Viscount in Love, page 5
To Torie’s mind, ravishment was unlikely, because Bufford had to be past sixty and walked with a cane. “Does being in Kelbourne’s company make you uncomfortable? We haven’t seen much of your fiancé in the last month.”
She kept to herself the fact that she often met Kelbourne coming or going from the nursery. They’d even shared a few meals, chaperoned by the twins and the Odyssey, which had proved bloody enough for Florence and eloquent enough for Val.
Leonora shrugged. “The viscount is in mourning, Torie. It would be most inappropriate for him to attend the theater, let alone a ball. As you know, I am besieged by invitations and in need of a companion. Lord Bufford is a godsend.”
“Mourning wouldn’t prevent your fiancé from taking you for a drive in the park,” Torie observed. She was slightly worried that Leonora would change her mind about Kelbourne and decide to marry someone more manageable. Thankfully, no other viscounts were available for marriage.
In the depths of the night, Torie had started to imagine raising the twins, as Leonora had suggested. Perhaps if they moved to the country, she might meet a farmer, preferably one who couldn’t read. A broad-shouldered man without pretensions, but with burly thighs.
Kelbourne’s thighs were far more muscled than those of the Duke of Queensberry. According to Leonora, her fiancé’s daily rapier practice had resulted in swollen muscles, which she found most distasteful.
Torie would never look at her sister’s future husband with desire, of course, but she had to admit that she liked swollen muscles.
“I might summon Kelbourne for a drive in Hyde Park,” Leonora said, sounding distinctly unenthusiastic. “He’s getting impatient about our delayed wedding.”
“That’s fair, given the two years you put him off even before he went into mourning.”
“I certainly couldn’t have married him within months of his proposal. Hasty weddings give entirely the wrong impression.”
Such as the impression that two people couldn’t wait to be together? But then Torie realized her sister was talking about the overly prompt appearance of babies.
“Last year was extremely crowded with events,” Leonora continued. “The celebrations following the conferral of Prince Augustus Frederick’s dukedom, for example. The wedding of a viscount should be the premier event of the Season.”
“You could meet Kelbourne in his own house while visiting the nursery,” Torie suggested. “Once you are better acquainted, I am certain you will grow fond of Valentine and Florence.”
“I don’t wish to be acquainted with them, let alone feel a warmer emotion,” Leonora stated. “Fairly or unfairly, they carry the blemish of their mother’s shameful reputation. I can’t imagine why Kelbourne hasn’t dispatched them to the country, but I think less of him for it. It is not fair to them to raise them in the environs of polite society when they will never find a place amongst us.”
“You sound remarkably uncharitable,” Torie observed. Sometimes her only defense was to attack Leonora for unladylike comportment. “Shouldn’t you be more loyal to your fiancé?”
“I am being practical. Reputation aside, can you imagine me introducing that strange-looking girl to society? Her eyes are the color of gooseberries.”
“Florence is beautiful!” Torie protested. “Her hair curls most attractively.”
Leonora wrinkled her nose, so Torie added cunningly, “If we made a brief visit to the nursery, you could take another look at the grand salon. If you recall, you decided that it needed renovation.”
When Leonora finally agreed, she insisted on taking the carriage all of three blocks and sending in her card. Flitwick himself came out to the carriage to say that the viscount was in attendance at the House of Lords, but he implored them to enter for a cup of pekoe tea and a few of Mrs. Flitwick’s freshly baked lemon scones.
“No scones,” Leonora stated, descending from the carriage.
“Yes, scones,” Torie said, jumping down. “Flitwick, we’d like to see the children, so perhaps we could take tea in the nursery.”
“First, the grand salon,” Leonora said, making her priorities clear.
She spent the next hour directing Flitwick to strip the oak paneling and create a serene and symmetrical space. “I prefer quiet colors. Those crimson draperies are horrendous.” She gave a dramatic shudder. “This room must be completely refurbished before I live here. The cacophony of color is most disturbing.”
Flitwick assured her that work could begin immediately.
