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“I have always known that it’s hard to keep one’s opinion secret.” She dropped down on the wide yellow chair, the one that Dominic had thrown himself into when he stripped off his shirt long ago. “You think that Leonora is unkind to me, but she defended me for years. Yet when she was in a rage, her opinion leaked out. It didn’t mean she doesn’t love me. I always forgave her, but coming from my husband, it feels more galling.”

He sat down on the couch, obviously lining up his arguments in his head, the way he did at dinner or in Lords. “Surely you can understand that it is a shock to walk into a room and find one’s wife in her nightgown talking in intimate terms with another man?”

Even if she could have understood it, she had no intention of doing so.

“Do you know my shock?” she demanded. “I’ve been stupidly thinking I might be falling in love with you . . . almost in love with you. We said we weren’t going to talk of such things—or feel them, for that matter—but I don’t mind telling you of my idiocy, because obviously I was so wrong.”

She couldn’t see any response in his face, in his eyes, in his mouth. Anywhere. Except perhaps the fact that one fist was curled at his side, likely because emotions made him so uncomfortable. “You and Leonora really were a perfect couple,” she said, tipping her head back and staring at the ceiling far above rather than his rock-hard jaw.

“I don’t agree.”

Torie shrugged. Her throat was aching, and her heart was aching. “I think I shall go to my father’s country estate for a brief visit. I’ve been wanting to show the twins the glade where the rabbits play.”

Dominic moved sharply. “No.”

“I’m not running away,” Torie said exhaustedly. “I merely need to recover my temper. Like the twins’ previous governess, I would be perfectly happy to throw a clock at your head right now.”

“I see.”

“So you might as well indulge in all the late nights you warned me about before we married. Remember? You said that it was important to dine with important men so you could bend them to your will in a more polite manner than by emphasizing their idiocy.”

His eyes flared with anger, which gave Torie a strange satisfaction. He might not be in love with her, but he wasn’t indifferent either.

“I shall take respite in the country,” she said, getting up. “I’ll bring the children with me. You are welcome to join us, but I’m sure you have more important things to do than sprawl on the grass in a rabbit-filled glade.”

His lips opened and closed.

“I know your work is important,” she added, exasperated. “I had no intention of belittling the bill.”

“That bill is delayed while awaiting reports from the Caribbean. But—”

“I know. You truly do have more important things on your mind than the three of us.”

His eyes glittered at her. After a silence, he said in a rasp, “Langlois shall not accompany you.”

Torie had the odd idea that it pained him to say that sentence. Of course, he thought a great deal of himself; it must be humiliating to imagine his addled wife taken from him by a young Frenchman.

She shrugged. “Eustache will be grateful for an opportunity to work on his painting for the French Exhibition.”

His mouth flattened to a line.

“No, I am not going back to addressing him as Monsieur Langlois. He is a fellow painter. I’ve learned from him, and he’s an excellent influence on the twins. I think Valentine might be a painter someday.”

His face didn’t change, so it must have been the air around him that darkened.

“Yes, just imagine,” she scoffed. “Lord Dorney became a painter rather than spending his time gambling, the way his father did. What a shame.”

“I would have concerns about Valentine’s ability to support his estate. His father did not leave him much money.”

She shook her head. “As if you aren’t repairing that estate yourself. I’m sure that you have set up funds for both children. Moreover, Gainsborough’s Blue Boy sold four years ago for thousands of pounds.”

“Valentine is still drawing lopsided moons and lop-eared rabbits. I don’t think we should count on his earning a living with his craft just yet.”

“Painting is hard work,” she said fiercely. “If I’d been able to read, I doubt I would be as good as I am now. I had nothing else to do. If Valentine decides to focus, he will be a very good painter, perhaps a great one.”

Dominic’s shoulder hitched. She didn’t think he would ever respect the profession, but it was Val’s fight, not hers.

“I would ask that you return in ten days.”