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“Clara designed it herself,” Torie muttered. He was just voicing the same unkind things he thought of her. She and her best friend, both addled and shallow as puddles.

They located the twins, who looked rather more pale than usual. “We tried champagne,” Florence reported. “The monk who made it said it tasted like stars, but we don’t agree.” She swallowed. “Or the olives don’t agree with the stars.”

“We’ve never had olives before,” Valentine informed them. “Or boiled tongue, stuffed crane, and coddled eggs. Or wedding cake, brandied hot chocolate, and cheese straws.”

“I gather you tried them all?” Torie asked. “Where is Nanny Bracknell?”

“We sent her home,” Florence said. “After all, our parents are here.” She swallowed convulsively again, and Torie made a mental note to inform Nanny that the twins were not in charge. Along with the news that this had been her last day of employment.

Dominic’s coach was waiting on the street, but he refused to allow the children to enter, which was a good decision since Florence was sick after walking one block.

Strangely enough, that brought on one of Dominic’s rare smiles. “I am lucky that you have such a strong parenting instinct,” he commented, watching Torie hold back Florence’s thick curls as the girl threw up in the gutter.

A block later, Valentine turned green and gagged, so Torie chirped, “How lucky I am that you . . . what was the rest of that sentence?”

He eyed her. “You never forget anything.”

She handed him a handkerchief.

Later that evening, Torie allowed Emily, bubbling with naughty laughter, to dress her in a silk nightdress. She climbed into bed and waited, gnawing her bottom lip. They had agreed not to consummate the marriage, but would Dominic pay her a visit for the sake of appearances?

She was just beginning to fall asleep when the sound of her bedroom door opening jolted her back to wakefulness.

“Good evening, viscountess.”

Chapter 23

“Good evening,” Torie choked out, feeling extremely awkward.

Dominic sat down at her dressing table. “We have much to discuss.”

She didn’t care. How long did he have to stay in her bedchamber in order to convince the household that the marriage was consummated? Torie hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before and spent the day being buffeted by emotion. She was desperate to sink into sleep and forget her marital state altogether.

“Most guests assured me that you will be a marvelous mother,” Dominic continued, stretching out his legs.

“Yes, they seem to have settled on that as your motive for marriage,” Torie said, twisting a piece of fine linen sheet between her fingers. She had no intention of telling him about the condolences she received.

At least from now on no one could warn her that she was making the mistake of her life. She had already made that mistake.

“Sir William graciously informed me that he considered my ten thousand pounds repaid.”

Torie grimaced. “You didn’t give him any more money, did you?”

“No. Just so you know, he requested another eight thousand, but I informed him that his daughter had forbidden it.”

That explained why Sir William had been more acerbic than usual. It also explained why he had banged on her bedchamber door in the wee hours of the morning and drunkenly advised her not to marry that “ruthless bastard.”

“I did pay for the wedding breakfast,” Dominic added, with the air of someone confessing one of the seven deadly sins. “I had the distinct impression that otherwise Sir William might entertain our guests with stale bread and water. No, I take that back: bread and brandy.”

Torie began pleating the hem of her sheet, trying to suppress her conscience’s insistence that she’d been sold. Or bought. How different were these payments from a dowry and jointure, after all? Women were traded on a market basis, and she should be grateful that her price was anything close to her sister’s.

The silence between them felt as thick as a brick wall.

“Did Mrs. Flitwick give you a tour of the house?” Dominic inquired. And at her nod, “Was the room designated as your studio acceptable? Flitwick had your paint and easels moved while we were at church.”

“I’m afraid that I need a room with a better light,” Torie said. “Flitwick was most understanding and plans to move everything again tomorrow. We must sacrifice the breakfast room, but Flitwick tells me that the dining room is more convenient for him and the footmen.”

Beginning tomorrow, she would focus on raising Florence and Valentine. She might even begin a new painting in her series of “time” still lifes: dead flowers this time. Withered, dead flowers, thanks to Persephone’s time in the underworld.