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The last word was muffled because he was kissing his way up her inner thigh, so Torie lay back and watched a cloud drift across the pale blue sky far above. She was thinking dreamily that perhaps she would paint a sky with luminous gold edging around the clouds, as if angels were lounging on the other side, just out of sight.

The thought evaporated because Dom licked her delicately, like a cat with a saucer of cream, so her eyelashes fluttered shut. She could smell river water and healthy man and mown grass. Hunger washed over her even though they had just made love, and she had been so replete. Satisfied.

He moved back, sitting down, and held out his arms. Torie curled her legs around his waist, discovering that making love twice, not to mention exorcizing a ghost, hadn’t quelled his desire. Waves of heat melted her from the inside out.

“Your generosity and your loyalty are at the top of the many reasons why I love you,” she said.

His arms wrapped tighter around her. “Even I would have called my loyalty into question after Vauxhall.”

“That was idiocy,” she said impishly. “You see, I think it’s fine to call an action idiotic, just not a person. Even when you thought I painted kittens, you strode into the Royal Academy to demand that they put my felines next to Benjamin West’s dying Caesars.”

One side of his mouth curled up. “He’s created more than the one dead Caesar he showed me?”

“He does them all the time,” she said dismissively. “They sell in buckets to Americans. My point is that if you had known I was an excellent painter, it would have meant less than you stamping into Somerset House and demanding that my rubbishing kittens be recognized.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I was used to my father belittling me and my work. He does it with affection.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Mine did the same but without affection.”

“But you fought with me. You only fight when the battle is important, and the opponents worthy. You fought for my kittens too, even though the cats didn’t exist.” She drew his head down to hers, smiling through the shimmer of her tears. “You are the only man who has ever offered to defend me and my ladylike paintings. That means everything to me, Dom. Everything.”

“Consider my father exorcized,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

She shook her head. “We are both imperfect. I expect we will insult each other again—and forgive each other. That’s what marriage is.”

“And what love is.” Dom smiled at her, his dimples showing. “Because we do love each other.”

“Dom, do you know what they call a baby rabbit?”

He was kissing her and didn’t answer.

“A kitten,” she whispered . . . and then burst out laughing.

Epilogue

The Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy was honored by the arrival of its greatest patron, King George himself.

“His Majesty is standing before your painting!” Dom said to Torie when they entered the chamber. “Let’s go speak to him before West bores him into an apoplexy, and he has to leave.”

“He doesn’t suffer from apoplexies,” Torie said, feeling a quiver of anxiety. “What if the king doesn’t like it?”

“If so, why would he stand there staring at it?” her husband asked with perfect logic. “Here, give the baby to Nanny Grey.” Nanny had reluctantly bowed to the fact that the viscount and viscountess most oddly chose to take their baby wherever they went. She managed to stay close, even while keeping an eye on the twins.

Earning, as Torie often told her husband, every penny she was paid.

“My lady!” Nanny Grey said urgently, reaching out for the baby at the same time she nodded toward the far wall.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Dom said, setting off through the crowd in the direction of the twins, who had begun chatting with the King of England.

Torie made sure that her darling Charlotte was comfortably curled against Nanny’s shoulder, her fist clenched on Nanny’s pinafore, before she turned to follow.

By the time she joined them, the conversation was in full swing. His majesty was bent down, listening carefully to Valentine. Thankfully, Val was at his most respectful.

“If Your Majesty looks carefully at these figures,” he said, gesturing toward the portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Huntington atop their steam engine, “you’ll see that they are caught in motion. Her Grace’s arms are twirling in the air. That is most difficult to achieve.”

“I see,” His Majesty said, nodding. “As opposed to this one here, eh?” The work hanging next to it was Benjamin West’s depiction of the death of Nero.