Chapter 8

Dominic walked into the nursery and instantly realized that he had strayed onto a battlefield. His fiancée's cheeks were flushed

and her eyes wrathful, which wasn't particularly surprising if she'd been in the twins' presence for long.

Torie took severed heads in stride, but Leonora?

Unlikely.

"Good afternoon, Miss Sutton, Miss Victoria," Dominic said, bowing. "Children."

Torie dropped into a curtsy. The twins chorused, "Good afternoon, Lord Kelbourne," followed by a creditable bow and curtsy.

Leonora bobbed and then folded her arms over her bosom. "Kelbourne, your wards have offended me in more ways than I can enumerate.

I am sadly convinced of my original judgment. They can never—"

Before Dominic could speak, Torie intervened. " No. Whatever observation you are about to make should be expressed in private."

"We don't mind," Valentine offered. "We have both concluded that Miss Sutton doesn't like us." Without a trace of embarrassment,

he added, "I fear the feeling is mutual."

Bloody hell. One should celebrate honesty in children, but the twins were honest to a fault.

"How dare you!" Leonora retorted. "You are a vulgar, impudent little boy, and you will never be accepted in polite society!"

"I could say the same to you, but I gather you have managed to disguise your nature," Val re marked dispassionately, "which suggests I could do the same."

Leonora's cheeks turned from pink to purple as she drew in a harsh breath.

"We could try to like you, Miss Sutton, if you choose new wallpaper," Florence said quickly.

Dominic tried to make sense of that, but quickly discarded it.

"I cannot introduce these children to the ton," Leonora said shrilly. "They mentioned flatulence, and something I suspect

refers to fornication. She... the girl spoke of bastardy when... You cannot expect it of me or any lady, Kelbourne!

The task you envision is impossible. They have no grace, politeness, gentility, nothing that becomes their supposed rank."

Dominic turned to the twins. "I am disappointed. We've spoken about appropriate topics for conversation. What happened to

the list?"

"In fact, they were exhibiting their newfound knowledge," Torie said wryly. "My sister's injured sensibilities stem from a

misunderstanding."

The children surveyed him with clear eyes. "Florence assured Miss Sutton that we realize some topics of conversation should

not be aired among ladies," Valentine explained. "We did not broach those topics. Florence listed three only after the lady

expressed interest."

"Four," Florence corrected him. "I can whisper them in your ear, if you wish, Lord Kelbourne." She trotted over and came up

on her toes, whispering audibly, "Flatulence, rogering, bastardy, loins. Three nouns and one verb."

Dominic's heart sank. Leonora wasn't wrong. No lady of his acquaintance—except for Torie—could have heard that list without taking grave offense.

"You see," his fiancée said, her voice crackling with rage. "Moreover, she—they—spoke insolently of their dead parents. And

my own father!"

"Where is your nanny?" Dominic asked the children.

"The nanny is irrelevant," Leonora spat. "We have come to an impasse, Kelbourne. You must face reality. These children display

none of the qualities required of those of gentle birth. Their behavior is a mark of their parentage."

"No, merely lack of education," Torie cut in. "They are making great strides."

"Nanny Bracknell is belowstairs," Florence reported.

"Do not speak unless you are spoken to," Leonora spat.

"I was spoken to," Florence objected. "My father asked me a question, and I responded."

"Your—father. Father? He is, at best, your guardian." Leonora looked to Dominic. "Fix this, if you please."

Dominic felt a surge of raw anger at her rudeness, which he instantly quashed. In time Leonora would come to terms with the

twins' place in her life. "The situation does not require repair. The children were given to me and rightly consider me their

second father. I am raising them."

"In the Odyssey , Penelope raises Telemachus by herself," Valentine said. Meeting Leonora's uncomprehending stare, he clarified, "Telemachus

is the son of Odysseus." And then, when she still didn't respond, he added with painstaking emphasis, "Odysseus is the subject

of a classic epic, the Odyssey ."

"A non sequitur," Florence observed. She turned to Torie. "A non sequitur is a statement that doesn't logically follow from what came before."

"I believe that Valentine means to applaud Lord Kelbourne's parenting," Torie said. "Leonora, I assure you that the twins

are learning the rules of conduct at an extraordinary rate. Valentine has taken interest in the pianoforte, and—"

"He is a boy ," Leonora gasped. "Are you planning to teach him to embroider?"

"I shouldn't care for it," Valentine said thoughtfully.

"Do not speak unless addressed!"

Dominic made the unwelcome discovery that his fiancée's eyes had an uncanny resemblance to a hawk's. He moved to Leonora's

side and held out his elbow. "May I escort you downstairs, Miss Sutton?"

She cast a look at him, walked to the door, wrenched it open, and left.

"To return to the Odyssey , Telemachus turned out fine with only one parent," Valentine said.

Torie moved to his side and plucked two feathers from his curls. "My sister was shaken, but she will be an excellent guardian

to you both, once she gets used to the idea."

"You told us she was a reader," Valentine said.

"She is," Torie insisted. "Ladies are not offered the Odyssey , so she's had no opportunity to read it. You must be fair." She sat down on the settee, and Florence immediately nestled

beside her.

Dominic ought to follow his fiancée out the door, but instead he walked to the fireplace and dropped into a seat. "What am

I to do now?" he asked bleakly.

