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“She says so.”

He took a swallow of brandy straight from the flask, since she only had one water glass.

“Would you mind not drinking that in my room?” Torie asked. “I’m afraid that the smell brings back bad memories.”

Whatever Dominic saw in her face must have been convincing, because he walked over to pick up her drink. “I forgot that I have a wedding present for you.” He pulled a folded sheet from his coat, dropped it in her lap, and then went to the window and poured the contents of her glass and the flask into the street.

Torie opened the page, thinking he might have drawn another sketch. But no, it was a letter. As usual, the writing was unintelligible, made up of shapes running in wavy lines like childish depictions of the sea coming to shore.

“I hope you find him satisfactory, because I’ve already hired him,” Dominic said, seating himself again. “Langlois trained at the École de Mars in Paris, which is supposedly a good place. Should be able to teach you how to paint any number of things other than rabbits, perhaps even people.”

“Dom,” she said, and cleared her throat, folding the sheet back up.

“You don’t care for him? I can find someone else.”

“I can’t read this,” Torie said. In the silence that followed, she added, “I gather it’s a description of a Monsieur Langlois?”

“What an idiot I am,” Dominic breathed, his voice rough with regret. He came over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I muffed it. I’m sorry. I was thinking about how difficult your father’s love of brandy must have made your childhood, and I didn’t consider what I was doing.”

“It’s all right.” She had learned long ago that there was no point to whining about honest mistakes. “Do tell me more about the painter.” Her voice sounded husky, thickened not by tears but by the fact Dominic had seated himself so close to her. His hair was still damp from a bath, and he wasn’t wearing a nightshirt, given she’d just glimpsed his chest through a gap in his robe.

Perhaps he was naked. Her imagination rocketed into improprieties.

“May I sit beside you?”

She silently moved over, watching as Dominic kicked off his slippers and sat down, atop the sheet rather than under it. His feet were strangely sensual, with powerful toes. Hers were like pink snail shells in comparison.

“The man’s name is Eustache-Hyacinthe Langlois,” he said. “Well-thought-of in France, and here in London due to the wars. He’s happy to tutor all three of you to paint more than rabbits.”

Torie ground her teeth. Her husband didn’t mean to be so condescending. He didn’t know that a lady unable to read from a book or sheet music might focus on painting as the only ladylike skill available and make it the linchpin of her . . . of everything.

She murmured something vaguely grateful.

“He’ll sup with us,” Dominic said. “He’s the son of a baron, so we can’t have him belowstairs. Have you seen Valentine’s latest attempt? It looks like a clamshell with long ears. I think part of the problem is that he’s never seen a rabbit.”

Then: “What’s wrong?” he asked, tilting his arrogant, beautiful head to the side.

“Nothing,” Torie said lightly, employing skills gained by years of disguising embarrassment. “It will be a pleasure to be tutored by Monsieur Langlois. When will we meet him?”

“In a week or so.”

“I don’t have a formal wedding present for you, but perhaps you would like the painting that I just finished. You thought it ‘meticulous,’ which I take as a compliment.”

“I meant it as such. Your petals, the fallen ones, were very precisely detailed. I am honored by your gift.”

Torie raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“Of course.”

She looked back at the linen sheet. “A number of my friends have hung my pieces, but my father has always declined.”

“I couldn’t paint a daisy,” Dominic said. “I don’t know how to talk about art, but in my life, ‘meticulous’ is high praise.”

“Because you place such a premium on honesty,” she guessed.

“One must be meticulous in presenting facts that might change a nation’s course.” He hesitated. “Can you tell me about the blue ink at church?”

She might as well disclose every wretched shortcoming. “I can only sign my name in blue ink. I cannot make my signature intelligible in black.” A ragged breath escaped her mouth.