A Gentleman's Honor

TWENTY-ONE

ALICIA EMERGED ONTO THE MOOR WITH A SENSE OF RELIEF; the wood had been dark, the trees very old, the path uneven and knotted with their roots. Here, at least, she could breathe—dragging in a breath, she looked up, tracing the path they were following to where it skirted a pile of rocks and earth, the workings of the disused mine in which Sir Freddie planned to drown her.

Every nerve taut and alert, she kept walking, head high, her pace neither too fast nor yet slow enough to prompt Sir Freddie to hurry her. Scanning the area, she searched—for a rock, a branch, anything she could use to overpower him. Closer to the mine would be preferable, yet the closer they got…

She was supremely conscious of him walking steadily at her heels. He seemed relaxed, just a murderer out to arrange another death. Quelling a shudder, she looked again at the mine. The path rose steadily, steeper as it led up the shoulder of the workings before leveling off as it skirted the lip of the shaft itself.

The clouds were constantly shifting, drifting; there was always enough light to see their way, but when the moon shone clear, details leapt out.

Like the discarded spar she glimpsed, just fleetingly, to the right of the steepest section of the path.

Her heart leapt; her muscles tensed, ready…

Quickly, she thought through what would need to happen. She had to distract Sir Freddie at just the right spot. She’d already decided how, but she needed to set the stage.

Reaching the spot where the steep upward slope commenced, she halted abruptly. Swinging to face Sir Freddie, she found the slope was sufficient for her to meet his gaze levelly. “Do I have your word as a gentleman that my brother won’t be harmed? That he’ll be released as soon as possible in Upper Brook Street?”

Sir Freddie met her eyes; his lips twisted as, nodding, he looked down. “Of course.” After a fractional pause, he added, “You have my word.”

She had lived with three males long enough to instantly detect prevarication. Lips thinning, she narrowed her eyes, then tersely asked, “You haven’t really got him, have you? There is no second carriage.”

She’d wondered, but hadn’t dared call his bluff or even question him while trapped in the carriage.

He looked up, raised his brows. Faintly shrugged. “I saw no reason to bother with your brother. I knew the threat alone would be enough to get you to behave.”

The relief that surged through her nearly brought her to her knees. The weight on her shoulders evaporated. She was free—free to deal with Sir Freddie as she wished, with only her own life at stake. A life she was willing to risk to secure her future—what choice did she have? She fought to keep any hint of her upwelling resolve from her face. She glared at Sir Freddie, then swung on her heel and walked on.

Trusting to his overweening confidence to keep him from wondering at her continued acquiescence for just a few steps more…

From behind, she heard a faint chuckle, then his footsteps as he followed. Up ahead to her right lay the wooden spar. Just a little farther; she needed the greater steepness, the change in their relative heights…

Again she stopped dead, swung to face him.

At the last second let her contempt show. “You bastard!”

She slapped him. With the full force of her arm as she delivered the blow, with him lower than she, his face at the right height to take the full brunt of her momentum.

He had no chance to duck; the blow landed perfectly. Her palm stung; he staggered.

She didn’t pause but turned and raced, scrambling up the few steps to the spar. She heard him swear foully, heard his boots scrabble on the path. Bending, she locked both hands on the spar, hefted it, and swung around. Driven by resolution laced with very real fear, she put every ounce of strength she possessed behind her swing.

He didn’t see it coming.

She wielded the spar like a rounders bat. He was still lower on the path than she; the spar hit him across the side of the head.

The spar cracked, broke, fell from her hands.

He slumped to his knees, groggy, dazed, but not unconscious. He weaved. Desperate, she glanced around.

There were no other spars.

She grabbed up her skirts, stepped around him, and ran. Fled like a fury down the path, leaping down from the workings and streaking across the moor to plunge into the dark wood.

Chest heaving, she forced herself to slow. The roots were treacherous; she couldn’t afford to fall. If she could get to the cottages and raise the alarm, she’d be safe. She didn’t even have to worry about Matthew anymore.

From behind her came a roar; the thud of heavy footsteps reached her, rapidly gaining.

Fighting down panic, she kept her eyes down, locked on the path, feet dancing over the tree roots—

She ran into a black wall.

She shrieked, then stilled as the familiar scent, the familiar feel of Tony’s body against hers, of his arms wrapping about her sank into her senses. She nearly fainted with relief.

He was looking beyond her, over her head. “Where is he?”

His words were a lethal whisper.

“On the path leading up to a disused mine.”

He nodded. “I know it. Stay here.”

With that he was gone. He moved so swiftly, so silently, surefooted in the darkness, that by the time, dazed, she turned, she’d nearly lost him.

She followed, but carefully, as quiet as he. She’d expected him to wait in the shadows and let Sir Freddie blunder into him as she had, but instead, he paused, waited until Sir Freddie was nearly to the trees, then calmly, determinedly, walked out of the wood.

Sir Freddie saw him. Pure horror crossed his face. He skidded to a halt, turned, and fled.

Back up the path.

Tony was at his heels almost immediately. Following as fast as her skirts would allow, she could see that he could have overhauled Sir Freddie anywhere along the upward slope. Instead, he waited until Sir Freddie gained the level stretch beside the gaping mine shaft before he reached out, spun Sir Freddie around, and plowed his fist into his face.

She heard the sickening thud all the way down the path where she was laboring upward. The first thud was followed by more; she couldn’t see either man but felt sure Sir Freddie was on the receiving end. She hoped every blow hurt as badly as they sounded. Gaining the level stretch, she looked, just in time to see Tony slam his fist into Sir Freddie’s jaw.

Something cracked. Sir Freddie fell back, onto a pile of rubble. He slumped, winded, but quick as a flash he grabbed a rock and flung it at Tony’s head.

