Chapter 6

Torie generally liked everyone she met unless they tried to pinch her bottom or made an overt joke about her intelligence.

But these children?

She really liked them.

She had grown up in a nursery with Leonora, who by the age of six already knew how to keep her curls tidy, sew a straight

seam, and write all her letters.

Torie's crimes began with unmanageable curls and went downhill from there. She was personally responsible for several nannies

and two governesses being dismissed after they had failed to teach her to read.

Which led to a deep, abiding fascination with books. With words. With people who could make up stories.

The twins were tripping over each other, explaining that Florence was writing the story while Valentine was helping. "He's

not as good a writer as I am," Florence pronounced. "He's overly flowery."

"I like ‘bathed in flows of moonlight,'" Valentine protested. "It has gravitas . Don't you think so, Lord Kelbourne?"

Their guardian had finally seated himself but still hadn't said a word. He looked as if he'd undergone a severe blow—not the first of the day, Torie reminded herself. The poor man had apparently believed that his private affairs weren't of interest to everyone capable of reading a gossip column, just as he thought his future wife was a docile, fragile flower.

The children stared at their uncle, waiting for him to respond.

Torie took pity on the viscount and intervened. "Does your character have fangs? Because I have the inkling that this man

would have fangs overhanging his lower lip. They could shine in the moonlight. Or—be bathed in moonlight."

"I like that!" Florence exclaimed, scribbling on her foolscap.

"Where's your nanny?" Kelbourne asked, ignoring the moonlit fangs.

"Downstairs with the housekeeper," Valentine said. "Nanny Bracknell finds us very tiresome, and we feel the same about her."

His sister elbowed him. "Don't be such a frightful snob, Val."

"Snob?" Torie asked.

"Valentine thinks that he's smarter than everyone he meets," his sister disclosed.

"That's not true," Valentine protested. "You are smarter than I am."

"He walks around making judgments about people based on the last book they read. Nanny likes to read the Bible, and even then,

only the New Testament. Beware: if you admit to not having read Plutarch, my brother will dismiss you as an idiot."

"I might as well be frank with you, Valentine," Torie said. "I haven't read a single book."

The children's eyes widened. "Whyever not?" Florence gasped.

"I am unable to read or write."

"Read?" Valentine was seemingly too appalled to be snobbish. "You can't read ?"

"Shall we teach you?" Florence asked, leaning forward, eyes shining. "I began reading at three years old, and after that, I taught my brother and the milkman. So I could teach you."

"It won't work," Valentine said flatly. "It's not like when you taught Puffer to read. If she doesn't know by now, there's

likely something wrong with her brain, Flo. Pulling out a slate board won't help."

Kelbourne cleared his throat. "A gentleman should not be so blunt. You might hurt Miss Victoria's feelings."

The twins' eyes moved from him to Torie. "Did I?" Valentine asked.

"No," Torie replied. "I'm used to being the dunce in the room."

"It would be interesting to dissect your brain," Valentine observed. "Do you know about dissection?"

Torie shook her head. "My ignorance knows no bounds. What is it?"

"Cutting up a dead body to see what it's like inside," Valentine said. "When I'm old enough, I mean to cut up many people.

I expect your brain looks differently than mine."

Torie almost said "smaller," but caught back the word. She was trying not to disparage herself, given that the world so often

did it for her.

"This is not a proper subject for conversation. Ladies are horrified by the mention of dead bodies," Kelbourne announced.

If he was thinking of Leonora, he wasn't wrong. Torie's sister would expire from shock if she heard about Florence's story.

The twins glanced at him, unimpressed. Torie had the feeling that any number of people had tried to steer them into being

more conventional.

And failed.

"Ladies prefer more delicate subjects," Kelbourne continued, an edge in his voice. "For example, Miss Victoria is an excellent watercolorist. We could discuss her paintings of kittens and flowers."

"I paint in oil. And you have no idea if I'm excellent," Torie said, wrinkling her nose at him.

"Well, are you?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"Except for the rear ends of rabbits," the viscount qualified, the faintest glimmer of laughter in his eyes.

"I could try to write a story about a rabbit," Florence said dubiously.

Torie choked back a peal of laughter. "How many stories have you written?"

"Loads. Especially lately. We like to read, but Nanny wouldn't let us bring any books. So in the last few days, we've been

writing instead."

