Chapter 7

Over the course of the next two months, Torie's life fell into an agreeable pattern. Every morning, she paid a visit to the

Kelbourne nursery, taking lunch with the twins if she wasn't otherwise engaged. In the afternoons, she painted in her studio,

a room at the rear of the house overlooking the back garden. In the evenings, she sallied forth to the theater or a ball,

escorted by one of her suitors and chaperoned by Leonora, her maid Emily, or Clara and her mother.

Despite Leonora's ominous prophecy regarding Torie's future spinsterdom, she had several new suitors, one of whom was the

Duke of Queensberry. During their most recent dance, His Grace had cheerfully told her that no bluestocking's brains could

compare with a complexion like hers.

Torie wasn't thrilled to be courted for her complexion, but beggars couldn't be choosers... and he was a duke.

One day Florence asked to see Torie's painting studio, so Torie walked the twins to her house and brought them directly upstairs

since Leonora was receiving callers in the drawing room.

She and the viscount had tacitly agreed that the twins weren't ready for a prolonged conversation with her sister. Kelbourne

had instituted a Prohibited List, an index of topics to be avoided in polite conversation.

Rather to Torie's surprise, the list kept growing. She had not considered how many topics were never discussed by gentlefolk. The viscount's command, "Put that on the list," had become a joke amongst herself and the twins, with imitations of his growl leading to peals of laughter.

In years gone by, her studio had been her mother's sewing chamber, but three years ago, Torie had claimed it due to its west-facing

window. She hadn't realized until she escorted the children through the door how messy it had become. The bare floor was splattered

with paint in every color, and jars of paintbrushes bathing in solvent sat next to empty teacups. Their butler's inept household

management meant that servants avoided the studio altogether.

"I adore this room!" Florence squealed, clapping her hands. "Why do you have two easels?" she asked, walking over to a still

life made up of billowy roses.

"One captures morning light, the other afternoon," Torie explained.

"I see what you're doing here," Valentine said, rather surprisingly. He was standing before her morning easel. The nearly

finished painting depicted a rabbit family gamboling in a clearing flooded with sunlight.

"You do?" Torie asked. Half the time she wasn't sure what she was doing; she was simply compelled to try to master an idea.

"Dawn light is burnishing the rabbits' ears," Valentine said. "Do look at this, Florence." His twin promptly came to stand

beside him.

The children were still dressed in deep black, but Torie had dispatched a modiste to Kelbourne House so they at least had

touches of white at the neck. They'd gained some weight after the viscount imposed regular mealtimes.

Torie couldn't help thinking they were utterly adorable, especially when they stood shoulder to shoulder, their hands clasped behind their backs.

"I think she smiled while painting these bunnies," Florence told her brother.

"I see what you mean," Valentine replied, once again sounding as judicious as a sixty-year-old man. "These rabbits are joyous,

though I'm not sure how the emotion makes itself known."

"Look here," Florence said, pointing at one of the babies. "The way his ear flops and his head is bent. He's so happy to be

with his brothers and sisters. And his mama."

Valentine leaned in, squinting closely at the canvas. "How did you make these whiskers, Torie? I can scarcely see them."

"A pin," she explained. And then, since they were interested, she told them all about painting rabbits. "The hindquarters

are the most challenging, not because of their shape—that's easy—but because a rabbit is almost always in motion and springs

from its rear legs."

Florence mimicked her brother, peering closely at the painting. "I see it in the rabbit in the air." She traced its legs with

her finger. "He went up and twisted. I expect it was hard to portray him in motion like that."

"It's taken me years," Torie said simply.

"Perhaps you could teach us to paint," Valentine suggested. He moved from examining the rabbits to the woods behind them.

"I like the way you used indigo blue to make the woods seem so deep."

Torie laughed aloud. "You're the first who's noticed that trick. I learned it from an Italian painter whose paintings are displayed in the permanent exhibit of the Royal Academy of Arts."

"We should go see his work," Valentine declared. "I want to learn to paint rabbits. Perhaps not roses, though."

"They're not merely roses," Florence objected. "There's a ladybug on one leaf."

The upshot of the twins' visit was that the viscount had a great deal of paint and two easels delivered to the nursery. "Try

to paint something monumental, like the Tower of London," he advised Valentine. "Roses and rabbits are for ladies."

Torie swallowed back a wave of irritation.

"Because they are as delightful as women," Kelbourne added quickly, eyeing her face.

The viscount's condescension was no worse than that of other men in her life. After seeing one of her paintings hanging on

the wall of a friend, the Duke of Queensberry informed Torie that it was marvelous she had a hobby, and that the roses were

as pretty as she. "The female vision is attuned to sensual particularity," he had opined.