She screamed, but Tony hadn’t taken his eye from Sir Freddie. He ducked the missile, then, lips curling in a snarl, bent, grabbed Sir Freddie, hauled him to his feet, punched him once in the face, grabbed him again, shook him—and flung him backward into the mine shaft.

There was a huge splash; water sprayed out.

Tony stood where he was, chest heaving until he’d regained his breath, then he stepped forward and looked down just as Alicia joined him.

She cast one brief look at Sir Freddie, spluttering, desperately searching for handholds on the slippery shaft wall, then looked at him. Reached out with both hands and touched him. “Are you all right?”

He looked into her eyes, searched her face—saw she was far more concerned for his well-being than hers— and felt something inside him give. “Yes.” He briefly closed his eyes. If she was all right, he was, too.

Opening his eyes, he reached for her, drew her to him. Wrapped her in his arms and gloried in the reality of her warmth against him. Cheek against the silk of her hair, he sent a heartfelt thank-you to fate and the gods, then, easing his hold on her, looked down at Sir Freddie, fighting to hold his head above the dank water. “What do you want to do with him?”

She looked down. Her eyes narrowed. “He told me he’d killed Ellicot, and he was going to kill me. I say we let him drown—poetic justice.”

“No!” The protest dissolved into a gurgle as Sir Freddie’s terror made his fingers slip. “No,” came again as he scrabbled back to the surface. “Torrington,” he gasped,

“you can’t leave me here. What will you tell your masters?”

Tony looked down at him. “That you’d sunk before I reached you?”

Folding her arms, Alicia scowled. “I say we leave him—a hemlocklike taste of his own medicine.”

“Hmm.” Tony glanced at her. “How about a trial for treason and murder?”

“Trials and executions cost money. Much better just to leave him to drown. We know he’s guilty, and just think—who forced him to come here from London? Did I make him spin me a tale about kidnapping Matthew?”

Tony stiffened. “He told you that?”

Lips tight, she nodded. “And just think of all the brave sailors he’s sent to watery graves! He’s a disgusting and debauched worm.” She tugged Tony’s arm. “Come on— let’s go.”

She didn’t mean it, but she was more than furious with Sir Freddie, and saw no reason not to torture him.

“Wait! Please…”Sir Freddie coughed water. “I know someone else.”

Tony stilled, then, releasing her, he stepped closer to the edge and crouched down to peer at Sir Freddie. “What did you say?”

“Someone else.” Sir Freddie was breathing shallowly; the water in the shaft would be freezing. “Another traitor.”

“Who?”

“Get me out of here, and we can talk.”

Tony rose; stepping back, he drew Alicia to him, pressed a kiss to her temple, whispered, “Play along.” More loudly, he said, “You’re right, let’s just leave him.” His arm around her, he turned them away.

“No!” Spluttering curses floated out of the shaft.

“Damm it—I’m not making this up. There is someone else.”

“Don’t listen,” Alicia advised. “He’s always making things up—just think of his tale about Matthew.”

“That was for a reason!”

She glanced over the edge. “And saving your life isn’t a reason? Huh!” She stepped back. “Come on, I’m getting cold.”

They started walking, taking tiny steps so Sir Freddie could hear.

“Wait! All right, damm it—it’s someone in the Foreign Office. I don’t know who—I tried to find out, but he’s wilier than I. He’s very careful, and he’s someone very senior.”

Tony sighed; he moved back to crouch at the edge. “Keep talking. I’m listening, but she’s not convinced.”

In gasps and pants, Sir Freddie talked, answering Tony’s questions, revealing how he’d stumbled on the other traitor’s trail. Eventually, Tony rose. He nodded at Alicia. “Stand back—I’m going to haul him out.”

Tony had to lie full length on the ground to do it, but eventually Sir Freddie lay like a beached whale, shivering, coughing, and convulsing. Neither Alicia nor Tony felt the least bit sympathetic. Yanking Sir Freddie’s cravat free, Tony used it to bind his hands before hauling him to his feet and, with a push, starting him back along the path.

Alicia’s hand in his, Tony followed his quarry back through the wood and out onto the road. Maggs was waiting beside Sir Freddie’s coach.

Alicia looked up at the box. “He had a coachman—he told him to wait.”

“Oh, aye. He’s waiting right enough, inside the coach.” Maggs held out Alicia’s cloak and reticule. “Found these when I shoved him in.”

“Thank you.”

Maggs nodded at Tony. “I was thinking we’d best leave ’em in the cellars at the George. I’ve had a word to Jim— he’s opening up the hatch.”

“Excellent idea.” Tony prodded Sir Freddie along the road toward the nearby inn. “Bring the coachman.”

Maggs had to lug him, for the coachman was unconscious. After a brief discussion with the landlord of the George, they left their prisoners in the cellars under lock and key.

Jim came out and led Sir Freddie’s carriage away. Alicia was on the seat of Tony’s curricle and he was about to join her when they heard the unmistakable rumble of a carriage heading their way.

Tony exchanged a glance with Maggs, then reached for Alicia. “Just in case, get back down here.”

He had her on the ground behind him when the carriage rocked around the corner. The driver saw them and slowed.

“Thank God!” Geoffrey pulled the horses to a halt beside them.

Tony caught the leader’s head, quieted the team. “What the devil—?”

In answer the doors of the carriage burst open and Adriana, David, Harry, and Matthew came tumbling out.

They rushed to Alicia, hugged her wildly, a cacophony of questions raining down. They waited for no answers, but danced and jigged, cavorted around Tony, too, but then returned to hug and hang on to their elder sister.

Geoffrey climbed down from the box; he stretched, then came to stand beside Tony. “Don’t say I should have stopped them—it was impossible. It’s my belief once they take an idea into their heads, Pevenseys are unstoppable.” He smiled. “At least Alicia’s a Carrington—she’s been tamed.”