"Why weren't you allowed to bring your library?" Kelbourne asked.

"She wanted us to try to be normal children," Valentine explained. "Or at least appear so."

"Too late for that," Torie said, grinning. "‘Master Valentine' is such a mouthful. May I address you as Val?"

Val nodded, but Florence said, "I do not wish to be addressed as Flo."

"My usage is grandfathered in," Val said.

"Florence is more dignified," his sister explained. "Also, it's a city in Italy that I mean to visit someday. Have you been

there?" she asked the viscount.

"Yes, I have. Florence is a charming city, full of art."

"I shall go there on tour," Valentine announced. He turned to Kelbourne. "Since you're our new father, you might as well know now that we'd prefer that Flo marry young."

The viscount blinked. "Father?"

"Our first father told us that in case of his death, you would be our second," Valentine explained. "I gather that Miss Sutton

is to be our new mother."

Kelbourne had the stunned look of a man recognizing that his life has just changed profoundly. Torie jumped in again. "Why

do you wish to marry young, Florence?"

"So that she can accompany me on my Grand Tour," Valentine explained.

Torie couldn't help smiling. "And her husband? Will he accompany you as well?"

"Of course. It's called a honeymoon."

Kelbourne's dazed features eased into something like amusement. "A honeymoon is generally a trip conducted by a new husband

and wife alone."

"Not in our case," Florence said with utmost confidence. "We're twins, you see."

"Flo must marry so she can come with me. First she has to master the arts of enticement." Valentine eyed Torie. "Perhaps you

could help her."

"‘Arts of enticement'?"

"The phrase comes from a really interesting sermon about sinners," he explained. "Preached after a ‘mortal and bloody duel.'"

"You're reading Joseph Sewell's sermons?" Torie asked, recognizing the author from his sermon given at Westminster Abbey.

"I found it in Father's library," Valentine said. "Someday I might have to fight a duel, so I hoped the sermon would include

useful information, but it did not."

Kelbourne frowned. "No pastor knows anything about dueling."

The twins ignored him, which Torie thought he'd better get used to.

"You will need to dress like her and walk like her," Valentine told his sister, nodding at Torie.

Torie glanced down at herself. Her black bombazine had none of the ruffles, lace, and ribbons she adored. She preferred to

be one of the widest ladies in any room, but her mourning dress was designed for small panniers. Moreover, the bodice touched

her collarbone, whereas most of her gowns showcased her breasts.

She did not feel enticing.

"I can already wiggle," Florence said. She hopped up from the settee and walked across the room, her narrow hips swaying from

one side to the other. "Good afternoon, Lord Whatsit," she cooed, bobbing a curtsy.

"You look like a duck crossing the road," her brother observed.

"Miss Victoria does not move in that exaggerated manner," Kelbourne said.

Florence turned around, hands on her hips, and swished left, then right. "Enticing ladies wiggle!" she informed the viscount.

"Yes, Mother wiggled," Val agreed.

A glance flashed between the twins, something that Torie couldn't interpret.

Florence returned to her seat and tucked one bare foot under her. "I'm only eleven. I have time to learn how to entice a husband."

"Very true," Torie agreed.

"I suppose you haven't found one because you can't read," Florence said, giving her a sympathetic look. "You could live with me once I'm married, if you wish."

"To be quite frank, the idea of marriage turns my stomach," Valentine said. "I think I'll avoid it. You never truly know who

you're marrying, do you? Flo wrote a story about a man who killed several wives. Each one was terribly surprised when she discovered a chamber full of legs and arms and such."

"Why did he chop up his wives, let alone kill them?" Torie asked.

Florence shrugged. "I got the idea from an item in the newspaper about Lord Adolphus Bufford, who had three wives. All of

them died, so obviously he killed them."

"I am acquainted with Lord Bufford," Torie said. In fact, he had been one of Kelbourne's rivals for Leonora's hand in marriage.

"I've danced with him numerous times, and I assure you that he is a perfect gentleman."

"Dancing is not the same as marriage," Valentine pointed out, with some justification. "His homicidal tendencies wouldn't

be obvious in a ballroom."

"Lord Bufford is an elderly peer, well respected in the House of Lords," Kelbourne said sharply.

" Three wives," Florence reminded him. "Respect from his peers is hardly likely to stifle bloodthirsty impulses. Just look at Lady

Macbeth! She was probably ladylike until she bathed her hands in blood."

