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The viscount talked in the grip of desire. He groaned words into her mouth, whispered them against her skin, even growled them hungrily in her ear while they were dancing: what he wanted to do, what he planned to do, how she made him feel.

It was all amazingly educational. At home in bed, she puzzled over his promises until she figured out the postures he described.

Luckily, she had discovered one thing that she instinctively knew how to do well. Painting was hard work; seducing Dom was not. She needed no instruction to run her hands over his nipples, drawing a low groan from his throat. When he traced her bottom lip with a finger, she nipped it—and then sucked. After that, he kissed her so fiercely that heat pummeled her body—specifically her most private parts, the ones no one had glimpsed except for her maid.

Around Dom, she was addled not by words, but by feelings. Though he had only taken off his shirt once, in her studio, her hands often slipped under that garment. Touching his hair-roughened chest made her head swim.

She couldn’t wait to bed him after their wedding tomorrow.

The only problem was the rest of the time, when he stalked around as if the world was his castle, and his pronouncements had the magical ability to become fact.

Those pronouncements brought out the worst in her, Torie had to admit. She fought the impulse to counter whatever he said, whether it was as simple as a dislike of picnics, or as complex as an assessment of her relationship with her sister. One bitter argument had broken out when Dominic announced that he didn’t want Leonora invited to the wedding.

He had demanded with raw anger that Leonora not “sully” the ceremony.

“Because she jilted you?” Torie had choked out, appalled to think he cared.

He had barked with laughter. “Hell, no. I won’t have her in the church, putting you down. That is not negotiable, Torie!”

How many things would he decide were not negotiable? Would he domineer over all aspects of her life?

Torie had a nauseating feeling that the answer was yes. Dominic always thought he knew best, even when his ideas were based in ignorance. He didn’t understand the relationship she had with Leonora, the sisterly bond that he would never grasp.

On those nights after their nanny withheld Torie’s supper because “only lazy children refused to read,” Torie would climb into Leonora’s bed. Her big sister would give her a roll that she had hidden in her pocket and then read aloud the book that Torie had been instructed to read for the next day. Torie’s memory was such that she could “read” perfectly for some time, but inevitably she would continue when she should have turned a page, and Nanny would erupt, instructing her to hold out her hands, palms up.

With a violent shake of her head, Torie dismissed those bad memories and turned to her painting, drawing her brush again across the cake of burnt sienna.

Two hours later, the door swung open. Out of the corner of her eye, Torie saw Clara close the door in the butler’s face.

“Hello, darling,” Torie said absent-mindedly. A glow of satisfaction was humming through her body. After months of work, the painting was finally coming together. It was done. She squinted. Almost done . . . perhaps a bit more sienna in the lower right.

Clara moved to stand next to her. “Torie, it’s . . . well, it’s not precisely lovely. It’s—it’s so sad,” she burst out.

Torie dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You think so?”

“Anyone would.”

“Dominic described it as ‘nice.’ Oh, and ‘meticulous.’”

“Men are philistines,” Clara said. “I haven’t met one who understands my darling reticules. If not sadness, what were you aiming at, Torie?”

“I was trying to capture a feeling of time.”

“Because the flowers are dying?”

Torie nodded. “A vase of flowers exists for a flicker of time in my life or yours. Think how many blossoms wilt and are thrown away before we even notice a new bouquet appearing on the sideboard. We have so many days, and flowers have so few. Yet we discard them as soon as their petals begin to discolor.”

“Not just sad but tragic,” Clara muttered, staring at the painting.

“In my painting, at least, the flowers exist for themselves, in their own time,” Torie said, knowing her objectives made no sense to anyone but her.

“It makes me think how fragile everything is. These are beautiful still, even while dying.”

“The ironic thing is how many flowers have wilted and died in the months I’ve been working on the piece, just so I can get the details right.”

“Absolutely worth it,” Clara said. “Is this one good enough to hang on your father’s wall, or will you give it away?”

Torie gave her a one-armed hug. “I thought I might give it to my husband.”