“Hmm,” was all Tony said.

Both he and Geoffrey were only children. The performance enacted before them left them both bemused and a trifle envious. They exchanged a glance, for once had no doubt what each other was thinking… planning.

“Come on,” Tony said. “We’d better get them moving, or we’ll be here for the rest of the night.”

They rounded up their charges. With joy in their faces, still asking questions, the triumphant Pevenseys eventually climbed back into the carriage. Climbing up to the box, Geoffrey looked at Tony. “The Chase?”

Tony turned from handing Alicia into his curricle. “Where else?” Taking the reins, he climbed up. “It’s the only thing Sir Freddie got right.”

The comment puzzled Alicia. She waited until they were rolling along, heading farther up the road not back toward town with the heavy carriage rumbling behind. “Where are we going?”

“Home,” Tony replied, and whipped up his horses.

She was determined to speak with him, to address the subject of marriage, but no opportunity came her way that night. They traveled for nearly an hour, steadily northward along the country road, then Tony checked the horses and turned in through a pair of tall gateposts with huge wrought-iron gates propped wide.

He’d refused to tell her more about where he was taking her, but she guessed when she saw the house. A large Palladian mansion in pale brown and grey stone with both double-and single-story wings, it sat peacefully in the moonlight, perfectly proportioned, comfortable, and settled within its park.

Tony drew the horses to a halt in the wide gravel forecourt. He leapt down, scanned the house with fond satisfaction, then turned and held out his hand. “Welcome to Torrington Chase.”

The next hour went in pleasurable chaos. Servants tumbled from their beds and came rushing, their eagerness a comment on how they viewed their master. Tony flung orders this way and that; in the midst of the flurry, a calm, feminine voice was heard inquiring what her son was up to now.

In the drawing room, Tony exchanged a glance with Geoffrey, then looked at Alicia. Briefly, he lifted her hand to his lips. “Don’t panic.”

Releasing her, he went out; a moment later, he reappeared with his mother on his arm.

There could never be any doubt of the relationship; the viscountess’s dark, dramatic, rather bold beauty was the feminine version of Tony’s. Before Alicia could do more than assimilate that, she was enveloped in a warm embrace, then the viscountess—“You will call me Marie, if you please”—was asking questions, meeting the boys, exclaiming over Adriana, all with an understanding that made it clear she was excellently well served by correspondents in London.

Hot milk arrived for the three flagging boys, then they were bundled upstairs to bed. Maggs said he’d stay with them; he lumbered off. The housekeeper—Alicia felt sure the woman must be Mrs. Swithins’s sister—came to say that chambers had been prepared for Alicia, Adriana, and Mr. Geoffrey, and that, as usual, the master’s apartments lay ready and waiting.

With a recommendation that they all get some sleep, saying she would speak with them all in the morning, the viscountess graciously retired.

Tony asked Mrs. Larkins, the housekeeper, to show Adriana and Geoffrey their rooms. Taking Alicia’s hand, he led her up the stairs in their wake, but then turned down another corridor off the main gallery.

He opened a door at the end of the wing and drew her into a large room. It was a private sitting room overlooking the gardens; she got barely a glimpse as he led her through a doorway into a large bedchamber.

She glanced around, taking in the heavy dark blue hangings, the richly carved mahogany furniture, none of it delicate. Her gaze stopped on the huge four-poster bed.

Tony drew her into his arms; she met his gaze. “This is your room.”

His eyes held hers for an instant, then he murmured, “I know.” He bent his head. “Tonight, very definitely, this is where you belong.”

The first brush of his lips, the first touch of his hands as they spread and held her, then moved over her back and pulled her against him, verified the statement, told her how true it was—how very much he needed her.

The raw hunger in his kiss, the undisguised passion, the raging desire that fueled it, spoke eloquently of all he—and she, too—had feared, all they’d known they’d had at risk. Now the threat was behind them, conquered, vanquished, and in the aftermath, in the clear light of their victory, nothing was more apparent than the wonder and rightness of their dreams.

Their strength, their vulnerability—both sprang from the same source. The same overwhelming emotion that laid waste to all barriers and left them burning with one urgent and compulsive need.

Neither questioned it.

They shed clothes in the moonlight, let their inhibitions fall with them to the floor. He lifted her and they came together in a frenzy of need, of lust, of greedy passion, of molten, exultant desire. His need was hers; hers was his. They fed and gave succor, took, yielded, and let the raging tide swell.

Wrapped together, incandescent with glory, they gave themselves up to it, surrendered anew. She gave him all and he returned the pleasure, again and again, over and over until ecstasy built, rose and engulfed them. Caught them, trapped them in its golden fire.

They burned, clung, gasping as they reached the peak and soared, and the flames fell away.

Leaving them somewhere beyond the stars, far beyond the physical world.

Locked together, merged, as one they breathed, and felt, and knew. The moment stretched; full and deep, awareness touched them. Their gazes locked. A moment of heartbreaking stillness held them.

Passion, desire, and love. The smallest word held the greatest power.

This—all of this—was theirs. If they wanted. If they wished.

They both breathed in. The shimmering net released and fell away; the physical world returned and claimed them. With soft murmurs, soothing kisses, and caresses, they sank onto his bed.

Tomorrow, Alicia promised herself as, wrapped in his arms, she drifted into sleep.

He woke her the next morning, fully dressed, to explain that he’d sent a messenger to London last night, and now had to take Sir Freddie back to the capital.

Watching her as she blinked, valiantly trying to reassemble her wits, he grimaced. “I’ll return as soon as I can. Stay here with the boys. I suspect Geoffrey will want to take Adriana to meet his mother.”

He leaned close and kissed her, then rose and strode out.

Alicia stared at the doorway, then heard the door beyond close. No—wait! was her instinctive reaction. Instead, she sighed and rolled onto her back.

