A Gentleman's Honor

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