Torie was thoroughly enjoying the fact that neither child was intimidated by the viscount. Lady Dorney's interesting romantic

life had apparently kept her so busy that she had neglected to teach her children to respect their elders.

Or, like Leonora, she might have considered her mothering duties completed after she dropped her children in the country. Torie had the distinct impression that the twins had raised themselves with the help of their father's library.

"Two dead wives might be regarded as misfortune, but three smacks of homicide," Valentine put in, grinning.

"This is a most improper subject for conversation," the viscount pronounced.

"You wouldn't want Miss Victoria to keep dancing with Bufford, would you?" Valentine asked. "What if he began courting her?

What if he proposed?"

"No worries about that," Torie said. "He would never choose someone like me."

"Because of the reading problem," Valentine said, nodding.

"Partially, but more likely on the grounds of character. Lord Bufford is very worthy, and wouldn't want someone as frivolous

as I. I combine illiteracy with a passion for painting flowers, remember?"

"You're very pretty, though," Florence observed. "We look wretched in black, but it makes your skin look as white as...

as wallpaper paste."

"Wallpaper paste!" her brother exclaimed with disgust. " Moonlight , Flo! Or milk. Or lilies. White lilies!"

"Thank you both," Torie said, desperately trying to stop herself from bursting into laughter.

"I wouldn't mind marrying you," Valentine observed. "I could read aloud to you."

"Perhaps you could read to me even if I don't marry you? I am rather old for you, though I do appreciate the compliment."

"Age is merely a number," Valentine said with a wave of his hand. "If not me, why don't you marry our second father?" He nodded toward Kelbourne. "He's older, but we sweeten the bargain."

"He can't. He's marrying her sister," Florence pointed out.

Torie didn't dare glance at the viscount.

"It would be easier to read to Miss Victoria if she were living with us," Valentine said.

"She's going to be in our family, so we can read to her," Florence said. "We'll start with fairy tales. You'll like them," she told Torie. "Witches who eat children,

evil stepmothers, et cetera."

Torie had a dizzyingly joyful feeling that she had found some family members who liked her, even given her deficiencies. "Please

call me Torie," she said warmly. "As we're family."

Kelbourne threw her a reproving look. Unsurprisingly, given that she had suggested that he address her as such two years ago,

and he was still parroting "Miss Sutton" at her sister.

"All right," Valentine agreed, obviously having no idea how unusual it was to address an adult by her given name.

"Only when we're in private," Torie clarified, because Leonora would have a fit of vapors if she overheard him.

The twins nodded. "Would you like to read a book now?" Valentine asked. "I think that Father likely has some good ones in

his library."

There was a moment of silence before Kelbourne woke up to the fact that he was the father in question. He cleared his throat.

"Yes. I do."

"I suggest you only address Lord Kelbourne as your father in private as well," Torie said. " We may all understand that your first father intended him to be your second, but ‘Lord Kelbourne' is the most polite address."

"My fiancée is Miss Sutton." Kelbourne hesitated. "Never address her as ‘Mother,' even in private."

Florence's lips rounded into an O, and her eyes lit up.

"My sister will not be an evil stepmother," Torie said hastily. "Leonora is simply quite proper."

"Disappointing," Florence remarked. "I'd like to prove myself against an evil stepmother. I would never allow myself be put

into an oven." Turning to Kelbourne, she added, "Will you marry soon? Shall we continue to live with you, and will Torie join

us?"

"If we are to live with you, can we please have some books, or at least borrow them from your library?" Val chimed in.

"You will live wherever I live," Kelbourne said. "You may have as many books as you wish, and I shall immediately send for

those left behind. I shall not marry Miss Sutton for at least three months, since we are in mourning for your parents."

"We do recognize the fact that we ought to be in torrents of tears," Valentine disclosed.

"We're not good at crying, and unfortunately, we didn't know either of them very well," Florence said.

"Moreover, they didn't like us," Valentine added.

"Your parents loved you," Kelbourne stated firmly, much to Torie's relief. She was feeling out of her depth, having only met

the Dorneys once, at Leonora's betrothal dinner. Neither Dorney had frequented the same parties as debutantes.

"That's not the same as ‘like,' is it?" Valentine argued. "The last time we saw Mother, she fired our governess, saying we were akin to barbarians. We think she forgot to hire another, because a year went by, and no one replaced Miss Biddleton."