“We shan’t marry for at least six months,” Leonora told him.
Torie managed not to raise an eyebrow, though she was certain that the viscount planned to marry as soon as he was out of deep mourning.
The first thing she saw on opening the nursery door was Florence atop her bed, twirling a leaky pillow while feathers eddied around her like a snow shower. “Avast ye, scurvy dog, you beetle-browed dolt!” she shrieked.
Both children had repurposed their mourning armbands as eye patches worn diagonally over their foreheads. Pillows had turned to weapons. In short, they were pirates.
“You bilge-sucking, lily-livered scalawag!” Valentine shouted. His hair had grown long enough to snare feathers; they ringed his dark curls like a ragged halo.
“Pirates, ahoy!” Torie said briskly, diving into the room and snatching Flo’s pillow before it lost any more feathers.
“Sink me, ’tis me auntie!” Valentine said, hopping off his bed.
“Torie!” Florence shrieked. Torie had just enough time to drop the pillow to the floor before the girl hurtled off the bed. She threw her arms around Torie’s waist. “Hello!”
From the door, Leonora cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Miss Florence, Master Valentine.”
The twins’ heads swiveled to the door in unison.
Torie held her breath. Most of the time Leonora showed the world an inflexibly decorous façade, maintained by rigid attendance to rules such as Laughter is immoderate. Very occasionally, Nora—the sister who used to love nursery games—would reappear.
“Or am I addressing two pirates?” Leonora added, smiling.
Torie sighed with relief.
“Would you like to play with us, Miss Sutton?” Florence asked excitedly. “We have more pillows.”
“Oh, no,” Leonora stated. “Miss Victoria and I are too old for such games. When you’re a grown lady, Miss Florence, you won’t wish to be buffeted by a pillow, will you?”
“I believe I wouldn’t mind,” Florence said thoughtfully. “Especially if I am doing most of the buffeting.”
“She’s remarkably violent for a member of her sex,” Valentine said. He was plucking feathers from his hair and throwing them in the air. “Look at this, Torie. The draft in this room runs east to west.”
“I would be an excellent pirate,” Florence said.
“How so?” Torie inquired. She felt a pricking unease at the expression on Leonora’s face; her sister may have accepted the pirates, but by addressing Torie with her nickname, Valentine had just breached a cardinal rule: A well-bred lady encourages no one, including her spouse, to address her in a casual or informal manner.
“I am free from sentimentality,” Florence explained. “Pirates are not mawkish while making fellows walk the plank, for example. I feel certain I could dispatch them with aplomb. Isn’t that a lovely word? Aplomb means ‘assurance.’”
“No woman is a pirate, or at least, no lady could be a pirate,” Leonora said, distracted from the issue of Valentine’s informality. “Ladies have a natural sense of delicacy, a sensibility that defends them from bloodthirsty practices.”
Florence regarded her with distinct aplomb. “Perhaps I shall grow into sensibility, although I don’t hold out much hope.”
“You can feign delicacy,” Valentine called encouragingly from the window, where he was trying to coax feathers to float in the draft coming from the closed window. “Just look how well I can bow. Though frankly, if I wanted to finick about like a heron, I’d live in a stream.” He looked to Torie. “To finick is to ‘affect extreme daintiness or refinement.’”
“Thank you,” Torie said. “On that subject, Val, you have neglected to bow to us. ‘Sink me’ is not an appropriate greeting.”
Valentine walked forward, clutching two feathers in his left hand, and bowed with a finicking flourish of his right. “Good afternoon, Miss Sutton. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you again.” He bowed. “Miss Victoria.”
Leonora nodded a greeting. “Master Valentine. I hope you find the nursery comfortable.”
The room had transformed from Torie’s first visit. Two desks now stood side by side against one wall. The easels were positioned before the window, and new beds lined another wall. A painted screen in the corner had been left folded open, and behind it she could see a gleaming brass bathtub. Finally, comfortable chairs and a sofa were arranged before the fireplace.
