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All that.

For the first time in her life, she wished she’d asked Leonora for lessons on pretending to be a lady.

“What’s the matter?” He shifted closer, his hip touching hers. “Where’s your betrothal ring?”

Torie blinked. “I left it on the windowsill because I was painting this morning. I’ll retrieve it as soon as I go home. No need to worry, as servants never enter my studio.”

“I shall be very glad when you are living under my roof with servants who will enter your studio,” Dominic said.

Torie edged away from his hip and said, “I realized that before we marry, we should have the same conversation you had with Leonora.”

“Which conversation?”

“Don’t you remember how horrified you were that she shared details with me?”

Dominic was having trouble paying attention.

Torie was wearing crimson lip color, precisely the same shade her lush mouth turned when reddened by his kisses. Less than a day until they married. Hardly more than twenty-four hours. Then he’d have her in his home, in his bed. His arms.

Making that needy sound in the back of her throat as he put her on the bed and worshipped her body.

He had never found himself in the grip of a craving this intense. He no sooner began listening to a speech in the Lords before his thoughts were interrupted by an image of the two of them entwined on white sheets, his hand woven into her thick hair as she—

“I apologize,” he said, clearing his throat. “What conversation did I have with Leonora?”

“Regarding unfaithfulness,” Torie prompted.

He frowned. “What about it?”

“I won’t countenance adultery,” she said, casting him a glance from under her long lashes. “By which I mean,” she clarified, “I would feel hurt and angry if you had an affair. Everyone would . . . everyone would talk.”

“I agree,” he said.

“If you’re going to strut around half-naked, you’ll do it in front of me and no one else.”

Lewd thoughts flashed through Dominic’s head. “Agreed,” he growled. “The same is true for you. You’ll be faithful to me.”

It was a statement, not a command. Torie was infuriating, mischievous, exquisite—loyal. He was pretty sure that she was marrying him out of loyalty to the twins, out of love for them. He respected that.

Perhaps even loyalty to her father. He didn’t respect that, but he’d take it.

He had a bone-deep belief that she would never break her vows.

“I will be faithful as long as you are,” Torie agreed. “But what about your mistress?” She raised her stubborn little chin and fixed him with an imperious glare. “You told my sister that a mistress doesn’t count. I think a woman such as that does count, as I made clear in our discussion of Odysseus’s infidelities.”

Dominic felt a flare of irritation at her presumptive tone. She didn’t understand the private life of gentlemen. “I have never visited a brothel—”

Incredulity flickered across Torie’s eyes. “Am I supposed to celebrate your self-denial?”

He cleared his throat. “There are illnesses—”

“Syphilis, for example,” she cut in. “Otherwise known as the pox. Which, by the way, is not limited to the women who work in brothels. Mistresses are just as vulnerable. As are wives.” She spat the last word.

This conversation was getting out of hand, and Dominic could feel his temper flaring. The last thing he wanted was a wife who told him what to do, who curtailed what he did or who he spent time with. Who sought to control his behavior. He’d had enough of that from his father, and from the moment the former viscount died, Dominic had never again allowed himself to be leashed.

“The Duke of Queensberry has a mistress,” he said flatly. “Did you have this conversation with him?” The moment he asked, he realized that the duke would promise anything to marry Torie. The man was absurdly infatuated.

“If you keep a mistress, I shall take a lover.” Her blue eyes darkened to a seething lavender. He recognized that sign from the months of their betrothal: his fiancée had a temper like a bonfire.