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He didn’t want to think about Victoria Sutton in the same breath as Gianna. Torie was charming, fresh, and funny. Useless, perhaps, but enchanting.

Especially when she was facing down her father and sister with that beaming, courageous smile.

His mistress was . . . Well, Gianna was a tempestuous Italian with the propensity to throw crockery at the servants.

His future sister-in-law bit her plump lip, a wash of pink rising in her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that,” Torie whispered. “Could we pretend I didn’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am appalled,” Dominic said grimly. “A gentleman’s private arrangements are never to be discussed in polite company.”

“You’re unreasonable,” Torie countered, raising her chin. “Why should I pretend not to know of Miss Peccati? She is reportedly ravishing, if temperamental, and the two of you are a favorite subject of gossip. Moreover, my sister told me that you had been remarkably frank with her on the subject.”

“Leonora told you about our conversation addressing my mistress?”

“Of course she did! I’m her sister. In my opinion, you distinguished yourself by scrupulous truthfulness. You informed her that you sought to marry an excellent hostess who could soften your reputation and improve your standing in the House of Lords—not the most romantic of reasons, but refreshingly direct. You promised never to betray her with another lady but specified that a mistress doesn’t count as adultery. Once again, applause for your candor, though I would have kicked you and your proposal out the door.” She grinned and added, “To be honest.”

Dominic was nonplussed. It was as if Torie didn’t understand the nature of marriage at their rank.

“In case you’re wondering,” she continued, “Leonora is an excellent hostess, and she will never take a cicisbeo. She is ruthlessly conventional and will give you two sons of your own bloodline. Did I miss anything?”

“No.” He made the word as forbidding as possible.

Torie rolled her eyes. “You’re not a prudish dowager, so why should I pretend that I don’t know of the existence of your mistress? Or my father’s mistress, for that matter?”

“Such indelicate matters should never be bandied about.”

“You and Leonora are a match made in heaven: she too likes to proclaim rules as if airing her opinion will make people agree. All I meant to say is that according to the gossip columns, Miss Peccati reportedly drinks pink champagne for breakfast, which I applaud. Pink champagne is much prettier than plain wine, in my opinion.”

“Such details appear in newspapers?” Appalled didn’t cover his feelings.

“Regularly. Bellowing in the House of Lords wins you frequent notices as well. You weren’t aware?”

“I’ve never seen such a column.”

“You are right to ignore them,” Torie said blithely. “I won’t bring Miss Peccati up again since you don’t wish me to. There’s nothing worse than being teased about one’s secrets, don’t you think?”

“Are you referring to your inability to read?”

“Pretty much,” she confided. “After everyone learned the truth in my second Season, life became easier. The year before, I was always dodging comments about the latest novel.”

Dominic drew in a deep breath. No one had ever spoken to him in such an impertinent fashion, but it was clear that Torie meant no disrespect. Instead, she was explicitly disregarding convention on the grounds that they were family. It was as if she were an American. He’d once spent a few months in Boston and had conversations with forthright ladies that would never occur in polite society on this side of the Atlantic.

At his silence, Torie gave a little shrug before she turned and headed for the stairs to the second floor. “My sister and father will be displeased if you don’t return promptly.”

Victoria Sutton was shorter than Leonora, and yet her personality was far larger. She was bursting with life. Even her laugh was vibrant; he felt her deep chuckle in his bones.

At that thought, he had a sudden sharp realization: thank God he hadn’t betrothed himself to a woman like her, someone flamboyant and irritating and far too sensual. He pushed that ridiculous thought out of his mind and followed her up the stairs. They creaked under his tread, and the walls were still painted olive-brown.

Torie reached the landing and paused to wait for him. “Come along,” she said, diving at the nursery door before he could touch it.

The occupants of the room didn’t look up. Florence was seated on a settee that Dominic recalled from his childhood as having cushions like rocks. Valentine was lying on his back on the floor, his booted feet propped on the seat beside his sister. The room was clean enough, but dreary.

Just as he remembered.

Two beds, the hard settee, a tin tub surrounded by a yellow curtain hanging from clattering iron rings.