“It’s rather cramped for two of you, is it not?” Leonora continued, without waiting for Valentine’s answer. “Miss Victoria and I grew up in a nursery in the country, where there was enough room for my sister and me to have our own bedchambers.”
Torie cast her sister a jaundiced glance. Of course Leonora would champion the pleasures of country living.
“We wouldn’t care to sleep apart,” Florence said. “Fa—Lord Kelbourne has refurbished the room since we arrived. Do you like the wallpaper?”
“No,” Leonora said, before Torie could catch her eye. “I find it chaotic and overly colorful.”
“The children’s mother chose this paper,” Torie said.
“For the nursery?” Leonora asked incredulously.
“Oh no, for the downstairs corridor,” Valentine explained.
“This paper would be just right in a corridor,” Leonora said immediately. “One would pass by and be left with an impression of beauty.”
Torie took a relieved breath. Her sister was a kind person, as long as emotions were muted and propriety observed.
“We didn’t know our mother very well,” Florence said, “but Lady Dorney was rather peacocky, like this paper. We think perhaps seeing it every day will make us care for her more.”
“You think that,” her brother said. “I find it most unlikely.”
Leonora opened her mouth and shut it again. “Just so.”
She cast a somewhat wild look at Torie. The twins never said what one expected, and Leonora was particularly wedded to the expected. She undoubtedly felt that Lady Dorney’s children should refer to their late mother only in saintlike terms.
Sir William often described his dead wife as “lively”; Leonora had always told Torie—who couldn’t remember her mother—that their mother had been a paragon among ladies.
“When you marry Lord Kelbourne,” Florence continued, “perhaps you could choose new wallpaper, Miss Sutton. That way we will come to be fond of you.”
“Affection comes with time, not with wallpaper,” Torie said.
Leonora nodded. “I would be happy to replace this paper, perhaps with a paint that promotes tranquility, such as alabaster. Master Valentine, shall we summon your valet to remove the feathers from your hair?”
“I don’t have a manservant of my own yet,” Valentine replied. “I may never have one, as I believe our father left us impoverished. Are we allowed to discuss gambling or is that prohibited?” he asked Torie.
“Since your father has passed from this world, his memory must be honored,” Leonora said firmly.
“I could speak on the subject with reference to your father, who is still in this world,” Valentine said agreeably. “His recent wager, as I’m sure you know, was covered on the front page of the London Times. Well, Torie wouldn’t know, because she can’t read.”
Leonora cleared her throat.
Valentine disregarded this warning sign. “It was quite foolish to wager eight thousand pounds that a curricle could not circle the Tower of London ten times in thirty minutes, especially given that Sir William’s confidence in his bet manifested after a pigeon shat on his shoulder.”
Catching Leonora’s shocked expression, Torie said quickly, “Ladies’ sensibilities are offended by mentions of excrement.”
“I’ll add shat to the Prohibited List,” Valentine said, throwing both feathers into the air at once.
“List?” Leonora repeated in a stunned voice.
Florence offered helpfully, “Subjects such as flatulence, loins, rogering . . . oh, and bastardy. I can tell you more of them, if you wish. I have an excellent memory.”
Leonora’s eyes widened, though she probably didn’t know what “rogering” was. Torie didn’t. Certainly no one had mentioned flatulence or bastardy in Leonora’s presence in years. If ever.
“Nanny said she would feed you to a cat if you mentioned rogering again,” Valentine said to his sister. He turned to Torie. “Rogering is vulgar slang for—”
“Best not,” Torie said, interrupting.
“As I am a lady, those are words that offend me,” Leonora pointed out. “They should never be uttered in my presence, and you would offer myself and Miss Victoria a further offense by explaining a vulgarism.”
“I do see that you’re very ladylike,” Florence said. “We said that, didn’t we, Val? After we were in the drawing room, where we first met you both.”
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable living in the country, where you needn’t mind your tongues as much,” Leonora said. “Countryfolk are not overburdened by sensibility as we in London are.”