Foiled again, yet there was no point in ranting. Aside from all else, when she spoke to him of marriage, she wanted Sir Freddie and all his works finished with, no longer in any way hanging over them.

Which left her facing her current situation—in his room, in his bed—and how best to deal with it.

In the end, brazen and resolute, she decided to behave within his house precisely as she meant to go on; she had had enough of deceptions. She rang for water, washed while a round-eyed maid shook and brushed her gown, then, determined to be completely open and honest with Tony’s mother, she found her way back to the hall and was deferentially conducted to the breakfast parlor.

There, she found her four siblings in high spirits. Geoffrey rose as she entered; she smiled and waved him back, then bobbed a curtsy to the viscountess, seated at the end of the table.

Marie smiled warmly. “Come and sit here beside me, my dear. We have, I think, much to talk about.”

The light in her eyes was delighted, frank, and encouraging; Alicia took her words to heart, piled her plate high at the sideboard, then returned to sit at her side.

She’d barely taken the first bite when Geoffrey asked if he could take Adriana to visit at his home. “I’d like her to see the house and meet Mama.”

The viscountess, busy pouring Alicia a cup of tea, murmured, “Manningham Hall is but two miles away, and Geoffrey’s mama, Anne, is waiting to welcome your sister.”

Alicia glanced at Adriana, read the eager plea in her eyes. “Yes, of course.” With a flicker of her own resolve, she added, “It’s only sensible to seize the moment.”

Geoffrey and Adriana glowed with happiness; with various assurances, they excused themselves and left.

They passed Maggs in the doorway. He lumbered in, saluting both ladies. “If you’re agreeable, ma’am,” he addressed Alicia, “I’ll be taking these scamps down to the stream. I mentioned it this morning—seems they’ve been an age without holding a rod, and I’m happy to watch over them.”

As Alicia glanced at her brothers, Marie again murmured, “Maggs is entirely trustworthy.” She smiled at the large, homely man. “He’s been watching over Tony since he was no older than your David.”

Alicia regarded her brothers’ shining eyes and eager expressions. “If you promise to behave and do exactly as Maggs says…” She glanced at Maggs and smiled, too. “You may go.”

“H’ray!” Setting down napkins, pushing back their chairs, they rushed to Maggs, pausing only to make their bows to Alicia and the viscountess before happily heading off.

Alicia watched Matthew, his hand in Maggs’s, walk confidently out, and felt a rush of emotion. Not just for Matthew, but for the children she would bear; here, like this, with this sort of continuity was how children should be raised.

“Now!’ Marie settled back in her chair. At her signal, the young butler departed, leaving them alone. “You can eat, and I will talk, and we will learn all about each other, and you can tell me when your wedding is to be. With his customary flair for avoiding details, Tony hasn’t told me.”

Lifting her gaze from her plate, Alicia looked into Marie’s bright black eyes. “Yes, well…” She dragged in a breath; she hadn’t expected such a direct approach. “Indeed, that’s a subject I wished to discuss with you.”

She glanced around, confirming that they were indeed alone. She drew another breath, held it for a moment, then met Marie’s gaze. “I’m Tony’s mistress, not his intended bride.”

Marie blinked. A succession of emotions played across her features, then her eyes flared; she pressed her lips tight and reached across to lay her hand on Alicia’s arm. “My dear, I greatly fear I must, most contritely, apologize— not for my question, but for my oh-so-tardy son.”

Marie shook her head; Alicia realized with some surprise that she was struggling to keep her lips straight. Then Marie met her eyes again. “It seems he hasn’t told you either.”

Over the next hour, she tried to correct Marie’s assumption, but Tony’s mother would have none of it.

“No, and no and non, ma petite. Believe me, you do not know him as I do. But now you have told me your background, I can well see how you, through his laggardliness, have come to think as you do. You have had no mentor, no guide to rely on—no one to…what is the word…‘interpret’ his behavior for you. Rest assured, he would not have allowed anyone to know of you, much less established you as his consort in the eyes of the ton, or, indeed, brought you here, if he hadn’t, from the first, seen you as his bride.”

It was increasingly difficult to cling to her argument in the face of Marie’s conviction, yet Alicia couldn’t— simply could not—believe that all along…“From the first?”

“Oui—without doubt.” Marie pushed back her chair.

“Come—let me show you something, so you will see more clearly.”

They left the breakfast parlor; while they walked through the large house, Marie quizzed her on her brothers’ education. On the one hand, Alicia’s heart soared; this—this house, this sense of family, of immediate and natural care—was the stuff of her dreams. Yet her wits were whirling—she couldn’t accept it, couldn’t take joy in it, stymied by her uncertainty over Tony’s intentions.

Had he always seen her as his wife? Did he truly do so now?

Marie led her to a long gallery lined with paintings. “The famille Blake. Most we need not consider, but here—here are the ones that might make things clear.”

She halted before the last three paintings. The first showed a gentleman in his twenties, dressed in the fashion of a generation before. “Tony’s father, the last viscount.” The middle picture was of a couple—Marie herself and the previous gentleman, a few years older. “Here is James again, now my husband.” She turned to the last painting. “And this is Tony at twenty. Now look, and tell me what you see.”

One aspect was obvious. “He looks very much like you.”

“Oui—he looks like me. Only his height, his body, did he get from James, and that one does not notice. He looks French, and that is what one sees, but one sees only the surface.” Marie caught Alicia’s eye. “What a man is, how he behaves—that is not dictated by appearance.”

Alicia looked again at the portrait. “You’re saying he’s more like his father inside?”

“Very much so.” Marie linked her arm in hers; turning, they strolled back along the gallery. “In the superficial things, he is clearly French. How he moves, his gestures—he speaks French as well if not better than I. But it is always James in the words he speaks, always—without fail—his Englishness that rules him. So, in deciding the question of did he always mean to marry you or no, the answer is clear.”

