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“You’ve made your point,” Dominic said. He was hanging on to his temper by a straw, aware it was flaring high out of guilt. Because he was the villain. He was the man whose wife would be mocked all over London. The cathedral would indeed be crammed with people coming to whisper, gloat, and laugh.

“You and I will not sleep together until you agree to stay out of Miss Peccati’s bedchamber,” Torie repeated.

Dominic opened his mouth to tell her—

She cut him off. “Furthermore, if I ever discover you have taken another mistress, I shall take a lover, whether or not I have provided you with heirs. As I already informed you.”

A low growl came from his chest. He had to leave the room; he was about to erupt, and when he lost his temper, he invariably said things he didn’t mean. It had become the hard and fast rule of his adult life: leave before you shout.

Unless in Parliament, of course.

“If you don’t agree to that, I will jilt you here and now. I will take it upon myself to explain it to Florence and Val. It will break their hearts, but they will understand—and after that discussion, we can return adultery to the Prohibited List, if you’d like. It’s bad enough that I’m agreeing to marry someone like you, but if we don’t even begin with an even playing field? I simply can’t do it. I don’t think I could ever love you.”

What did she mean by “someone like you?” Cold, self-absorbed, and unfaithful, presumably?

He didn’t want her to clarify that sentence.

“What’s more, if we consummate this marriage, I can’t promise that we’ll have two sons. I don’t know how Leanora thought she could. We might have two daughters. We might have only one. We might have seven.”

“Seven!”

“Or none. People never seem to consider the fact that some couples are not immediately fruitful.” She narrowed her eyes. “It might be years until you are free to buy yourself variety in the bedchamber. You might want to keep that in mind when making your choice, as well as the possibility that I may prove to be barren, which would curtail any cavorting in other women’s chambers.”

Dominic was a consummate debater, skilled at knowing when to hold his fire. There was no point in arguing until they were able to consummate the marriage. Tomorrow.

Part of him couldn’t believe that she hadn’t already jilted him. If he let go with the howl in his chest . . . His blood was pounding through his veins so hard that he could hear it in his ears. He had to leave the room.

She’d jilt him if he shouted. He knew it.

“I agree to your terms,” he said abruptly. “Your ultimatum,” he added, just so they both knew he’d given in under protest.

He had to make certain that didn’t become a habit. He certainly wouldn’t obey her routinely.

Just now and then, since conceding a losing battle was sometimes the best way to win the war.

Chapter 22

June 3, 1802

Westminster Abbey

The following morning, Torie walked the long aisle of the cathedral on her father’s arm, each step closer to the altar sending a fresh wave of terror through her body.

Ahead of her, Florence was prancing along, throwing rose petals left and right. Dressed in delicate violet for half mourning, curls bound by a circlet of rosebuds, the girl was utterly adorable, and the audience had audibly sighed at the sight of her.

Clara followed Florence, serving as Torie’s witness since her sister remained in Scotland. Dominic waited at the altar, Valentine at his side.

Torie’s heart pounded like thunder in her ears. She wasn’t taking the easy option, which would have been to jilt Dominic and marry the Duke of Queensberry.

But Queensberry didn’t have Valentine and Florence. Of course, he also didn’t have a temper.

Dominic would explode if she began visiting another man’s house every day. He would be a prickly and possessive husband. Even worse, he had turned her into a prickly and possessive woman, with a temper to match his.

“No one questioned Leonora’s ability to manage the viscount,” Clara had said that very morning, in a last-minute plea that Torie jilt her fiancé. “I am genuinely concerned for you. Apparently his roars can be heard all down the corridor in the House of Lords!”

Even from several pews away, she could see a glitter in Dom’s hooded eyes as he waited at the altar. She knew him well now: that ferocious expression signaled intense focus, not rage. His jawline was clenched because he wasn’t sure what marriage to her would be like. He hated the fact that she’d given him an ultimatum.

She understood his dislike. Neither of them had taken the easy option. He could have found another lady to marry. Torie had none of her sister’s docility, the air of fragility that Leonora put on so well.