A Gentleman's Honor

“No.” He sounded serious; she glanced up. “Should I have?”

He was fiddling with a lock of her hair; he met her gaze, after a moment, replied, “There’s no need to tell anyone, not anymore. It doesn’t concern anyone but you and me.”

She considered, then resettled her cheek on his chest. She listened to his heart beating strongly, steadily, and told herself all was well.

Only it wasn’t.

It took her until her fourth day in Torrington House to realize what was wrong, what was increasingly troubling her, converting nebulous unease into a more tangible fear.

In addition to Hungerford’s delight at her presence, the open acceptance by the grandes dames and hostesses of her sojourn in Upper Brook Street had allayed her concerns on one score. Contrary to her beliefs, it clearly was acceptable for a nobleman’s mistress to reside openly under his roof, in certain circumstances. She assumed the ameliorating circumstances included that she was a fashionable widow of whom society approved, that Miranda was present, and that A. C. had attempted to use her as his scapegoat.

Regardless, her initial fears on that point had proved groundless; society took her relocation in its stride. So did everyone else—except her.

Only she was having difficulties, and that in a way she hadn’t foreseen. At first, when Miranda had consulted her over this and that, deferring to her suggestions on the menus, the maids, the day-to-day decisions of managing the large household, she’d assumed Miranda was merely trying to ensure she felt at home.

But on the third morning, Miranda threw up her hands. “Oh, stuff and nonsense—this is all so silly. You’re hardly an innocent miss with no experience. Here”—she thrust the menus at her—“it’s only right and proper you should be handling this, and you don’t need my help.”

With a brilliant smile, Miranda rose, swung her skirts about, and left her to deal with Mrs. Swithins alone. Which, after swallowing her amazement, she did; it was transparent Mrs. Swithins fully expected her to.

From that point, the servants openly deferred to her. From that minute she became, in all reality bar the legal fact, the lady of Torrington House.

Tony’s wife.

It was a position she’d never thought to fill; now, she found herself living it. Bad enough. The associated development that transformed the situation into a deeply disturbing, unsettling experience was something she not only hadn’t foreseen, but hadn’t even dreamed of.

On the fourth morning, the truth hit her like a slap.

Since she’d moved into his house, Tony left her bed only minutes before the maids started their rounds. That morning, she rose from her disarranged couch, only to feel the dragging effects of real tiredness. The first weeks of the Season were packed with entertainments, morning, noon, and night; she, Adriana, and Miranda had attended six events the day before.

When Bertha appeared, she retreated to the bed, and let the little maid tidy away her evening gown. “We’ve a luncheon at two o’clock—I’ll dress for that, but now I’m going to rest. Please tell Mrs. Althorpe and my sister that I’m still sleeping.” If they had any sense, they’d be doing the same.

Bertha murmured sympathetically, efficiently tidied, then with a last whispered inquiry if she wished for anything else, which Alicia denied, the maid whisked out.

Left in blissful peace, Alicia snuggled down, closed her eyes. She expected to fall asleep, there was after all no urgent matter awaiting her attention, nothing she need worry about…

Her mind emptied, cleared—and the truth was suddenly there, abruptly revealed, rock-solid and absolute. Inescapable and undeniable.

Being the lady of Torrington House was the future her heart truly craved.

The revelation rocked her.

Lying back in the bed, she stared up at the silk canopy and tried to understand. Herself. How, why… when had she changed?

The answers trickled into her mind. She hadn’t changed, but never before had she allowed herself to think of what she wanted for her own life; she’d spent her life organizing the lives of others, and had deliberately spared no thought for her own. Intentional self-blindness; she knew why she’d done it—it had been easier that way. The wrench of sacrificing dreams… one never had to face that deadening choice if one never allowed oneself to dream at all.

Looking back at her younger self, to when she’d made that decision… she’d done it to protect her heart against the harsh reality she, even in her relative naivete, had foreseen. But she was no longer that naive young girl trembling, trepidatious and alone, on the threshold of womanhood, weighed down by responsibilites and cares.

She hadn’t changed so much as grown. She was now experienced, assured. Her own actions in formulating and successfully carrying out her plan, and all that had flowed through her association with Tony, had opened her eyes, not just to what might be, but even more powerfully to who she was and what lay within her. Her own strengths, her own will, her abilities.

Beneath all ran a belief, a conviction, in her right to her own life—and a determination, quiet, until now unrecognized and unstated but definitely there, to seize what she wanted.

With the position of Tony’s wife hers in all but name… the role fitted her like a glove, soothed her by its rightness, fulfilled some deep-seated yearning, an unrealized but essential, fundamental part of her.

That was what she wanted.

Her breath caught; a vise tightened about her heart. Her determination didn’t waver.

Yet she was his mistress, not his wife.

He’d said he loved her. Her French was not good— she’d never had time to do more than learn the rudiments; he often murmured phrases during their lovemaking that she couldn’t make out, yet she felt confident she hadn’t misheard or mistaken those particular words.

She even believed them, or at least believed that he believed them.

What he meant by them was another matter.

Marriage had never been part of their arrangement. Just because she now yearned for it, wanted it—and not just because he got along so well with her brothers and had the wherewithal and character to guide and support them precisely as she’d always wished—just because she now realized that marrying him would satisfy every dream she’d never allowed herself to have, she couldn’t now turn back the clock.

Couldn’t now expect him to think in those terms just because her eyes had been opened. Shouldn’t be so naive as to read too much into a simple declaration of love. Pretending to herself would be the ultimate folly, the ultimate way to break her heart.

When Bertha returned at one o’clock, she rose, washed, and dressed. Calmly serene, she went downstairs and threw herself into the social round.

A note arrived from Christian Allardyce just as Tony was about to embark on another round of balls and parties at Alicia’s side. Also gathered in his front hall waiting for the coach to be brought around were Adriana, Geoffrey, and Miranda. Lady Castlereagh’s was to be their first port of call.

Tony scanned the note. Christian wrote to suggest they should meet at the Bastion Club to review progress. Tony surmised that the others—Christian, Charles, Tristan, Gervase, Jack Warnefleet, and even Jack Hendon—were keen to use the investigation as an excuse to avoid their social obligations.

Even with Alicia’s presence as reward, he, too, felt the temptation. For men of their ilk, balls were boring, pointless, and severely drained their never very deep reserves of civility. They’d spent the last decade avoiding fools— why change their ways now?

Noting Alicia, beside him, watching him, he handed her the note. While she read it, he glanced at Geoffrey. If it hadn’t been for the little chat they’d had that afternoon, he’d be irritated by Geoffrey’s and Adriana’s total absorption in the how and where of their nuptials; luckily, Geoffrey had had no argument with his assertion that he and Alicia should marry first, even if by no more than a week.

Given the way Geoffrey was watching over Adriana, as if determined now he’d won her no other would get close, it was clear he, at least, would resist the lure of the investigation.

Tony turned to Alicia as she looked up from the note.

“Are you going?”

He looked into her green eyes, hesitated. “If you would prefer I escort you to the balls tonight, I can put off the meeting until tomorrow.”