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Until it occurred to him that his unbecoming mood had nothing to do with his pontificating peers.

He missed his wife, which made sense because he was the luckiest damn man on the face of the earth. In fact, the next time he saw the Duke of Queensberry, he might offer to buy the fellow a new coat on the grounds that he’d robbed His Grace of a rare jewel.

After all, Queensberry had recognized a gem that Dominic had overlooked, given that his courtship of Torie had been driven predominantly by lust and a desperate need to find someone who could tolerate the twins.

Not just tolerate them but love them.

Now he knew better.

Who gave a damn if Torie couldn’t read? He had concluded that literacy had nothing to do with intelligence. She was brilliant.

He found himself running up the steps of his house before he’d consciously decided to leave Lords. When Flitwick told him that the new French tutor had arrived, he climbed the nursery steps two at a time.

Now the children had a painting tutor to distract them, so he would have more time with Torie. Likely she was in her studio. He loved the simple dresses she wore under her pinafore. After unscrambling a few buttons, he could pull them over her head and—

That was the plan before he entered the nursery.

The air was distinctly odiferous, thanks to Oddie, the blasted rabbit who couldn’t stop shitting, to call a spade a spade. Florence was lying on the floor with Oddie on her chest, and Valentine was at his easel. The nanny was chatting with Torie’s maid over at the side.

And on the couch before the fireplace was a handsome fellow looking at his wife with an expression that Dominic recognized. In fact, he instantly resolved to bribe the artist to move to Bath before he spent even one night in the house.

Torie looked up and held out her hand, her eyes cornflower blue. “Dom, you’ve done such a marvelous thing in bringing Monsieur Langlois to the house! He is telling me about the accolades he has received from the Académie Royale de Peinture. How marvelous for me and for the twins!”

Dominic walked over and pressed a kiss on the back of her hand. Emotions of a kind he did not care for surged through him, because from where he was standing, he could see directly into his lady’s bodice—that is, he could see her cleavage and the peachy shapes of her breasts, which were for him alone—as could the Frenchman.

She had dressed herself up like a butterfly, a sensual butterfly, for the delectation of the painter.

He bowed, and his voice was perhaps chillier than he would have intended. “Monsieur Langlois.”

The Frenchman had come to his feet, of course, but Dominic could tell instantly that he was the careless sort of fellow who didn’t stand on ceremony. Son of a baron he might be, but his standards were those of artists. The fellows in that Académie.

The thought was calming, because even though Torie looked as delicious as a fairy queen, she’d told him several times that she didn’t care for the men who came around the House of Lords offering to make portraits. Without saying as much, she’d let him know that those painters would scorn her rabbits with mishappen rears, and likely her dying flowers as well.

Not that they’d have the chance to see them. One day when they were lying exhausted and sweaty on the settee, he’d asked whether she invited other people to her studio. “Only Clara,” she’d said, which he appreciated, since the room felt like their private refuge.

Florence jumped up and took his hand. “We should show Monsieur Langlois Torie’s studio.”

He didn’t allow himself to frown.

“You have a studio!” the Frenchman exclaimed. “How convenient. I wish all my students were as well-prepared.”

“Will you start Torie with drawing circles as well?” Florence asked. Dominic was rather surprised to see that her eyes were alight with mischief.

“I’m drawing circles,” Valentine called. “I’m going to draw them all night until I can get one that is absolutely, perfectly round.”

Dominic went to take a look. “That seems round to me.”

“Slightly flattened on the upper right,” Monsieur Langlois commented.

“It’s like a full moon,” Valentine said. “You know how hard it is to tell if the moon is full because it could be a little bruised on one side, like a peach that fell to the floor?”

“I think Torie should try making a circle,” Florence said, popping up at their side. She pulled the foolscap off her easel, revealing another sheet. “You can use my charcoal, Torie!”

“Why circles?” Dominic asked.

“Only a master can create a perfect circle without using an instrument,” the Frenchman said.

Dominic had never tried it, but he was pretty sure he could make a circle.