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He caught a whiff of Torie’s honeysuckle scent and turned just as she arrived at his side, Florence in tow. “I had no idea you could be so entertaining, Lord Kelbourne,” she murmured.

“I have moments,” Dominic said. Sunlight turned her curls to beaten silver. “You’d have to marry me to benefit from them.” He leaned over and muttered, “And my sportive tricks.”

Torie rolled her eyes at him.

“I should like you to pay me a visit in the country,” the Duchess of Huntington said to Torie. “You could bring your easel and paint some roses, though I admit that the flowerbeds at Huntington Grange have run to weed.”

“Dandelions?” Florence asked with interest. “Do you know what a dandelion is?”

“A weed of some sort,” the duchess replied.

“No, a dandy-lion is a big cat wearing a dapper hat!”

Torie broke out laughing.

“I miss that,” Florence said, slipping her hand into Dominic’s.

He looked down, eyebrow raised.

“Her laugh. Torie laughs better than anyone in the world.”

Chapter 13

The next morning, Dominic made up his mind to pay Torie a call, no matter what Sir William thought of it. Besides, he had a shrewd feeling that his lordship rarely emerged from his darkened bedchamber before afternoon.

He had to bang the knocker several times before the butler appeared, looking as if he’d slept in his slovenly attire.

“I wish to pay a call on Miss Sutton.”

“She isn’t taking callers,” the man said, pushing the door closed with one hand as he straightened his toppling wig with the other. “She’s busy.”

Dominic shouldered past and walked through a beery cloud wafting from the butler into the entry. “Is she in her studio?”

“Aye, but she’s not chaperoned—”

Dominic cut him off. “Show me to her studio, if you please.”

The butler thought about that for a while, brow furrowed, before he began trudging up the stairs. Dominic followed him, thinking that even if he wasn’t set on marrying Torie, he’d want her out of this ill-regulated household.

Was it possible to feel well-intentioned concern—and raging desire?

The butler rapped on a door and then stood aside to let Dominic enter the room before backing out without a word. The man was remarkably thoughtless. What if Dominic had designs on her virtue?

Which he did.

Torie was standing before an easel positioned in such a way that morning light poured over her shoulder, illuminating a vase of big, fluffy flowers. She wore a simple cotton gown, covered by a canvas pinafore smeared with every paint color imaginable. Her hair was caught up in a chignon, curls escaping to frame her face.

She was exquisite, even when scowling at her easel.

“Good morning, Torie,” he called, realizing she hadn’t heard the door open.

She glanced over and groaned. “Go away, Dominic. I don’t want to marry you.”

“But I want to marry you,” he argued. He walked forward so he could see her painting, instantly grateful that the Duchess of Huntington had decided not to commission a painting for at least a year, after Torie had some tutoring.

The cut flowers were fresh and colorful, but Torie’s depiction was muted and not nearly as pretty. In her depiction, the vase sat on a checkerboard table that was slightly distorted, as if she had problems with perspective.

He cleared his throat, trying to think of what to say. He wasn’t a man who attended art exhibitions, but anyone could see that Torie could benefit from a tutor.