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Sir William nodded. “Said you were the prettiest, silliest, most affected husband-hunting butterfly he’d ever met, and he couldn’t wait to make you his duchess. Doesn’t give a damn about whether you can read. In fact, he said that he’d prefer a wife who didn’t neglect him for a novel, since I gather his sisters are avid readers. Haven’t I told you that the right man would come along?”

Queensberry called Torie a “butterfly”? Not to mention silly and affected. Unfamiliar emotion was churning in Dominic’s stomach. He felt ferociously protective, which made sense. They’d spent so much time together in the nursery that she was akin to a little sister.

“Best be off with you, Kelbourne,” Torie’s father said, moving behind his desk and sitting down. “We have a wedding to plan. Bit tricky, given the scandal that’s about to break. I must let Queensberry know.” He pulled a piece of stationery from a stack on top of his desk.

Dominic’s pulse was pounding in his ears; he was caught in a maelstrom of fury, as fierce as he had ever felt in the House of Lords. He leaned over the desk. “What’s the going price for a bride?”

Chapter 11

Torie was reeling from the news she was to be married to a man who had described her as silly and affected. The whole of it—Leonora’s jilting and her own future—collided in her brain. She and the duke had shared a few suppers, but she hardly knew him. He seemed well enough, but in her current state, she couldn’t bring his features to mind. Chestnut hair and a blunt nose . . . perhaps?

Lord Kelbourne’s words filtered through her bewilderment.

“What is the viscount talking about?” she asked her father, swallowing convulsively. She might throw up on his desk, which was odd, since she also felt as hollow as a drum.

“He is talking nonsense. I’ve no need to sell my daughters,” Sir William blustered. “You and Leonora are dazzling, dowered, and delightful in every way.”

Torie’s heart plummeted to her toes. She knew the sound of her father’s lies all too well.

“To the contrary, you informed me that Leonora’s dowry had been spent,” Kelbourne snarled, moving closer to the desk.

Her lips rounded, and she whispered, “No dowry.” Then, in a louder voice, “What happened to my dowry?”

“I suspect it was gambled away,” Kelbourne said, his voice sounding like that of a judge instructing the jury to find a prisoner guilty. “Two years ago, Sir William requested ten thousand pounds for the privilege of marrying Leonora.”

“Why shouldn’t I have?” Torie’s father asked pettishly. “I had the goods, and you wanted them.”

“Do I have a dowry, Father?” Torie asked. And when her father looked down at his desk rather than meet her eyes, she asked again, her voice rising: “Do I still have a dowry?”

He shrugged. “You don’t need one. The duke wants you with or without funds. He was most gracious about it.” He picked up a quill as if the conversation was over. “I’ll send His Grace a notice about Leonora’s love match. Aye, that’s how we’ll present it.” He threw the viscount a surly look. “There are those who will think she had a fine escape.”

“I shall need the fortune I paid to marry Leonora repaid immediately,” Kelbourne stated, rapping his knuckles on Sir William’s desk.

Torie swallowed back a string of unladylike curses. Could this get any worse?

“I’ll wager you didn’t get nearly that amount from Queensberry,” the viscount added. “His annual income is insufficient to put his hands on ten thousand pounds.”

Sir William sniffed. “So he claimed.”

Kelbourne leaned forward, looming over the desk. “Perhaps you didn’t understand me, your lordship. I expect my money to be repaid immediately. You could take it from Bufford’s payment, though he may have declined under the circumstances. In her haste to escape the horrifying prospect of raising my wards, Leonora likely begged him to take her.”

“Papa, did you really take money from the viscount?” Torie could feel a scream rising in her chest.

“This subject is not for a lady’s ears,” Sir William chastised the viscount.

Kelbourne snorted. “I assure you that your youngest daughter has a remarkable tolerance for unladylike conversation.”

Torie’s father threw down his quill and slammed to his feet. “Just what do you mean by that? Have you debauched my innocent daughter by word or deed?”

“Absolutely not,” the viscount responded dispassionately.

Disinterestedly.

Torie sighed. “I didn’t faint when Florence broached the subject of flatulence.”

“That’s right, Leonora complained of that. Nervous farters, are they?” Sir William asked, sitting down again. “Likely too much milk. Hopefully they’ll outgrow it. I’ll bid you good day, Lord Kelbourne.” He uncapped his ink bottle.

“Father, you must repay whatever money Viscount Kelbourne gave you,” Torie insisted. She kept a hand on her stomach because her gut had clenched at the beginning of this nightmarish conversation, and it wasn’t calming down.