“Really?” Valentine asked with interest. “Because we have heard some extraordinarily vulgar phrases since we arrived in the city. The other day—”
“Valentine!” Torie cut in. “Why don’t we all sit down? Tea must be on the way.”
“I could read to you from the Odyssey,” Valentine offered.
The children dashed to their favorite seats: Valentine to a large chair by the fire with a towering stack of books nearby and Florence opposite, with a stack of foolscap, a half-written story of severed heads, and a lap desk that Dominic had given her a few days ago.
“A gentleman never sits when a lady is still on her feet,” Leonora barked. “Obviously, your comportment lessons haven’t been detailed enough.”
Val didn’t move.
“Master Valentine!”
He startled, looking up from his book. “What?”
“No gentleman sits in the presence of a lady.”
Valentine muttered something that sounded perilously like “Bollocks,” but he rose, book in hand.
Thankfully, the door opened behind Torie’s back, and she turned toward it, smiling valiantly. She didn’t care who it was—Flitwick, Mrs. Flitwick, Nanny, the cook, a nursemaid, anyone—because Leonora was winding up like a top. One more vulgar word and she would spin out of control.
Well, anyone . . .
Except perhaps the viscount.
Chapter 8
Dominic walked into the nursery and instantly realized that he had strayed onto a battlefield. His fiancée’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes wrathful, which wasn’t particularly surprising if she’d been in the twins’ presence for long.
Torie took severed heads in stride, but Leonora?
Unlikely.
“Good afternoon, Miss Sutton, Miss Victoria,” Dominic said, bowing. “Children.”
Torie dropped into a curtsy. The twins chorused, “Good afternoon, Lord Kelbourne,” followed by a creditable bow and curtsy.
Leonora bobbed and then folded her arms over her bosom. “Kelbourne, your wards have offended me in more ways than I can enumerate. I am sadly convinced of my original judgment. They can never—”
Before Dominic could speak, Torie intervened. “No. Whatever observation you are about to make should be expressed in private.”
“We don’t mind,” Valentine offered. “We have both concluded that Miss Sutton doesn’t like us.” Without a trace of embarrassment, he added, “I fear the feeling is mutual.”
Bloody hell. One should celebrate honesty in children, but the twins were honest to a fault.
“How dare you!” Leonora retorted. “You are a vulgar, impudent little boy, and you will never be accepted in polite society!”
“I could say the same to you, but I gather you have managed to disguise your nature,” Val remarked dispassionately, “which suggests I could do the same.”
Leonora’s cheeks turned from pink to purple as she drew in a harsh breath.
“We could try to like you, Miss Sutton, if you choose new wallpaper,” Florence said quickly.
Dominic tried to make sense of that, but quickly discarded it.
“I cannot introduce these children to the ton,” Leonora said shrilly. “They mentioned flatulence, and something I suspect refers to fornication. She . . . the girl spoke of bastardy when . . . You cannot expect it of me or any lady, Kelbourne! The task you envision is impossible. They have no grace, politeness, gentility, nothing that becomes their supposed rank.”
Dominic turned to the twins. “I am disappointed. We’ve spoken about appropriate topics for conversation. What happened to the list?”
“In fact, they were exhibiting their newfound knowledge,” Torie said wryly. “My sister’s injured sensibilities stem from a misunderstanding.”
The children surveyed him with clear eyes. “Florence assured Miss Sutton that we realize some topics of conversation should not be aired among ladies,” Valentine explained. “We did not broach those topics. Florence listed three only after the lady expressed interest.”
“Four,” Florence corrected him. “I can whisper them in your ear, if you wish, Lord Kelbourne.” She trotted over and came up on her toes, whispering audibly, “Flatulence, rogering, bastardy, loins. Three nouns and one verb.”
Dominic’s heart sank. Leonora wasn’t wrong. No lady of his acquaintance—except for Torie—could have heard that list without taking grave offense.
“You see,” his fiancée said, her voice crackling with rage. “Moreover, she—they—spoke insolently of their dead parents. And my own father!”