Trying to create the depth of the room behind the bunch of roses thrown carelessly on a table had taken four months. She didn't

think her eventual triumph had anything to do with "sensual particularity."

Valentine gave his uncle a clear-eyed look and said, "I shan't paint a tower because I'm not interested. It doesn't sound

very challenging."

A week later, Torie decided that the twins were ready to meet Leonora. The Prohibited List was several pages long—and memorized. A placid conversation over a cup of tea would hopefully lead to her sister reconciling herself to the idea of having wards, which might stop her from grumping about the time Torie spent at Kelbourne House.

"You are so rarely at home," Leonora complained. "Lord Bufford paid us a morning call yesterday, and you were nowhere to be

found. I had to summon Emily to chaperone. I could almost think that you deliberately avoided him."

"You would be correct," Torie confirmed. She had glimpsed Bufford's carriage trundle to a stop before the house and promptly

slipped down the back stairs. "Given that Lord Bufford just escorted us to the theater, I didn't expect to see him the very

next day. Besides, he only comes to see you."

The elderly baron hadn't given up hope of winning Leonora from the viscount and had been taking full advantage of Kelbourne's

withdrawal from society due to mourning to escort her to balls and the theater almost every night.

A faint smile touched Leonora's lips. "His lordship is remarkably persistent, isn't he? Yet he's such a gentleman that he

never makes me feel uncomfortable. I feel safe in his company even without a chaperone."

To Torie's mind, ravishment was unlikely, because Bufford had to be past sixty and walked with a cane. "Does being in Kelbourne's

company make you uncomfortable? We haven't seen much of your fiancé in the last month."

She kept to herself the fact that she often met Kelbourne coming or going from the nursery. They'd even shared a few meals,

chaperoned by the twins and the Odyssey , which had proved bloody enough for Florence and eloquent enough for Val.

Leonora shrugged. "The viscount is in mourning, Torie. It would be most inappropriate for him to attend the theater, let alone a ball. As you know, I am besieged by invitations and in need of a companion. Lord Bufford is a godsend."

"Mourning wouldn't prevent your fiancé from taking you for a drive in the park," Torie observed. She was slightly worried

that Leonora would change her mind about Kelbourne and decide to marry someone more manageable. Thankfully, no other viscounts

were available for marriage.

In the depths of the night, Torie had started to imagine raising the twins, as Leonora had suggested. Perhaps if they moved

to the country, she might meet a farmer, preferably one who couldn't read. A broad-shouldered man without pretensions, but

with burly thighs.

Kelbourne's thighs were far more muscled than those of the Duke of Queensberry. According to Leonora, her fiancé's daily rapier

practice had resulted in swollen muscles, which she found most distasteful.

Torie would never look at her sister's future husband with desire, of course, but she had to admit that she liked swollen

muscles.

"I might summon Kelbourne for a drive in Hyde Park," Leonora said, sounding distinctly unenthusiastic. "He's getting impatient

about our delayed wedding."

"That's fair, given the two years you put him off even before he went into mourning."

"I certainly couldn't have married him within months of his proposal. Hasty weddings give entirely the wrong impression."

Such as the impression that two people couldn't wait to be together? But then Torie realized her sister was talking about the overly prompt appearance of babies.

"Last year was extremely crowded with events," Leonora continued. "The celebrations following the conferral of Prince Augustus

Frederick's dukedom, for example. The wedding of a viscount should be the premier event of the Season."

"You could meet Kelbourne in his own house while visiting the nursery," Torie suggested. "Once you are better acquainted,

I am certain you will grow fond of Valentine and Florence."

"I don't wish to be acquainted with them, let alone feel a warmer emotion," Leonora stated. "Fairly or unfairly, they carry

the blemish of their mother's shameful reputation. I can't imagine why Kelbourne hasn't dispatched them to the country, but

I think less of him for it. It is not fair to them to raise them in the environs of polite society when they will never find

a place amongst us."

"You sound remarkably uncharitable," Torie observed. Sometimes her only defense was to attack Leonora for unladylike comportment.

"Shouldn't you be more loyal to your fiancé?"

"I am being practical. Reputation aside, can you imagine me introducing that strange-looking girl to society? Her eyes are

the color of gooseberries."

"Florence is beautiful!" Torie protested. "Her hair curls most attractively."

Leonora wrinkled her nose, so Torie added cunningly, "If we made a brief visit to the nursery, you could take another look

at the grand salon. If you recall, you decided that it needed renovation."

When Leonora finally agreed, she insisted on taking the carriage all of three blocks and sending in her card. Flitwick himself came out to the carriage to say that the viscount was in attendance at the House of Lords, but he implored them to enter for a cup of pekoe tea and a few of Mrs. Flitwick's freshly baked lemon scones.

"No scones," Leonora stated, descending from the carriage.

