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“Monsieur, may I ask you to put down your pear and leave my wife’s studio?” Dominic said through gritted teeth. Apparently her husband was the one person who could overlook her tutor’s surprise.

All the irritation that Torie generally allowed to fall by the wayside bounded into her chest. “Monsieur is my guest, invited to my studio,” she stated, not keeping her voice even.

The Frenchman’s eyes widened, and his gaze bounced between them. “I shall see if Master Valentine wishes to work on his circles.” He bowed with an air of wounded dignity.

After the door closed, Torie said, “For goodness’ sake, Dom! That boy has no designs on my virtue, if that’s what you are implying.”

Her husband gave a bark of laughter. “He’s no boy. He’s your age. He looks at you as if you hung the moon and the stars, Torie.”

“As far as Langlois is concerned, I’m not a woman,” Torie said, trying to explain. “I’m simply someone whom he can talk to about painting.”

“The way the Duke of Queensberry liked to talk to you about fashion?”

Torie hunched a shoulder. His Grace had taught her a great deal about gilt buttons and the latest fabrics coming from India. “Why is that relevant?”

Dominic didn’t answer. Instead he walked over to her painting. “Very pretty.” He picked up the pear. “Why didn’t Langlois want it in the painting?” He held it up against her canvas. “It would add a dash of color.”

He had no idea that his comment felt impertinent, if not condescending. Torie took a deep breath, but all the same, a ball of resentment burned more brightly in her stomach.

“Eustache felt that the pear existed in a different world, a more sensual—”

“Eustache?” he cut through her sentence sharply.

“A more sensual world of fertility and light.”

“Bullshit!” Dominic snarled.

Torie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Did you just curse at me? With your voice raised?”

“Not as high as yours,” he retorted.

“I didn’t curse at you.” She managed to suffocate a few appropriate words that were struggling to erupt from her mouth.

“Eustache is in love with you.” His lip curled. “I’ll have him out of the house by nightfall.”

“He is not!” Torie cried, her stomach curdling. “You don’t understand.”

Dominic scoffed. “Don’t be a fool.”

The room went bleakly silent. Torie couldn’t believe what she heard—or rather, what she didn’t hear. But she knew how that rebuke ended. How could she not, having heard versions of that word her whole life, from every frustrated nanny and governess who had tried to teach her to read?

She was too furious to think clearly, but her heart chipped and fell in two like an ormolu clock striking a stone wall.

“Don’t be a fool,” she repeated, trying not to take it personally. It was a common phrase, after all. She had already recognized that Dominic’s defense of her didn’t mean disagreement with the world’s opinion.

He simply insisted that the world was not allowed to express its opinion to her face.

Yet somehow his opinion accidentally made itself known, whether he was meeting with Gianna or calling her a fool to her face.

She saw remorse in his eyes. “I apologize,” Dominic said immediately. “You are correct, and I will try to . . .”

“Try to do better,” she said wryly.

“Not for the first time,” he acknowledged. “The insult is a commonplace that we throw at each other’s heads in the House of Lords. Lord Peyrenes shouted it to me this morning.”

“An admonition like that is always meant to belittle the recipient,” she said. “Thus the Duke of Queensberry’s reluctance to take up his seat in the House of Lords. More importantly, even if most of London didn’t already consider me a fool, it would never be an appropriate insult for a husband to hurl at his wife. Ever!”

“I agree.”