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“Miss Torie may visit the house whenever she wishes,” Kelbourne said. He had the stern, somewhat pallid countenance of a man trying to recover from a severe shock. Or influenza.

Torie gave him a thankful smile. His gaze remained cool. Even stuffy Lord Bufford had responded to her charm, but not the viscount.

Not that it mattered, of course.

He would be merely her brother-in-law. His hard jawline was Leonora’s problem, not hers.

“Would you like to hear more of the story I’m writing?” Florence asked.

“Absolutely!” Torie said.

“Another day,” Kelbourne said. “Miss Victoria and I must return to the drawing room.”

“Why don’t you call her Torie?” Florence inquired. “She’s to be your sister.”

“Sister-in-law.”

“Please do,” Torie said, mischief prompting her to poke at the viscount. “I believe I asked you to do so two years ago. And I shall address you as . . .”

“Dominic,” he responded after a chilly pause.

“Dominic it is. Or perhaps Dom?” Torie chirped, enjoying the way he recoiled slightly on hearing his first name. He was a stick, but she felt sympathy for him. This nursery visit must have been a blow to his constitution, from being addressed as “Father” to being cheerfully informed that Eton was out of the question.

“Surely it’s time for your supper,” he said to the twins. “Does your nanny appear regularly with meals?” His voice had taken on such a forbidding edge that both children blinked at him in surprise.

“Nanny Bracknell will bring up some food when she gets around to it,” Val said.

It couldn’t have been more obvious that neither child paid attention to mealtimes.

“Must you leave with Father?” Florence asked, her pale green eyes fixed on Torie’s face. “I can add fangs to my story!”

Torie had the distinct sense that the children were desperate for attention. “I shall dine with you, but Lord Kelbourne must return to the drawing room,” she said, rising to her feet. “On your feet, twins. We shall bid your”—she faltered—“his lordship farewell.”

“Dominic,” he reminded her. To her surprise, a smile lurked in his eyes. “Perhaps I might share your meal?”

“I’m afraid not,” Torie said. “You are hosting my sister and father, if you recall.” Though she was certain Sir William had passed out by now.

A bow and two curtsies later, the viscount walked out the door, promising to dispatch a footman with an English translation of Homer’s Odyssey. He had looked surprised on being told to leave, but Torie had no wish to find herself berated by Leonora for boring her fiancé.

“You must remember that trivialities are mind-numbing to men of substance,” Leonora often told her.

So: off with the man of substance.

“We can read Homer over our meal,” Val proclaimed.

“We should work on my story first!” Florence argued. She picked up the page again. “‘I could see him enjoying their company across the dingy room from beyond the dead, unlit hearth where spiders set up camp and trapped only dust mites.’” She paused. “What do you think?”

“I like that the ‘spiders set up camp’ trying to trap flies but only caught dust mites,” Torie said. “Whose company are we talking about?”

Val had dropped to the floor the moment the door closed behind the viscount. He put his boots up on the settee next to his sister.

“The severed heads,” he said, rather dreamily. “They wouldn’t be nearly as good as mere ‘heads,’ would they? The word severed makes all the difference.”

Chapter 7

Over the course of the next two months, Torie’s life fell into an agreeable pattern. Every morning, she paid a visit to the Kelbourne nursery, taking lunch with the twins if she wasn’t otherwise engaged. In the afternoons, she painted in her studio, a room at the rear of the house overlooking the back garden. In the evenings, she sallied forth to the theater or a ball, escorted by one of her suitors and chaperoned by Leonora, her maid Emily, or Clara and her mother.

Despite Leonora’s ominous prophecy regarding Torie’s future spinsterdom, she had several new suitors, one of whom was the Duke of Queensberry. During their most recent dance, His Grace had cheerfully told her that no bluestocking’s brains could compare with a complexion like hers.