She was his. Totally, completely, beyond recall.

The words drifted of their own volition across Alicia’s brain.

Her body, trapped beneath his, thighs vulnerably wide with him buried so deep inside her, was no longer hers.

Her lips curved in sleepy satisfaction. No matter her thoughts, her will, her determination, logic had no place here. Despite all uncertainty, despite the nebulous unease that even now she could sense, a fog hovering just beyond the bed, even now, despite all, her heart rejoiced.

Lifting the hand he hadn’t claimed, she laid it on his hair, then gently stroked. Let her fingers play among the silky strands.

Let her emotions have their way.

Let them well, and fill her mind, fill her throat and her chest, fill her heart, and overflow. Let them slide through her veins and sink into her flesh, a part of her, forever.

He lay heavy upon her; she delighted in his weight. Within her, the warmth of his seed radiated a glow of deep and abiding pleasure. She’d given him all she was; tonight, he’d taken, claimed, but when she’d wanted and needed, he had surrendered and given, too.

No matter what else the days might bring, tonight, he’d been with her.

As totally hers as she’d been his.

The gentle tangling of Alicia’s fingers in his hair drew Tony back to earth. To a world that was almost as wonderful as the one they’d visited; her body was a sensual cushion beneath him, her breasts beneath his chest, her hips and thighs cradling his, their bodies still intimately joined.

He was more comfortable than he’d ever thought to be, not just in body but on all other levels. Physically, mentally, emotionally, he was at peace, at home in her arms. Where he was meant to be.

His satisfaction was so profound it was frightening. It lay like a golden sea about him, deep, timeless, ageless, weighing on his limbs, soothing his mind, infinitely precious.

Eyes closed, he savored it, held it, let its waves lap about him—and tried not to think of ever losing it.

Eventually, he felt forced to stir, to draw back from that contented sea. Lifting from Alicia, he ignored her sleepy protest; she seemed as addicted to the moment as he. Settling beside her, he drew her to him, against him, brushing aside her long hair so he could see her face. He looked into her eyes, shadowed pools, mysterious in the night.

Marry me tomorrow.

The words burned his tongue; all the reasons he shouldn’t say them—not yet—doused them. Instead, bending his head, he touched his lips to hers, and spoke from his heart.

“Je t’aime.” He breathed the words across her lips; closing his eyes, he tasted them. “Je t’adore.”

He wasn’t even conscious of speaking in French; it had always been the language of love to him.

She touched his cheek, returned his kiss, soft, clinging.

Their lips parted; he drew breath, softly asked, “Is everything here as you wish? If there’s anything you need—”

She stopped him, laying her fingers across his lips. “There’s nothing—everything’s perfect.” She hesitated, then added, “I like your house.”

They were speaking in whispers, as if not to disturb the blanket of shared pleasure that still surrounded them. It was the deepest part of the night, the small hours of the morning, yet neither was sleepy. Sated, content, they lay in each other’s arms, limbs tangled, hands occasionally touching, brushing, stroking.

Time drifted, and with it the tide of their loving. It slowly turned. Returned. Alicia didn’t think, but simply flowed with it, knew he did the same.

Effortless. Their communication in that moment needed no words, no careful phrases. It was carried by their hands, their lips, mouths, tongues, every square inch of their bodies.

They moved over and around, worshipping, first one, then the other. Pleasure bloomed, ecstasy blossomed.

He opened her eyes to pleasures she hadn’t imagined, sensual delights beyond her ken. In turn, she set aside her inhibitions and let instinct and his guttural murmurs of appreciation guide her.

When at last they joined and again crested the final peak, and found the now-familiar splendor waiting, they were again together, senses open yet wholly merged, deliberately and completely one.

Later, when they lay spent, exhausted, in each other’s arms, Alicia heard his words echo in her mind. I love you. I adore you.

She wondered if he’d understood her reply.

Tony sank toward sleep, sated to his toes, his mind unfocused. Thoughts drifted, melted into the fogs as they closed in.

He’d told her he loved her, had said the words aloud. He’d surprised himself; he’d always imagined they would be so hard to say.

They’d slipped out, almost without conscious direction, a statement of fact with which he had no argument.

So easy. Now all that remained was to organize their wedding.

They were one step away from identifying A. C. One step away from being free to face their future, to give it their full and undivided attention.

If he had his way—and he was determined he would— the next time they indulged as they just had, they would be in his big bed at Torrington Chase, and Alicia would be his wife.

The following days passed in a frenzy of activity—social commitments on the one hand, covert investigation on the other.

To Alicia’s relief, the staff at Torrington House truly were, as Tony had told her, delighted to have three boys rampaging through the house. Once she realized how safe, secure, and cared for the boys now were, with so many benevolently watchful eyes on them, she relaxed her vigilance—one item she didn’t need to worry over.

She had plenty of others on her plate.

One was a lovers’ spat between Adriana and Geoffrey. It blew over in twenty-four hours, but left Alicia, the recipient of both principals’ outpourings, feeling battered. The event precipitated the long-desired meeting between Geoffrey, Adriana, and herself. She and Adriana made their financial situation crystal clear; Geoffrey looked at them as if they were mad, and then asked why they’d thought he would care. Without waiting for an answer, he formally offered for Adriana’s hand. Adriana, somewhat stunned by his unwavering singlemindedness, accepted him.

Alicia retired, pleased, relieved, but wrung out. They all agreed that any announcement should wait until Geoffrey had written to his mother in Devon and taken Adriana to meet her. On all other counts, Alicia felt justified in leaving them to plan their own future.

When, later that night, she regaled Tony with a description of the meeting, he laughed, amused. Later still, when she was lying sated and warm in his arms, he murmured, “Did you tell him you weren’t a widow?”

“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 naïveté, 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.