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By the time the curtain rose, Torie was certain that everyone in the theater had registered that she and Dominic were seated together, in company with the famous inventive couple who were so rarely seen in London.

Within one act, it was clear that she and her fiancé would not agree on the quality of the production.

Torie was swept away by the beauty of the language; Dominic was irritated by the bungling portrayal of sword fighting in the first act.

The curtain fell after a glorious bedroom scene in which Mylchreest strode around the stage without his shirt. Dominic and the Duke of Huntington immediately turned to each other and began tearing apart the tragically bad swordsmanship on display.

For Torie, the only tragedy had happened on stage. She sat quietly, trying to stop herself from crying.

In the end, her public kiss with Dominic happened naturally. He turned to her and frowned, seeing her eyes brimming with tears. He ran a thumb under one of her eyes and bent toward her inquiringly.

“Mercutio was my favorite character,” she told him.

“Even though he remained fully clothed?” Dominic asked teasingly.

“‘I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing,’” she quoted. Another tear escaped. “He was so funny and brave while he was dying.”

Dominic frowned. “I didn’t catch it. What did he say?”

“‘Ask for me tomorrow, and you will find me a grave man.’”

“I like that pun on ‘grave,’” the duchess said, rising. “We’re off to greet a few friends.”

“You quoted those lines word for word,” Dominic observed.

Torie shrugged. “I have that sort of memory.”

“The bedroom scene was very erotic.” He bent his head and gave her a feather-soft kiss on the cheek, which was improper enough.

Awash in glorious love language, Torie turned her lips and caught his mouth in an open kiss that could never be mistaken for a peck from ladylike pursed lips.

When she finally drew away, flushed and breathing heavily, the first thing she heard was Dominic’s rumbling laugh. “That will put paid to those absurd rumors.”

“I forgot,” Torie gasped. Looking around, she thought every eye in the theater was on them. People down in the pit were craning their necks as if one of Lunardi’s great air balloons was drifting over the audience.

“I’m the luckiest man in London, and now they all know it,” Dominic said with satisfaction.

Torie dropped her hand below the edge of the box and took his hand. It curled around hers like a bulwark against the world’s contempt.

Chapter 18

May 16, 1802

Kelbourne House

Two weeks later, a groom in majestic livery appeared in Torie’s studio. “His lordship the Viscount Kelbourne, Miss Florence, and Master Valentine request the honor of your presence at the evening meal.” He paused and added with emphasis, “To celebrate the third reading of the banns pursuant to your upcoming marriage.”

“All right,” Torie said, amused. Presumably that meant the twins’ table manners had finally met their tutor’s exacting standards. The children were being allowed to eat in the dining room.

He bowed again and retreated backwards, leaving her to wonder how such a stately household would feel the first time she rose at midnight and went to her studio, bundling a pinafore over her nightgown.

Perhaps she could paint in a room next to her bedchamber, so the household staff wouldn’t be aghast to find the viscountess downstairs at dawn, unkempt and half-dressed. Of course, the chamber next door would presumably be her husband’s . . .

Their marriage was only two weeks away, which meant that Dominic would soon sleep in a bed close by. A mind-boggling thought.

She was prying open a tin of oil-resin gel when a thought struck her, a natural segue from the question of bedchambers. Should she have declined his invitation to dinner on the grounds that she would be unchaperoned? She had been blithely visiting the nursery, but a formal dinner with an unmarried man, albeit one’s fiancé, was decidedly more audacious.

Yet did anyone really care?