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Queensberry arrived a mere hour after delivery of her note—written by Emily, of course. He implored, begged, and generally made it clear that he would be a most amenable husband.

Torie felt genuinely sorry. But at the same time, she couldn’t help comparing the two men. The duke was a perfectly fine specimen of his lineage. He spent his days in his club when he wasn’t visiting his tailor.

Moreover, though she hadn’t noticed until Dominic pointed it out, Queensberry’s legs were toothpicks. White silk stockings with clocks up the side together with red-heeled shoes were not flattering.

He finally left with tears in his eyes; her father stomped into the drawing room as the ducal carriage pulled away and indulged himself in a long rant on the idiocy of his daughters. Having heard it before, Torie let the words flow over her while she considered how to break the news of her betrothal to the ton.

Dominic was right: they had to show everyone a motive for marriage. Yet she didn’t want anyone to think that Leonora had married Bufford because her younger sister had been bedding her fiancé.

It was a conundrum.

They could not circumvent the banns with a marriage license. They would have to wait the full three weeks and then at least two more, marrying in the cathedral, with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal wedding, albeit royalty in half-mourning.

Her father finished his first diatribe and started a new one to do with his wretched luck as displayed by a wager that a goose wouldn’t eat strawberries. Apparently, the bird in question had gobbled down an entire quart.

Torie ignored him, trying to imagine Dominic looking at her with Queensberry’s adoration. He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

She had the feeling Dominic was constitutionally unlikely to fall in love and certainly would never reveal the feeling. He’d consider it akin to an embarrassing illness. In fact, he would probably be outraged if he felt a prickling of adoration or, even worse, devotion.

Which was fine, because she didn’t adore either of her suitors. She was making a rational decision, considering each man on his merits.

Emily was in a flutter of excitement. “I just can’t believe it!” she kept exclaiming over and over as she was dressing Torie for dinner. “Of course, he is that handsome, isn’t he, miss?”

“Yes, he is.”

“How lucky that new evening dress was just delivered.”

“You don’t think that it’s too risqué?” Torie asked doubtfully. Her new gown was in the very latest fashion, a design taken from a French fashion magazine and worn without panniers or stays, merely a small, unboned corset to support her breasts.

“For whom would you wear it, if not for your future husband?” Emily answered, reverently placing the gown on the bed. “Lady Bufford would never have worn this gown. You must set yourself apart from your sister, Miss Torie.”

It still felt strange to think of Leonora as Lady Bufford. She had the feeling that her sister would consider their engagement entirely her doing, given that she’d suggested Torie mother the twins. But Dominic desired her; he wasn’t marrying her only for the sake of Florence and Valentine.

The gown had blush-colored skirts and an overskirt of “silver spot lace,” or so the modiste called it. Torie had never seen fabric painted with metallic silver paint before. She’d bought the entire roll, thinking that she would drape a table and throw roses carelessly on top, resulting in the kind of still life that Clara adored.

Emily piled Torie’s hair atop her head and bound her curls with three silver bands, adding a pearl necklace and earrings, and finally, white silk gloves. “You are late downstairs, but Lord Kelbourne won’t mind once he sees you! Would you like lip color?”

“Not tonight,” Torie said, which made Emily dissolve into naughty giggles. Lip color was for display rather than kissing, since it tasted like fish oil.

Torie walked down the stairs, smoothing her long white gloves. It was absurd to feel nervous. She wouldn’t if the Duke of Queensberry had arrived to dine. But Dominic was . . . so much more. More powerful. More male.

The sheer force of his masculinity swirled about him like a windstorm.

When she walked into the drawing room, their butler was nowhere to be seen, and Dominic was gazing out the window. He turned and froze.

“You have dimples when you smile,” she said, walking toward him.

Dominic hadn’t even known he was smiling.

He started toward Torie, forcing himself to look at her face rather than the rest of her. Her gown was somewhat gaudy, painted with odd metallic circles that sparkled under the chandelier. But he didn’t care, not when it skimmed her curves so beautifully.

“I shouldn’t worry that others will discover your secret dimples, given that you smile so rarely,” she told him as they met in the middle of the room.

“I’ve hated them since I was but a boy, yet I can’t stop smiling around you,” Dominic said, capturing Torie’s lips with his own.

She tasted of peppermint and tea. Fire exploded in his loins as her tongue met his with sensual joy, her arms winding around his neck.