"Yes, scones," Torie said, jumping down. "Flitwick, we'd like to see the children, so perhaps we could take tea in the nursery."

"First, the grand salon," Leonora said, making her priorities clear.

She spent the next hour directing Flitwick to strip the oak paneling and create a serene and symmetrical space. "I prefer

quiet colors. Those crimson draperies are horrendous." She gave a dramatic shudder. "This room must be completely refurbished

before I live here. The cacophony of color is most disturbing."

Flitwick assured her that work could begin immediately.

"We shan't marry for at least six months," Leonora told him.

Torie managed not to raise an eyebrow, though she was certain that the viscount planned to marry as soon as he was out of

deep mourning.

The first thing she saw on opening the nursery door was Florence atop her bed, twirling a leaky pillow while feathers eddied

around her like a snow shower. "Avast ye, scurvy dog, you beetle-browed dolt!" she shrieked.

Both children had repurposed their mourning armbands as eye patches worn diagonally over their foreheads. Pillows had turned

to weapons. In short, they were pirates.

"You bilge-sucking, lily-livered scalawag!" Val entine shouted. His hair had grown long enough to snare feathers; they ringed his dark curls like a ragged halo.

"Pirates, ahoy!" Torie said briskly, diving into the room and snatching Flo's pillow before it lost any more feathers.

"Sink me, 'tis me auntie!" Valentine said, hopping off his bed.

"Torie!" Florence shrieked. Torie had just enough time to drop the pillow to the floor before the girl hurtled off the bed.

She threw her arms around Torie's waist. "Hello!"

From the door, Leonora cleared her throat. "Good afternoon, Miss Florence, Master Valentine."

The twins' heads swiveled to the door in unison.

Torie held her breath. Most of the time Leonora showed the world an inflexibly decorous fa?ade, maintained by rigid attendance

to rules such as Laughter is immoderate . Very occasionally, Nora—the sister who used to love nursery games—would reappear.

"Or am I addressing two pirates?" Leonora added, smiling.

Torie sighed with relief.

"Would you like to play with us, Miss Sutton?" Florence asked excitedly. "We have more pillows."

"Oh, no," Leonora stated. "Miss Victoria and I are too old for such games. When you're a grown lady, Miss Florence, you won't

wish to be buffeted by a pillow, will you?"

"I believe I wouldn't mind," Florence said thoughtfully. "Especially if I am doing most of the buffeting."

"She's remarkably violent for a member of her sex," Valentine said. He was plucking feathers from his hair and throwing them in the air. "Look at this, Torie. The draft in this room runs east to west."

"I would be an excellent pirate," Florence said.

"How so?" Torie inquired. She felt a pricking unease at the expression on Leonora's face; her sister may have accepted the

pirates, but by addressing Torie with her nickname, Valentine had just breached a cardinal rule: A well-bred lady encourages no one, including her spouse, to address her in a casual or informal manner.

"I am free from sentimentality," Florence explained. "Pirates are not mawkish while making fellows walk the plank, for example.

I feel certain I could dispatch them with aplomb. Isn't that a lovely word? Aplomb means ‘assurance.'"

"No woman is a pirate, or at least, no lady could be a pirate," Leonora said, distracted from the issue of Valentine's informality. "Ladies have a natural sense of delicacy,

a sensibility that defends them from bloodthirsty practices."

Florence regarded her with distinct aplomb. "Perhaps I shall grow into sensibility, although I don't hold out much hope."

"You can feign delicacy," Valentine called encouragingly from the window, where he was trying to coax feathers to float in

the draft coming from the closed window. "Just look how well I can bow. Though frankly, if I wanted to finick about like a

heron, I'd live in a stream." He looked to Torie. "To finick is to ‘affect extreme daintiness or refinement.'"

"Thank you," Torie said. "On that subject, Val, you have neglected to bow to us. ‘Sink me' is not an appropriate greeting."

Valentine walked forward, clutching two feathers in his left hand, and bowed with a finicking flourish of his right. "Good afternoon, Miss Sutton. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you again." He bowed. "Miss Victoria."

Leonora nodded a greeting. "Master Valentine. I hope you find the nursery comfortable."

The room had transformed from Torie's first visit. Two desks now stood side by side against one wall. The easels were positioned

before the window, and new beds lined another wall. A painted screen in the corner had been left folded open, and behind it

she could see a gleaming brass bathtub. Finally, comfortable chairs and a sofa were arranged before the fireplace.

"It's rather cramped for two of you, is it not?" Leonora continued, without waiting for Valentine's answer. "Miss Victoria

and I grew up in a nursery in the country, where there was enough room for my sister and me to have our own bedchambers."

Torie cast her sister a jaundiced glance. Of course Leonora would champion the pleasures of country living.

