards squeaked

as she walked into the room.

Florence jerked upright and stood, dropping her pencil and sheet of paper to the ground. Valentine twisted his head about

to see who had entered, then pulled his feet from the settee and rose.

"We just met downstairs," Torie said. "I am Victoria Sutton, and I'll be your aunt one of these days, since your uncle is

marrying my sister."

Florence dropped a curtsy. Valentine bowed. "Good afternoon," they chorused.

Dominic suddenly realized that Florence was wearing neither slippers nor stockings. He could see pale ankles below the hem

of her black dress.

Torie sat down opposite the twins. "Let's talk about severed heads."

Dominic froze on the spot. What had seemed like a simple matter—house his sister's children and raise them to adulthood—abruptly

felt impossible. Florence's ankles were as thin as a bird's. Was she ill-fed?

What about those severed heads? Did that reflect a diseased imagination? He could imagine the distaste on Leonora's face if

she heard about this story. Ladies didn't write about severed heads or greet visitors with bare legs and toes.

The twins didn't seem to notice that he hadn't greeted them or seated himself. No match for Torie's charming smile, they dropped onto the settee and tumbled directly into a tangled description of a story short on plot but rich with horrific details.

Why hadn't his brother-in-law sent his son to Eton? Valentine didn't seem to have any understanding of gentlemanly behavior.

Even if settee cushions were rocklike, one didn't prop one's feet on them. Florence was equally oblivious. As he watched,

she pulled up her thin legs and hugged her knees, wiggling her bare toes.

What in the hell was he going to do with them?