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He felt as if Torie had carved a door in his heart and stepped inside, creating a space that was only hers. Even in the maelstrom that was debate in the House of Lords, taking a breath and thinking of her would ground him.

Yet he’d betrayed her. First with Gianna, though he hadn’t been sleeping with the woman, and then again with this stupidity. Together with every single day that he didn’t tell the world how brilliant she was.

Every single one of those days was a betrayal.

His hands curled into fists thinking about it. He prided himself on his moral superiority? He was the fool. The men bumbling around the House of Lords did their best to get their minds around the ramifications of grain imports from Portugal and sugar from Jamaica. They were ignorant, most of them, but they went home and treated their wives with kindness.

The point that made his throat burn was that he had been dismissive, in thought and deed, of his astonishing wife. Of his brilliant, funny, creative wife. Look how he’d gotten rid of the Duke of Queensberry, so that she wouldn’t have a duke to run to.

Immoral. Irreverent. Unkind.

He’d hurt her.

And now she was gone. It felt as if his heart had cracked. He wasn’t even sure where she would sleep tonight. He didn’t know if miscreants like Pinkie and Bullet would covetously eye her emerald ring, her beauty, and—

The thought tore at him, and he lunged out of his chair and charged back to the entry. “Flitwick, she set off with Mulberry, Simons, and two more grooms, didn’t she?”

“Yes, my lord,” Flitwick said. “Mulberry had the blunderbuss, but Simons also had a pistol, just in case they encountered a highwayman. Very unlikely, as you know, my lord. They’ll be following the Duke of Huntington’s carriage, and he let me know that he travels with four outriders who will guard all three vehicles.”

“I should have sent outriders,” Dominic said hollowly. “Why didn’t I think of outriders?”

“Because her ladyship was only going five hours down the road,” his butler said patiently. “Overnight is a different story, but since His Grace travels around the country with that steam engine in tow, he’s used to being prudent.”

Curses were pounding through Dominic’s head, but he forced himself back into his study. Where would Torie sleep tonight? Would they reach the inn in time? Would she be safe?

She would be fine. The children would be fine. Mulberry was steadfast and deeply loyal. Most importantly, Dominic couldn’t scamper after her as if she held a leash. His father’s thundering voice reminded him to be a man.

Every night in the following week he lay awake, staring into the darkness, knowing in his bone marrow what it meant to love a woman—and lose her. It felt helpless: the worst emotion he could imagine—but one he recognized.

Helpless was what a little boy felt when his father’s temper was like an arctic wind. When that father was impossible to please, and his whip always ready to hand.

That father’s voice resounded through space and time, telling him what a bloody fool he was. Telling him that there had never been such a stupid viscount in the history of the Kelbournes. The same voice that told his sister over and over that she had a jezebel’s heart and a slut’s hips.

As the days passed, Dominic began to delay his return to the silent house until late at night—and why shouldn’t he, since he couldn’t do any of the things that made Kelbourne House a home? He couldn’t throw open the door of his wife’s studio and snatch her into his arms. Couldn’t run up the stairs, find Torie at her dressing table, and banish giggling Emily. Couldn’t listen to ghost stories in the nursery, meeting Torie’s amused eyes over Florence’s head, or carefully assess Valentine’s latest lopsided circle.

One morning Dominic came to a simple realization: he needed to be where his family was. He would try not to hurt Torie’s feelings ever again. He would sit in her studio and beg her to explain why a pear didn’t belong in a painting. He would inform society about his wife’s brilliance.

He would never listen to his father’s voice again.

He just didn’t know how to convince Torie that he truly loved her, not when he kept disrespecting her.

A far-fetched idea came to him, an idea that might be possible with enough money to grease the way. He would go to that bloody Royal Academy. He’d pay them to let in women, and insist they elect Torie, same as they did those fellows like Gainsborough, whom she admired so much.

Thankfully the man was dead, or Dom might truly have competition for her affection.

Torie had said she was almost in love with him. He’d take it. He’d take it, and take her, and throw enough money at the Royal Academy to make her feel confident and happy about herself and her work.

He’d even let that Frenchman stay in the house.

After querying Flitwick, Dominic tracked down Monsieur Langlois in Torie’s studio. He was standing before the largest window, coat off and shirtsleeves rolled up, wearing a pinafore not unlike Torie’s. A bowl of fruit sat on the table to the side. He was dabbing at his canvas, dripping paint on the floor of the former breakfast room, but Flitwick had long since given up that battle.

When Dominic entered, Langlois threw a distracted glance over his shoulder and looked back at his painting. Dominic strolled over and surveyed the painting. “Interesting,” he said.

“Pas bon,” Langlois groaned. “Not good, not good!” He threw his brush to the floor, and orange paint splattered in all directions.

“What’s the matter with it?”

The Frenchman moaned and clutched his hair in a Gallic frenzy. “You are a philistine, so I shall not waste my time. Why are you here? This is a sanctuary.” He picked up his paintbrush.