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“It’s a large fountain that my mother had imported from Florence, with a looming statue of Poseidon with two hippocampi.”

“Which are?”

“Sea horses spewing water.”

“Did the rabbit survive?”

“Yes. My sister dried him out by the fire. He spent two days in the nursery.”

“Your sister was heroic,” Torie said with satisfaction. “She rescued that poor animal from the grim fate of drowning. Did she give it a name?”

“Parsley,” Dominic said, frowning at the floor.

“Named for his favorite food, I assume. She was softhearted and loving. What happened to Parsley?”

“We let him go in the woods when Nanny refused to let him stay another night in the nursery. I’d forgotten . . . She cried for hours that night.”

Dominic’s hand was clenched around his sherry glass. Torie walked over to him. “I like to think of the two of you setting Parsley free.”

“I was afraid of the dark woods, but she wasn’t. She was never afraid.”

He looked wary and uncomfortable, as if he’d surprised himself with that memory.

“Another quality to share with her children,” Torie pointed out.

Dominic gathered her into his arms, even though they had no audience. “You smell of soap and turpentine.”

“I had a bath, but the fragrance lingers. Do you find it bothersome?”

He started kissing her neck. “I shall require closer proximity to reach a conclusion.”

Torie relaxed against him. For all her middle-of-the-night fears about this marriage, there were moments—during Florence’s hugs or Dominic’s kisses—when she was surprised by happiness.

Before her betrothal, joy came after a painted rose petal finally caught the light the way she had imagined: a private emotion based on satisfaction.

This was altogether different, and yet the intensity, the utter concentration, felt the same. If a painting was going well, the image was all she thought about. She ate absent-mindedly, thinking how to give a petal the luminosity of silk. When she was kissing Dom, the world faded away in the same manner. Instead of petals, she focused on the silk of his tongue, the rasp of his voice, the rising heat in her body.

She drew a line with one finger from his forehead, down his nose, to his lips. “I’m about to say something shocking.”

“Go ahead.” Why should two words, two small words, make her flush and imagine all the many ways she could go ahead?

Torie cleared her throat. “I am looking forward to marriage, especially that . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Especially, I hope, to the marriage bed?”

“Yes, to the marriage bed,” Torie said. She cleared her throat. “That.”

“Yes, that.”

“When you smile like this”—she touched his bottom lip again—“no one in the House of Lords would recognize you.”

“Good.” His lips drifted along her jaw. “No one has ever seen this expression on your face before, either.”

She wondered dimly what he saw, but his lips covered hers in a deep, open-mouthed kiss that burned away her focus—and bubbling up in its stead?

Happiness.

Chapter 19