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“I’ll breathe shallowly,” Torie promised, picking up her reticule. Perhaps she’d go to Delbart’s Book Emporium before visiting the nursery. Mr. Delbart had become quite good at advising her about books the twins might like. Florence had adored The Necromancer; or, The Tale of the Black Forest and had promised to read it aloud once Odysseus finally found his way home.

No Necromancer.

No more Odyssey, either. Though to be honest, she had started to find Odysseus frustrating. If Torie had a loving family waiting at home, she wouldn’t skip from island to island, seducing witches and letting her men be eaten by cyclopes and turned to pigs.

Achingly empty days and months without the twins stretched ahead of her. Of course, she had her painting. She’d been working on the cabbage roses forever, and the piece was finally coming into focus. She tried to muster some enthusiasm for finishing it.

“I shall work in my studio this afternoon,” she told Emily. “I promised to join Clara for the evening meal, but under the circumstances, I will remain home. Will you please send her a note?”

One of the more humiliating aspects of her illiteracy was that her maid wrote all her messages and read aloud any responses. “I’m sorry that Leonora changed her mind about marrying the viscount, but I am glad that you’re staying with me,” Torie said, dropping a kiss on Emily’s cheek.

Her maid nodded. “If Leonora had become the viscountess, I would have had to leave you as you are . . . It didn’t feel right.”

As you are: a delicate way of classifying an addled brain.

“Please let Roberts know that I shall visit the bookstore, so he should bring a purse,” Torie added. Even though she was certain she could manage such a simple transaction, well-bred ladies never touched coinage.

Not unusually, no footman was to be seen when Torie arrived at the bottom of the stairs. In their household, staff invariably needed to be rousted from belowstairs. She turned to enter the breakfast room but froze when she heard her father’s raised voice coming from the library.

“You drove my daughter away!” Sir William thundered. “Leonora had no choice but to break her betrothal.”

It seemed Viscount Kelbourne had responded to her father’s summons and was now being informed of his fiancée’s departure. Torie sighed. Sir William was hardly presenting Leonora’s decision in a tactful manner.

Long experience of judging Sir William’s voice suggested he was mildly tipsy. But—and this was unusual—he was genuinely enraged. Her father was an amiable drunk who could be compared to a lady prone to fits of vapors: at some point in the evening, he would collapse on a nearby couch.

But now he was furious. Of course, Leonora’s betrothal, celebrated far and wide as a brilliant love match, had done much for the family’s consequence. In contrast, Torie’s betrothal—if there ever was one—would be followed by animated speculation about the intelligence of her offspring.

A low rumble from the viscount followed, interrupted by her father.

“Leonora is delicate, with a gentlewoman’s sensibilities. You allowed her to be insulted by your wards and, not content with that, indulged them as they disparaged my St. Paul’s wager!”

It was unclear which was the greater affront: the disrespect to his daughter or to his most famous bet.

“You made unreasonable demands,” Sir William continued. “No lady would want to introduce those young fiends to polite society, and you oughtn’t have asked it of her.”

Torie scowled and headed toward the library door. Val and Florence were not fiends, and she wouldn’t allow anyone to say so.

When she entered, Kelbourne was standing before the window, light glazing his hair to the color of blackberries. He was at his most autocratic, jaw stony, eyes ferocious. She had to stiffen her knees; some cowardly part of her saw raw emotion in his eyes and wanted to soothe his irritation.

Which would be precisely the wrong way to respond. He was far too used to having his own way when people cringed before his temper. It wasn’t good for him, any more than it had been good for Leonora.

“Good morning, Father,” Torie said, dropping a curtsy. “Lord Kelbourne.” She dropped another.

The viscount gave her a forbidding stare and bowed. Her father just glanced at her. His cheeks were adorned with purple circles, like a lady whose face was inexpertly painted.

“My children are not fiends,” the viscount stated. His voice was calm but all the more threatening for it. “I take offense, Sir William.”

“I take offense,” Torie’s father snapped. “I gave you my daughter, the most beautiful debutante in all London, and you failed to tie the knot for years.”

“Your daughter refused to set a date for our wedding,” Kelbourne retorted. “Am I to understand that Miss Sutton now refuses to marry me at all?” His voice was even, but Torie had learned to read his expressions over the last few months.

He too was outraged, which was somewhat surprising. After all, he’d had a taste of Leonora’s temper.

He must have truly loved her. Guilt flashed down Torie’s spine. Of course Kelbourne had loved—still loved—Leonora. She was lovable. Rigid, but lovable. Not to mention beautiful and intelligent. Ladylike most of the time. She would have been a practically perfect viscountess, if the twins hadn’t come along.

“Leonora cannot marry you,” Sir William said, following the declaration with a hearty swallow of brandy.

“Oh?” Kelbourne asked.