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His face said clearly that Torie’s talent would be the problem.

“Will Mary Moser judge the exhibition?”

“She takes an active role, yes.”

Dominic had a sudden idea. Most men bought their wives a gem to soothe over a marital battle, but given the way Torie left that emerald ring around the house—though it was worth three times the diamond he’d given Leonora—she would be unimpressed.

But a painting?

“Do you have any paintings by Mary Moser for sale out there?” He jerked his head toward the exhibition hall.

“Those paintings are not for sale.” West rose from his chair, a cardinal sin in a world in which he ranked so far below a viscount. Dominic stayed where he was.

“How much would one of Moser’s flower paintings sell for?”

“I could not speak to the cost of her paintings; you’d have to contact the lady or her agent. The Times reported that Queen Charlotte commissioned Mary Moser to create a floral decorative scheme for one room in Frogmore House. She paid nine hundred pounds.”

Dominic was stunned.

As a duke, West oversaw a lucrative empire.

“If you will forgive me, my lord, I must return to the academy proper, where students are sketching from life.”

Dominic raised an eyebrow.

“A naked man. Art is the representation of human beauty, ideally perfect in design, graceful and noble in attitude,” West said, diving suddenly into eloquence. Then he added, more prosaically, “Our female academicians are not invited to join those sessions, nor do they attend committee meetings and dinners. Of course, they have no wish to find themselves among so many men.”

No wonder Torie had avoided these pompous idiots.

Dominic caught himself. How often did he label people fools and idiots?

Frequently. He had to stop.

He rose. “Thank you for your introduction to the Academy, President West.”

West looked gratified by the use of his title. “May I have the viscountess’s name? I’m afraid in my world we do not memorize Debrett’s.” He tittered.

“My wife is Viscountess Kelbourne.”

West managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes, but how does she sign her paintings?”

“Sign?”

“In the lower right corner, generally, but sometimes on the back.”

“I have no idea. Would she sign with her given name? Victoria.”

“Her full name,” West prompted. “Mary Moser, for example. The artist is married, but she exhibits under the name by which she became famous.”

Dominic didn’t like the idea of Torie using any name but his. Still: “My wife’s maiden name is Victoria Sutton.”

West said in quite a different voice, “You are jesting, Lord Kelbourne.”

“I assure you that I am not,” Dominic replied. He turned away, taking another look at the room and its paintings filled with restless groups of men. He preferred Torie’s roses. Hell, he preferred Valentine’s rabbits and Florence’s deranged trees.

“I wish you good afternoon,” he said, bowing.

“Viscount!” West’s voice was incredulous and shrill. “Your wife—your wife is Victoria Sutton?”