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“It is hard,” Valentine said, scowling at another lopsided peach.

“Back in the fourteenth century, the pope sent messengers around to gather samples of the best artists’ work, since he planned to commission paintings for the Vatican,” Langlois said.

“Is the Vatican a church?” Torie enquired.

Dominic watched with irritation as the Frenchman melted under her smile like frost in July. “It is the home of the papal court in Rome, my lady,” he replied. “The Florentine painter Giotto painted a red circle and sent that to the pope, because its simplicity demonstrated his technical skill. Of course, the pope hired him.”

“Maybe also because Giotto was from Florence,” Florence said. “You try it, Torie!” She handed over a stick of charcoal.

Dominic almost intervened. How could a woman who couldn’t draw her own signature in black ink be expected to draw circles in black charcoal?

But he was proud to see Torie take the charcoal and eye the paper. It reminded him of the way she smiled at Leonora’s insults. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now the memory of Leonora saying that Torie had a thick waist made him furious, let alone her insulting attitude toward Torie’s inability to read.

Torie was a good sport. He couldn’t imagine anyone else who would take disparagement from her own family members with such grace.

He cleared his throat, resolving that if he meant to defend her before the world, that included making certain that his own children didn’t set her up for embarrassment.

But he was too late.

“Ha!” Florence shrieked.

“That looks like a full moon to me!” Dominic said, feeling relief prickle all over his scalp. She couldn’t write her signature, but she could draw a circle.

For whatever that was worth.

“Good job, Lady Kelbourne,” he continued, wrapping one arm around Torie’s waist and kissing her forehead. “The best circle I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll keep going all night long if I have to,” Valentine muttered, turning back to his paper and rubbing out the peach.

“I pinned my elbow to my side,” Torie said. “That might help you, Val.”

Langlois hadn’t said a word, but now he stepped forward and looked at the paper. Then bent in and looked so closely that his nose was likely to be dusted black.

Dominic took advantage of the man’s distraction to kiss his wife. Torie wrapped her hand around his lapel and melted into him with gratifying speed.

“Kissing again,” Florence said with disgust. “Come on, Oddie! Follow me!” She hopped off.

His viscountess tasted like peppermint tooth powder and tea, which was quickly becoming Dominic’s favorite flavor. The touch of her tongue to his made him practically dizzy with lust. That was why he couldn’t stay in Lords.

He was infected by lust, riddled with lust.

Obsessed by his sensual, circle-drawing wife.

“Lady Kelbourne,” the Frenchman said, his accent suddenly three times as Parisian.

Torie drew back. Her eyes were dazed, so Dominic dropped a kiss on her nose. Even in the grip of lust, he tried to keep his head—unless they were near a bed. Torie, on the other hand, threw her entire self into each kiss. He could feel it, the way her arousal built with every touch of their tongues.

When they reached the bedchamber, he could pull up her skirts—which he wouldn’t because she was dressed like a French butterfly, not his wife, but if he did . . .

She’d be wet, welcoming, delicious.

“Forgive us, Monsieur Langlois,” Torie said, turning away. Dominic just stopped himself from pulling her back against his chest. “We are newly married.”

“Oui, oui,” the Frenchman said dismissively. “May we visit your studio now?”

Dominic wanted to get to their bedchamber. “I also apologize,” he said, bowing. “I must borrow my viscountess, so you will have to talk of circles at a later time.”

Florence giggled some more. “Absolutely! More circles for you, Torie!”