Page 110

The next two days, he didn’t show up at the proper time, but on the seventh day, he appeared at precisely the moment when twilight began. And his circles were much improved.

After Val ran away, Torie sat down in her chair and looked at her sketch. She had managed to give the locomotive a sense of motion: the duchess was nearly flying off the top, and the duke was caught in mid-laugh.

Florence showed up and wedged herself into the chair. “You can see how much he cares for her.”

“He?”

“His Grace,” she said obediently. “It’s hard to remember that he’s a duke.” She lowered her voice. “His shirt is ripped, and I saw a bit of his belly at luncheon.”

“I noticed that,” Torie said. “Do you think I ought to put that detail in the painting?”

“Yes,” Florence said. “He’s the only duke with a ripped shirt. Did you know that none of their neighbors will visit, because they think the duke and duchess are too strange?” She jumped out of the chair. “I don’t want to leave.”

Huntington Grange was an odd, mad household, but like Florence, Torie felt entirely at home.

The only problem was Dom.

She lay awake at night, aching for her husband as if a part of her body had gone missing. Finally she brought up a branching candelabra that she found in the neglected ballroom and started sketching something quite different from roses or rabbits or steam locomotives: Dom’s face.

She gave him that look of leashed energy that he took with him through life. His eyes were fierce, but also tender. The dimples appeared.

Two days later, she was quite sure about her own drawing: she had captured a man in love.

Interesting.

Chapter 37

The Royal Academy of Arts was in Somerset House, a palace that used to be the official home of Queen Elizabeth—though from what Dominic remembered of his history lessons, the queen spent most of her time jaunting around the country, dragging a household of three hundred courtiers on monthlong visits to her favorite noblemen.

His Elizabethan ancestor was not so favored. In the midst of a temper tantrum, the former viscount had turned his back on Her Majesty—whereupon she threw a slipper at his head and declared she would never grace his home with her presence.

Which saved the family fortune from being bankrupted by a royal visit.

That legacy of temper had come down through the generations, along with the Kelbourne estate, a hunting lodge in Scotland, and the London townhouse.

Dominic drove his curricle up to the gate of Somerset House, threw the reins to his groom, and strode through the imposing courtyard. He was impatient to get this over with and set out for Huntington Grange.

Never mind the fact that the House of Lords was still in session.

“We were founded by King George III in December 1768,” the director of the Royal Academy said, once Dominic had presented himself. The man had eyes like shiny sea pebbles and a boastful manner.

“Only the very best artists are allowed to join, naturally. Our first president was Sir Joshua Reynolds . . .”

Dominic let the man’s voice wash over him as he was escorted into the first of three exhibition halls. Paintings went from floor to ceiling in a dizzying array. The ones at the top had been tipped forward so they could be seen.

“Surely that is dangerous,” Dominic said, pointing to one that appeared ready to crash to the floor.

The director looked at him disdainfully. “Art must be seen.”

“Right. So who is the president?”

“King George III’s official painter, an American gentleman by the name of Benjamin West. Here he is now.”

Benjamin West had a slender nose and black hair that curled up over his ears. He was surprisingly young to be running an academy that—according to its director—was the most prestigious academy for design and art in the world.

Hopefully West had witnessed American women trampling their way into male strongholds and was open-minded enough to allow Torie to join the academy.

“Good afternoon,” Dominic said, bowing. “I am Viscount Kelbourne.”