With a gesture encompassing all the Blakes, Marie said, “You are English yourself. You know of honor. A gentleman’s honor—a true English gentleman’s honor— that is something inviolate. Something one may set one’s course by, that one may stake one’s life and indeed one’s heart on with absolute certainty.”

“And that’s what rules Tony?”

“That is what is at his core, an inner code that is so much a part of him he does not even stop to think.” Marie sighed. “Ma petite, you must see that it is not so much a deliberate slight, but an oversight that he has not thought to tell you, to ask you to be his bride. To him, his direction is obvious, so, like most men, he expects you to see it as clearly as he.”

They’d reached the top of the stairs. Alicia halted. After a moment, she said, “He could have said something— we’ve been lovers for weeks.”

“Oh, he should have said something—on that you will get no argument from me.” Marie looked at her, frowned.

“Ma petite, in telling you this, I would not wish you to think that I would counsel you to…how do the English say it—let him off easily?”

“Lightly,” Alicia absentmindedly returned. She told herself she didn’t have a temper, that not being informed she was to marry him—that he intended to marry her, indeed, from the first had so intended—that he’d taken her agreement so completely for granted he hadn’t even thought to mention it was neither here nor there …she drew a deep breath, felt her jaw firm. “No. I won’t—”

The boys came clattering into the hall below them. Seeing her and Marie, they came rushing up the stairs; if any shyness toward the viscountess had ever afflicted them, it had already dissipated. A rowdy report of their excellent fishing expedition tumbled from their lips.

Both Alicia and Marie smiled and nodded. Eventually, the boys ran out of exciting news, and paused.

David fixed his bright eyes on Alicia. “When are you and Tony getting married?”

“What he means,” Harry put in, jostling his older brother, “is if it’s soon, can we stay here?”

Matthew lined up, too. “There’s ponies in the stable— Maggs said he’d teach me to ride.”

Alicia waited until she was sure she had her voice and expression under control. “How did you know we were going to get married?”

“Tony told us.” Harry grinned hugely.

“When?”

“Oh, days ago!” David said. “But can we stay here, please? It’s so much fun.”

Alicia couldn’t think.

Marie stepped in and assured the boys their request would be considered. They grinned, briefly hugged Alicia, then ran off to wash and get ready for lunch.

As their footsteps faded, Marie drew in a long breath. Again, she linked her arm in Alicia’s. “Ma petite, I think—I really do feel”—she glanced at Alicia—“not lightly.”

“No.” Jaw set, Alicia lifted her head as she and Marie descended the stairs. “And not easily, either.”

The coach rocked and swayed. Beyond the flaps, the rain poured down; the wheels splashed through the spreading puddles. Evening had come early over Exmoor, dark clouds roiling up from the Bristol Channel to blanket the moors. Then the clouds had opened.

Alicia felt entirely at one with the weather, but she prayed they wouldn’t get bogged. She’d hoped to get a lot farther before halting for the night; now her sights were set on the next town, South Molton, where Maggs had told her they could be sure of a decent inn.

Harry was curled up beside her, asleep with his head in her lap. He shifted, snuffled, then settled again. Absentmindedly, she stroked his curls.

Through the unnatural gloom, she looked across the coach at Maggs, burly and bearlike, with Matthew asleep in his arms and David slumped against his side. When he’d heard of her decision to quit Torrington Chase and go home to Little Compton, he’d volunteered to come with her and help with the boys. With no Jenkins or Fitchett, she’d accepted his help gladly.

Once the idea of going home had occurred to her, she’d seized on it and refused to be swayed. Not that Marie had tried; she’d considered, then nodded. “Yes, that will work. He’ll have to speak then.”

Indeed. Alicia’s only question was what he would say, assuming, as both she and Marie had, that Tony would come after her.

Adriana, returning with Geoffrey and an invitation to visit for a few days with Lady Manningham, with whom Adriana had got on well, had been concerned, more about what was going on between Tony and Alicia than anything else. So Adriana was now at Manningham Hall; Marie had smiled and approved the arrangement.

The boys, of course, didn’t understand. They’d argued vociferously when she’d informed them they were returning to Little Compton immediately, but Marie had broken in to state, in her most imperious tone, that if they wished to return to the Chase soon, they would go without complaint.

They’d considered Marie, exchanged glances, then consented to accompany Alicia without further grumbling.

Marie had lent her traveling coach and a knowledgeable coachman; she’d also insisted on a groom. “I have no intention of drawing Tony’s fire by allowing you to set out insufficiently protected.”

So the poor groom, as well as the coachman, was getting drenched up on the box. They would have to stop at South Molton.

She had no idea how long it would be before Tony returned from London. Three days? Four? She hoped to be home in two days.

Head back on the squabs, eyes closed, she tried yet again to calm her chaotic emotions, to bring order to her mind. The greater part was still seething, the rest confused, still innocently querying: he hadn’t really intended to marry her, had he? But some part of her knew—he did, he had, from the first. She shouldn’t have overlooked how dictatorial he was—how many times had he simply seized her hand and whirled her into a waltz, or into some room? She knew perfectly well how used he was to getting his own way.

In this instance, he still would—she wasn’t so far gone in fury she’d deny herself her dreams—but not before, absolutely not before he got down on his knees and begged.

Jaw tight, she was imagining the scene when the rhythmic thunder of galloping hooves came out of the night behind them.

The coachman slowed his horses, easing to the side of the road to let the other carriage past. Disturbed by the change in rhythm, the boys stirred, stretched, and opened their eyes.

Listening to the oncoming hooves, Alicia wondered who else was out on such a night, chancing his horses at such a wicked pace.

That pace slowed as the carriage neared, then the sound of hooves lightened further, eventually disappearing beneath the steady drumming of the rain. She strained her ears but heard nothing more.

