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.”