"We wouldn't care to sleep apart," Florence said. "Fa—Lord Kelbourne has refurbished the room since we arrived. Do you like

the wallpaper?"

"No," Leonora said, before Torie could catch her eye. "I find it chaotic and overly colorful."

"The children's mother chose this paper," Torie said.

"For the nursery?" Leonora asked incredulously.

"Oh no, for the downstairs corridor," Valentine explained.

"This paper would be just right in a corridor," Leonora said immediately. "One would pass by and be left with an impression

of beauty."

Torie took a relieved breath. Her sister was a kind person, as long as emotions were muted and propriety observed.

"We didn't know our mother very well," Florence said, "but Lady Dorney was rather peacocky, like this paper. We think perhaps

seeing it every day will make us care for her more."

" You think that," her brother said. "I find it most unlikely."

Leonora opened her mouth and shut it again. "Just so."

She cast a somewhat wild look at Torie. The twins never said what one expected, and Leonora was particularly wedded to the

expected. She undoubtedly felt that Lady Dorney's children should refer to their late mother only in saintlike terms.

Sir William often described his dead wife as "lively"; Leonora had always told Torie—who couldn't remember her mother—that

their mother had been a paragon among ladies.

"When you marry Lord Kelbourne," Florence continued, "perhaps you could choose new wallpaper, Miss Sutton. That way we will

come to be fond of you."

"Affection comes with time, not with wallpaper," Torie said.

Leonora nodded. "I would be happy to replace this paper, perhaps with a paint that promotes tranquility, such as alabaster.

Master Valentine, shall we summon your valet to remove the feathers from your hair?"

"I don't have a manservant of my own yet," Valentine replied. "I may never have one, as I believe our father left us impoverished.

Are we allowed to discuss gambling or is that prohibited?" he asked Torie.

"Since your father has passed from this world, his memory must be honored," Leonora said firmly.

"I could speak on the subject with reference to your father, who is still in this world," Valentine said agreeably. "His recent wager, as I'm sure you know, was covered on the

front page of the London Times. Well, Torie wouldn't know, because she can't read."

Leonora cleared her throat.

Valentine disregarded this warning sign. "It was quite foolish to wager eight thousand pounds that a curricle could not circle

the Tower of London ten times in thirty minutes, especially given that Sir William's confidence in his bet manifested after

a pigeon shat on his shoulder."

Catching Leonora's shocked expression, Torie said quickly, "Ladies' sensibilities are offended by mentions of excrement."

"I'll add shat to the Prohibited List," Valentine said, throwing both feathers into the air at once.

"List?" Leonora repeated in a stunned voice.

Florence offered helpfully, "Subjects such as flatulence, loins, rogering... oh, and bastardy. I can tell you more of them,

if you wish. I have an excellent memory."

Leonora's eyes widened, though she probably didn't know what "rogering" was. Torie didn't. Certainly no one had mentioned

flatulence or bastardy in Leonora's presence in years. If ever.

"Nanny said she would feed you to a cat if you mentioned rogering again," Valentine said to his sister. He turned to Torie.

" Rogering is vulgar slang for—"

"Best not," Torie said, interrupting.

"As I am a lady, those are words that offend me," Leonora pointed out. "They should never be uttered in my presence, and you would offer myself and Miss Victoria a further offense by explaining a vulgarism."

"I do see that you're very ladylike," Florence said. "We said that, didn't we, Val? After we were in the drawing room, where

we first met you both."

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable living in the country, where you needn't mind your tongues as much," Leonora said.

"Countryfolk are not overburdened by sensibility as we in London are."

"Really?" Valentine asked with interest. "Because we have heard some extraordinarily vulgar phrases since we arrived in the

city. The other day—"

"Valentine!" Torie cut in. "Why don't we all sit down? Tea must be on the way."

"I could read to you from the Odyssey ," Valentine offered.

The children dashed to their favorite seats: Valentine to a large chair by the fire with a towering stack of books nearby

and Florence opposite, with a stack of foolscap, a half-written story of severed heads, and a lap desk that Dominic had given

her a few days ago.

"A gentleman never sits when a lady is still on her feet," Leonora barked. "Obviously, your comportment lessons haven't been

detailed enough."

Val didn't move.

"Master Valentine!"

He startled, looking up from his book. "What?"

"No gentleman sits in the presence of a lady."

Valentine muttered something that sounded perilously like "Bollocks," but he rose, book in hand.

Thankfully, the door opened behind Torie's back, and she turned toward it, smiling valiantly. She didn't care who it was—Flitwick, Mrs. Flitwick, Nanny, the cook, a nursemaid, anyone —because Leonora was winding up like a top. One more vulgar word and she would spin out of control.

Well, anyone...

Except perhaps the viscount.