Then came a shout, indistinguishable from within the coach, but in response the coachman reined his plodding horses to a halt.

The coach rocked on its springs. The boys came alert, eyes wide.

Alicia looked at Maggs. Head on one side, he was listening intently.

No highwayman would use a carriage, surely, and it couldn’t be—

The coach door was wrenched open. A tall dark figure was silhouetted in the opening.

Tony glanced once around the coach, then reached in and locked his fingers around Alicia’s wrist. “Stay there!”

At his tone, one of rigid authority, the four males jerked upright. He didn’t wait to check their expressions, but unceremoniously yanked Alicia—stunned speechless, he noted with uncompromising satisfaction—out of the coach.

He steadied her on her feet, then stalked down the road, towing her behind him. She gasped, but had no option but to go with him.

Courtesy of her totally witless flight, he was already soaked; she was, too, by the time he reached a point out of bellow range of the coach.

Releasing her, he swung around and faced her. He glared at her through the rain. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

The question cracked like a whip. Over the miles, he’d lectured himself not to overreact, to find out why she’d run before reading her the riot act; just the sight of her in a coach leaving him had been enough to lay waste to all such wisdom.

“I’m going home!” Her hair clung to her cheeks, wisps dripping down her neck.

“Your home lies that way!” He jabbed a finger back down the road. “Where I left you—at the Chase.”

She drew herself up, folded her arms, tipped up her chin. “I am not continuing as your mistress.”

If Alicia had had any doubt that Marie had held to her promise to play the dumb innocent and not explain her complaint, it was put to rest by the expression on Tony’s face. Expressions—they flowed in quick succession from totally dumfounded, to incredulous, to believing but unable to follow her reasoning…to not liking her reasoning at all… then back to absolutely incredulous dumbstruck fury.

“You—?” He choked. Black eyes blazing, he jabbed a finger at her. “You are not my bloody mistress!”

She nodded. “Precisely. Which is why I’m going home to Little Compton.” Picking up her skirts, she went to swing haughtily about. Her skirts slapped wetly about her legs; catching her arm, he hauled her back to face him.

Held her there. He looked into her face; his, the austere planes wet, his hair plastered to his head, had never looked harsher. “I have no idea what”—he gestured wildly—“idiot notion you’ve taken into your head, but I have never considered you my mistress. I have always— since the first time I saw you—thought of you as my future wife!”

“Indeed?” She opened her eyes wide.

“Yes, indeed! I’ve shown you every courtesy, every consideration.” He stepped close, actively intimidating; she quelled an instinctive urge to step back. “I’ve openly protected you, not just through the investigation, not only via your household and mine, but socially, too. As God is my witness I have never treated you other than as my future wife. I’ve never even thought of you as anything else!”

Male aggression radiated from him. Uncowed, she held his black gaze. “That’s quite amazing news. A pity you didn’t think to inform me earlier—”

“Of course I didn’t say anything earlier!” The bellow was swallowed by the night. He locked his eyes on hers.

“Just refresh my memory,” he snarled. “What was the basis of Ruskin’s attempt to blackmail you?”

She blinked, recalled, refocused on his face—read the truth blazoned there.

“I didn’t want you agreeing to be my wife through any damned sense of gratitude.” Tony growled the words; sensing her momentary weakness, he pounced. Lowering his head so they were eye to eye, he pointed a finger at her nose. “I waited—and waited—forced myself to wait to ask so you wouldn’t feel pressured!”

Panic of a kind he’d never before known clawed at his gut; anger and a largely impotent rage swirled through him; an odd hurt lurked beneath all. He’d thought he’d done the right thing—all the right things—yet fate, untrustworthy jade, had still managed to trip him up. Yet the truth was slowly seeping into his brain—he wasn’t going to lose her. He just had to find a way through the morass fickle fate had set at his feet.

He scowled at her. “Regardless of what I did or didn’t say, or why, what the devil did you think the last weeks have been about?” He stepped closer, deliberately crowding her. “What sort of man do you think I am?”

“A nobleman.” Alicia refused to budge an inch; elevating her chin, she met him eye to eye. “And men of your class often take mistresses, as all the world knows. Are you going to tell me you’ve never had one?”

A muscle leapt in his jaw. “You are not my mistress!”

The words resonated between them. Slowly, she raised her brows.

He dragged in a breath. Easing back, he released his tight grip on her arm, plowed his hand through his hair, pushing sodden strands from his eyes. “Damn it—the whole bloody ton knows how I see you—as my wife!”

“So I’ve been given to understand. The entire ton, all my acquaintances—even my brothers!—know you intend marrying me. The only person in the entire world who hasn’t been informed is me!” She narrowed her eyes at him, then more quietly stated, “I haven’t even been asked if I’m willing.”

Precisely enunciated, the words gave him pause. He held her gaze for a long moment, then, also more quietly, said, “I told you I loved you.” His eyes suddenly widened. “You do understand French?”

“Enough for that, but I didn’t catch much else. You speak very rapidly.”

“But I said the words, and you understood.” His voice gained in strength. “It was you who never returned the sentiment.”

She lost her temper. “Yes, I did! Just not in words.” She could feel the heat in her cheeks, refused to let it distract her. “Don’t tell me you didn’t understand.” She gave him a second to do so; when his face only hardened, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “And as for saying the words, believing as I did that I was your mistress, such a confession would have been entirely unwise.”

She realized the implicit admission, sensed by the flare of heat in his gaze that he hadn’t missed it.

Lifting her chin, she continued, determined to have all clear between them, “It’s all very well to say you love me, but many men doubtless think they love their mistresses, and tell them so—how could I tell what you meant by the words?”

For a long moment, he held her gaze, then he gestured, as if brushing the point aside. In the same movement, he reached for her; grasping her elbows, holding her steady, face to face, he locked his eyes with hers. “I need to know—do you love me?”

