“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.