Perhaps if he'd met Torie before Leonora—but that was inconceivable, even if Torie was kind to the children. Beloved by them, if truth be told.

He had chosen Leonora for her intelligence, ladylike grace, and acumen. They had been first introduced in an interval during

a performance of Molière's classic play Tartuffe . Leonora had decried the vulgar plot, while noting that the English translation had neglected to reproduce Molière's twelve-syllable

lines. Dominic had decided in that moment to make her his bride.

Now the very reasons for which he had chosen her had come into conflict with his loyalty to his sister's children. Tempting

though it was to break the betrothal, as a gentleman, he could not. This situation was not Leonora's fault.

Opposite him, Torie drew in a deep breath. "I'll take them."

Dominic's mind muddled as her bodice strained—and somehow did not slip below her nipples. Torie's bodices were so low that

no man could stop himself from picturing her naked. Her sister was near prudish in her dressing; Torie was the opposite.

"What did you say?" Florence asked, looking up at Torie. "Take us where?"

"Would you like to live in the country with me?"

He felt the shock of that question down his legs. Almost without noticing, he had accepted the twins' claim that he was now

their father. No one would take his children from him, no matter how peculiar and outspoken they were. Especially not a woman who couldn't even read.

"No," Dominic barked. "They live with me. They are mine. Besides, they are..." He hesitated and then said it as kindly as he could. "They are more gifted than most children. I hired their tutor from one of the Oxford colleges." He hated the stricken look that crossed her eyes, but his first responsibility was to the twins.

"Of course, I understand," Torie agreed instantly.

"I don't think we're gifted," Florence put in. "I'd quite like to live in the country with Torie."

Whether or not Val attended Eton, he had a great deal to catch up on, not least Latin and Greek. The children didn't need

a cuddly nanny, as Torie had suggested. They needed stimulation, knowledge, and intelligent conversation. Plus... they

were his .

Torie would have her own children soon enough. She could not have his.

He shook his head. "I'm your father, Florence, and so you live with me."

"As a point of fact, our first father never lived with us," Valentine remarked.

"Shall we join Miss Sutton downstairs?" Dominic asked, feeling strongly disinclined to discuss Lord Dorney's household arrangements.

Torie stood, giving Florence a squeeze and reaching over to pluck another feather from Valentine's hair. "All the feathers

must return to the pillowcase, after which it should be sent downstairs for mending," she ordered.

Dominic glanced about and discovered white drifts under the settee and around Florence's bed. "Every feather," he agreed.

"Good afternoon, children." Torie went to the door.

"Wait!" Florence called.

When Torie turned, Florence dropped an elegant curtsy, deep enough for a royal greeting, and Valentine bowed with a flourish of his hand. "Good afternoon," they chorused, straightening.

"Excellent!" Torie called.

"We're not done. Don't leave, Torie!" Florence called. "Come on, Val."

They moved apart, facing each other, and then slid into a graceful minuet, marred only by Valentine calling out the paces.

"Lead-in, right-hand turn, left-hand turn, two-hand turn closing."

Torie started laughing. She was enchanting when she smiled, but when she laughed? Her eyes turned as deep and blue as a mountain

lake.

"There!" Florence cried as they finished the measure.

"Remarkable," Dominic said, meaning it.

"Miss Sutton said that we have no grace, politeness, or gentility," Valentine said, grinning widely. "But Mr. Petre is most

pleased by our prowess."

"I apologize for my sister's unkind remarks," Torie said. "She spoke in the heat of the moment."

"Perhaps Miss Sutton is experiencing her monthly courses," Florence said with interest. "The governess that Mother fired said

that women become quite heated at that time and are not responsible for their outbursts. That was after the governess threw

an ormolu clock at Valentine's head." She turned to Torie. " Ormolu is—"

"I do know that word," Torie said. "I find gilded clocks to be gaudy but charming. I trust the governess didn't strike your

head, Valentine?"

"Oh no, she never managed to hit either of us, no matter the time of month. We became excellent dodgers."

"I'm glad to hear it," Dominic bit out, a surge of anger almost blocking his throat. If he'd known that the twins were being neglected, he would have taken them from his sister years ago. His brother-in-law wouldn't have given a damn; the poor man was humiliated by persistent speculation about which of his wife's lovers fathered his heir.

"Thank you for demonstrating your excellent command of the minuet," Torie said, curtsying. "Please put ‘monthly courses' on

the Prohibited List."

"That's an odd addition, given that—as I understand it—ladies are universally plagued by the event," Florence observed. "Next

time, perhaps the four of us could dance together? Mr. Petre could play the pianoforte."

Dominic fleetingly met Torie's eyes. He had never danced with his future sister-in-law. He had asked her once, years ago,

but she had turned him down for some reason he'd forgotten. He had already been betrothed to her sister by then.

If he was honest with himself, of course, he had noticed her. He had watched her dance and seen her smiling under her eyelashes at captivated gentlemen. No man could be in her presence

and not find himself dazzled by the way her unruly curls invited a man to—

He cleared his throat. "Miss Sutton is a remarkably graceful dancer, and I expect she would be very pleased to dance with

us."

Torie smiled and vanished through the door.

A small hand touched his elbow. "Must you?" Florence whispered.

He didn't pretend not to know the real question. "Yes. A gentleman never betrays those to whom he has made promises. Nor does

a gentlewoman."

"But Mother—" Florence broke off.

"We understand," Valentine said.