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“No!” Torie said quickly. “I chose the turret chamber for its view.” She went to the window and pushed open the shutters, letting in a grass-scented breeze before she turned back to him. “Are you going to tell me why you’re so angry?”

“I am not angry.” Dominic sat down on the bed. She would have taken that retort as defensiveness, but he sounded bereft.

She came over and sat beside him. “I cannot think of a lie I told you.”

“No?”

His eyes fixed on hers.

“Truly,” Torie said in some bewilderment. Then, after a pause, “That’s not entirely true.” She summoned up her courage. “I was in a rage when I said that I could never love you. It wasn’t true. I am in love with you. I hope you can come to love me in time, or perhaps you already do. But I can’t let you believe that I don’t love you.” A wave of intolerable, itching embarrassment went over her body.

“I do love you,” Dom said flatly.

“Oh.” Her mind reeled from that matter-of-fact statement. His voice didn’t invite celebration. “I still can’t think of any lies I told you.”

A shadow crossed her husband’s eyes. “You promised that you would never present yourself as someone you are not.”

“I’m incapable of pretending to be ladylike the way Leonora does,” Torie said, nodding.

“Actually, I would say that you are far more expert than your sister in the art of pretense.”

“What?” Torie asked, dumbfounded. “What are you talking about? I feel as if I’ve been tried and sentenced, and no one has told me my crime!”

“Roses, rabbits, and the occasional kitten. Do I have the subjects of your paintings correct?”

Torie felt the instinctual caution that small animals must feel when a hawk circles overhead. “I don’t actually paint cats.”

Dom’s face was as hard as marble. “Strange, given that your father introduced your artwork by talking of kittens. Baby animals are ladylike subjects for painting, are they not? Subjects that a gentleman might discount for their association with femininity?”

Torie scowled at him. “Some women painters—”

“Such as Angelica Kauffman? Her historical paintings are renowned.”

“Why, yes, they are,” Torie said, surprised. “You have heard of Miss Kauffman?”

“Is she Miss Kauffman? I understand that Mary Moser is listed as a Royal Academician under her maiden name.”

Torie stared in bewilderment at her husband, seeing the tightness in his cheekbones, the vibrating intensity in his eyes. He wasn’t in the grip of anger; it looked more like he felt betrayed.

An idea struck her like a hammer. Did her painting embarrass him?

“You don’t want your wife to paint because it’s not ladylike?” she said, dread plummeting to the bottom of her stomach like a rock.

“No!”

“It’s too late,” she told him, hearing a queer echoing in her ears. “I cannot give up painting, Dom. I cannot.” Despite herself, her voice broke. “It is the only thing—well, one of two things—that I’ve ever been any good at.”

“I didn’t mean ‘No’ as in I don’t want you to be a painter.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “Oh.”

“I recently learned that you are a Royal Academician. As a matter of fact, I was informed by the president of that academy that you are the best floral painter in the United Kingdom.”

Torie froze. “You met Benjamin West?”

“Indeed. I went to Somerset House hoping to convince the Academy to add a woman to their roster. I was informed that hierarchy in the art world is based not on birth but merit.”

“That is partially true,” Torie said, biting her lower lip as a sinking feeling came over her. “What a kind gesture on your part.”