The question, the look in his eyes, went straight to her heart.

She closed her eyes, then opened them and searched his. The rain was cascading down, the night was wild and black about them, yet he was totally focused on her, as she was on him. She drew breath, shakily said, “In my world, love between a man and a woman usually means marriage. In yours, that isn’t necessarily so. You said one word, but not the other. You knew my background—knew I wasn’t up to snuff. I couldn’t tell what you meant, but…that didn’t make any difference to how I felt about you.”

He studied her for a long moment, then released her, stepped close, framed her face with his hands. He looked down into her eyes. “Je t’aime.” The words resonated with a conviction impossible to doubt. “I love you.” He held her gaze. “I want no other woman, not for a day, not for a night—only you. And I want you forever. I want to marry you. I want you in my house, in my bed—you already reside in my heart. You are my soul. Please…”He paused, still holding her gaze, then more softly continued, “Will you marry me?”

He didn’t wait for her answer, but touched his lips to hers. “I never wanted you as my mistress. I only ever wanted you in one role—as my wife.”

Another subtle kiss had her closing her eyes, swallowing to get her words out. “Do you think you could see me as the mother of your children?”

He drew back and met her eyes, his expression faintly quizzical. When she said nothing more, he replied, “That’s understood.”

“Good.” She cleared her throat. “In that case…”

She paused, holding his black gaze; she still couldn’t entirely take it in, that the future of her dreams was here, being offered to her, hers for the taking. He hadn’t got down on his knees and begged, yet… smiling, she reached up and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Yes, I love you, and yes, I’ll marry you.”

“Thank God for that!” He pulled her to him, kissed her thoroughly—let her kiss him back in a wild moment of untrammeled joy with the rain drenching them and the moors a black void about them, then he sighed through the kiss, sank deeper into it, wrapped his arms about her and held her close. Until that moment, she hadn’t appreciated just how tense—how keyed up, how uncertain— he’d been.

Through the kiss she sensed their emotions meet, touch, ease—the fraught worry of recent times, the uncertainties, the fears, all faded, submerged beneath a welling tide of unfettered happiness.

When he lifted his head, dragged in a huge breath, and eased his hold on her, all that fraught tension was gone, and he’d reverted to his usual dictatorial self.

“Come.” He kissed her hand and turned her back to the coach. His curricle stood across the road, the pair with their heads hanging. “There’s a good inn in Chittlehampton, just off the road a little way back. It’s closest.” Hard hand at her back, urging her along, he glanced at her— met her eyes. “We should get out of these wet clothes before we take a chill.”

She seriously doubted, once they got out of their clothes, that they would be in any danger; she could feel the heat in his gaze even through the darkness.

He called orders to the coachman, then opened the coach door and looked in. “We’re going back to the Chase.”

A chorus of wild cheers and a “Good-oh” from Maggs greeted the pronouncement. She stuck her head past Tony to add, “But we have to stop at an inn for the night. I’m too wet to get back in. I’ll follow with Tony.”

Her brothers were thrilled, in alt at the prospect of returning to a house she suspected they saw as paradise, and not at all averse to spending the night at an inn along the way.

Tony helped the coachman turn his team, then he drew her protectively back while the coach lurched and started back down the road. In its wake, they walked to his curricle. Closing his hands about her waist, he lifted her to the seat. The rain was easing; she waited until they were rolling along before saying, “About my brothers.”

He glanced at her. “What about them? They’ll live with us, of course.”

She hesitated, then asked, “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

She tried to think of what else remained, what else needed to be settled between them…

“Good gracious!” She looked at him. “What happened with Sir Freddie?”

Later, kneeling before the fire roaring in the hearth of the best bedchamber of the Sword and Pike in Chittlehampton, one towel wrapped around her while with another she dried her wet hair, she remembered how Tony had laughed.

How delighted he’d been that he—the question of becoming his wife—had exercised her mind to the total exclusion of Sir Freddie.

She had Dalziel to thank for Tony’s rapid return. Tony had sent a rider hotfoot to London as soon as they’d reached the Chase the previous night; by return, Dalziel had sent word to bring Sir Freddie to London, but then had changed his mind. He’d met Tony on the road, and taken Sir Freddie into custody; apparently Dalziel wanted to visit Sir Freddie’s home in his company.

It seemed clear Dalziel’s interest had been sparked by Sir Freddie’s claims of another, still unidentified ex-traitor. For her part, she’d learned enough about ex-traitors to last her a lifetime.

Yet Tony’s reaction out on the road buzzed in her head. Almost as if he hadn’t been sure that her connection with him wasn’t in some way dependent on the threat of Sir Freddie. That that threat somehow ranked more prominently in her mind than it did.

The latch lifted; Tony entered. He’d taken it upon himself to see her brothers settled; Maggs would sleep in their room, just to make sure.

A smile curved his lips as he paused, studying her, then, smile deepening, he came toward her.

“Stop!” She held up a hand. “You’re still dripping. Take off your clothes.”

His brows quirked, but he obediently halted. “As you wish.”

The purr in his voice was distinctly predatory, the speculation in his eyes equally so. She inwardly grinned, turned back to the fire, and continued to dry her hair.

But the instant he was naked, she rose, crossed the few steps to him. Holding his gaze, with the towel she’d been using on her hair in one hand, with her other hand she whisked the towel she’d wrapped about her free.

One towel in each hand, she started to caress him, to dry him.

She tried to make him keep his hands to himself, but failed. Miserably.

Within minutes, their skins were hotter than the flames, their mouths and hands more greedy. Then she felt his hands close about her waist, his arms tense to lift her. She pulled back from their kiss. “No. On the bed.”

She’d never given orders, never taken the lead before, but he acquiesced, releasing her and drawing her to the curtained bed.