Kelbourne's jaw tightened in response to this artless depiction of his sister's cavalier mothering. "You're too old for a

governess, so I will hire a tutor. The three of us will live here in my house in London when Parliament is in session and

retire to Kelbourne Manor in the summer. Once we are out of deep mourning, you shall go to Eton, Valentine."

Valentine shook his head. "No, I shall not. Father considered that as well, until I explained that I could not be separated

from Flo."

"Father was surprisingly persistent," Florence added. "He stayed in the nursery for at least an hour, trying to persuade Val.

We never saw him again. Would you live with us once your sister marries our father?" she asked Torie. "You seem to like us.

At least, you don't appear to be hysterical, and you're not shrieking."

Leonora would be shrieking. Torie was still trying to get her head around the idea of her sister having regular conversations with these

two. "I shall happily visit, if his lordship approves. My father's house is only a few blocks from here."

"We must read to Torie, even before you marry Miss Sutton," Val said to the viscount. "You must see that. Likely she doesn't

know anything ."

"I'm an expert in ribbons and gowns. And painting roses."

Val closed his eyes, looking for all the world like an exasperated sixty-year-old peer, then squinted at her disbelievingly.

"No Plutarch?"

"Who?"

He sighed loudly. "This is a disaster."

"Miss Torie may visit the house whenever she wishes," Kelbourne said. He had the stern, somewhat pallid countenance of a man trying to recover from a severe shock. Or influenza.

Torie gave him a thankful smile. His gaze remained cool. Even stuffy Lord Bufford had responded to her charm, but not the

viscount.

Not that it mattered, of course.

He would be merely her brother-in-law. His hard jawline was Leonora's problem, not hers.

"Would you like to hear more of the story I'm writing?" Florence asked.

"Absolutely!" Torie said.

"Another day," Kelbourne said. "Miss Victoria and I must return to the drawing room."

"Why don't you call her Torie?" Florence inquired. "She's to be your sister."

"Sister-in-law."

"Please do," Torie said, mischief prompting her to poke at the viscount. "I believe I asked you to do so two years ago. And

I shall address you as..."

"Dominic," he responded after a chilly pause.

"Dominic it is. Or perhaps Dom?" Torie chirped, enjoying the way he recoiled slightly on hearing his first name. He was a

stick, but she felt sympathy for him. This nursery visit must have been a blow to his constitution, from being addressed as

"Father" to being cheerfully informed that Eton was out of the question.

"Surely it's time for your supper," he said to the twins. "Does your nanny appear regularly with meals?" His voice had taken

on such a forbidding edge that both children blinked at him in surprise.

"Nanny Bracknell will bring up some food when she gets around to it," Val said.

It couldn't have been more obvious that neither child paid attention to mealtimes.

"Must you leave with Father?" Florence asked, her pale green eyes fixed on Torie's face. "I can add fangs to my story!"

Torie had the distinct sense that the children were desperate for attention. "I shall dine with you, but Lord Kelbourne must

return to the drawing room," she said, rising to her feet. "On your feet, twins. We shall bid your"—she faltered—"his lordship

farewell."

"Dominic," he reminded her. To her surprise, a smile lurked in his eyes. "Perhaps I might share your meal?"

"I'm afraid not," Torie said. "You are hosting my sister and father, if you recall." Though she was certain Sir William had

passed out by now.

A bow and two curtsies later, the viscount walked out the door, promising to dispatch a footman with an English translation

of Homer's Odyssey. He had looked surprised on being told to leave, but Torie had no wish to find herself berated by Leonora for boring her fiancé.

"You must remember that trivialities are mind-numbing to men of substance," Leonora often told her.

So: off with the man of substance.

"We can read Homer over our meal," Val proclaimed.

"We should work on my story first!" Florence argued. She picked up the page again. "‘I could see him enjoying their company

across the dingy room from beyond the dead, unlit hearth where spiders set up camp and trapped only dust mites.'" She paused.

"What do you think?"

"I like that the ‘spiders set up camp' trying to trap flies but only caught dust mites," Torie said. "Whose company are we talking about?"

Val had dropped to the floor the moment the door closed behind the viscount. He put his boots up on the settee next to his

sister.

"The severed heads," he said, rather dreamily. "They wouldn't be nearly as good as mere ‘heads,' would they? The word severed makes all the difference."