He held back the drapes, caught her eye as she climbed through. “How on the bed?”

She smiled, and showed him.

Had him lie flat on his back, and let her straddle him, let her take him in and ride him to oblivion.

She’d taken an hour to ransack his library; as she’d suspected, he had an excellent collection of useful guides. She had every intention of studying them extensively and putting the knowledge to good use.

As she did that night, lavishing pleasure upon him, taking her own from his helpless surrender. Hours later, when the fire had burned low and she lay exhausted, deeply sated in his arms, she murmured, “I love you. Not because you’ll protect me and our family, not because you’re wealthy, or have a wonderful house. I love you because you’re you—because of the man you are.”

He was silent for a long moment, then his chest swelled as he drew breath. “I don’t know what love is, only that I feel it. All I know is I love you—and always will.”

She lifted her head, found his lips and kissed him, then snuggled down in his arms, where she belonged.

He’d wanted a big wedding. At the Chase, with half the ton and all of the Bastion Club looking on. As he wished, so it was—the only person invited who sent his regrets was Dalziel.

Just over a week later, they all gathered to watch her walk down the aisle of the church in Great Torrington to take her place at Tony’s side. Her gown was a confection of ivory silk and pearls that Adriana, her bridesmaid, assisted by Fitchett, Mr. Pennecuik, and numerous others in London, had slaved over to have ready in time. About her throat, three strands of pearls glowed; more pearls circled her wrists and depended from her lobes—a gift from Tony, along with his heart.

As, meeting his black eyes, she placed her hand in his, gave herself into his keeping, she had no doubt which gift was the most precious to her, and in that moment, what was most precious to him.

With him, side by side, she faced the minister, ready and very willing to claim their future.

The ceremony ran smoothly; the wedding breakfast was held on the lawns of the Chase. Everyone from the staff to the Duchess of St. Ives threw themselves into the celebration, resulting in a day filled to overflowing with happiness and simple, unadulterated joy. The boys were in fine fettle; along with Miranda’s girls they dodged here and there among the guests, weaving laughter and exuberance through the throng, leaving benevolent smiles in their wake. The horrors of the wars still shadowed many minds; it was at moments like this that the future glowed most brightly.

Late in the afternoon, when the ladies had settled in chairs on the lawn to chat and take stock, their husbands, released from attendance, gathered under the trees overlooking the lake or wandered down to stroll the shores.

Together with Jack Hendon, who along with Geoffrey had stood as his groomsman, and the other members of the Bastion Club—Christian, Deverell, Tristan, Jack Warnefleet, Gervase, and Charles—Tony retreated to a spot in the pinetum from where they could keep the ladies in view but also talk freely.

The topic that interested them most was Dalziel’s absence.

“I’ve never seen him anywhere in the ton,” Christian said. He nodded toward the assembled ladies. “I’m starting to think if he appeared, someone would recognize him.”

“What I want to know is how he manages it,” Charles said. “He must be in similar straits as we, don’t you think?”

“It seems likely,” Tristan agreed. “He’s definitely ‘one of us’ in all other respects.”

“Speaking of which,” Jack Hendon put in, “what happened to Caudel once he was in Dalziel’s clutches?”

“Oh, he sang loud and long,” Charles replied. “And then sat in his library and put a gun to his head—only way left for a man of his name. Far less messy than a trial and the attendant flap.”

“Did he have any immediate family?” Gervase asked.

“Dalziel said a distant cousin will inherit.”

Tony looked at Charles. “When did you see him?”

“He called me in.” Charles grinned. “Seems this other sod who’s been using the war for his own ends has been active for the most part in Cornwall, from Penzance to Plymouth. My neck of the woods. He’s in the ministries, most likely the Foreign Office, and he’s apparently someone in the higher levels, someone trusted, which is what is most deeply exercising Dalziel. If Caudel was bad, this other has the potential to be even worse.”

“Has he been actively spying, or was it something more like Caudel’s racket?” Tristan asked.

“Don’t know,” Charles replied. “That’s one of the things I’m supposed to find out. I’m to go in and ask questions, creating the sort of ripples no self-respecting spy wants to know about, and then watch what happens.”

Christian grimaced. “A high-risk strategy.”

“But oh-so-welcome.” Charles glanced at the others, his dark blue eyes alight. “So now I must leave you and be on my way. I’m driving on to Lostwithiel tonight.”

He grinned, a touch devilishly. “Courtesy of our erstwhile commander, I have a gold-plated reason to escape London and the ton, and my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mama, who are all up for the Season and now fixed in town for the duration. Of course, they expected to spend much of their time organizing me and my future. Instead, I’m on my way home. Alone. There to sit in my library, surrounded by my dogs, put up my feet, and savor a good brandy.” He sighed contentedly. “Bliss.”

With a rakish smile, he saluted them. “So I must leave you to fight your own battles, gentlemen.”

They laughed. Charles turned away.

“Let us know if you need any help,” Jack Warnefleet called.

Charles raised a hand. “I will. And if you need to hide, you all know your way to Lostwithiel.”

The group under the trees shifted, broke up. Tony, Jack Hendon, and Tristan remained, watching Charles as he glibly made his excuses to Alicia and Tony’s mother, then deftly extricated himself from the clutches of the other matrons present.

As Charles headed toward the stables, Tony took note of his jaunty, cocksure stride. He glanced at Jack and Tristan, briefly met their eyes, then all three grinned and looked at their ladies—Alicia, Kit, and Leonora—heads together as they chatted in the sunshine on the lawn.

“I fear,” Tony murmured, “that Charles’s view of bliss is severely limited by his restricted experience of the state.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Tristan averred.

“True,” Jack said.

Tony’s grin widened into a smile. “He’ll learn.”

The three of them stirred and headed out onto the lawn.