“I slept in,” she replied to Adriana’s questioning look. It wasn’t a good excuse—she never slept in—but it was all she could think of. Reaching for the teapot, she poured herself a cup. She sipped, relaxed, then realized how hungry she was. Ravenous, in fact.
Jenkins came in, and they discussed the boys’ lessons for the coming week while she polished off a mound of kedgeree.
When Jenkins departed, the boys in tow, Adriana frowned at her. “Well, you’re obviously not ailing— there’s nothing wrong with your appetite.”
She waved the piece of toast she’d started nibbling and reached for her cup. “I just slept longer than usual.”
Adriana pushed back her chair and rose. “You must have been dreaming.”
Recollection flashed across Alicia’s mind; she nearly choked on her tea.
“Are we still going to Mr. Pennecuik’s warehouse today?”
She nodded. “Yes—we must if we’re to make those new gowns.” Setting down her cup, she picked up her toast. “In twenty minutes—I have to check with Cook before we go.”
The rest of the day passed in the usual busy fashion; she hadn’t before noticed how little personal time she had, private time alone in which to think. If she and Adriana weren’t out, attending some function or event, then some member of the household would want to speak with her, or her brothers needed supervising, or…
She needed to think—she knew she did, knew she ought to stop and consider, and get her mind in order for when next she met Tony. She’d taken a major step, turned a hugely significant corner—one she definitely shouldn’t have turned, perhaps, but she’d willingly taken that road; it was clearly imperative she stop and take stock.
All that seemed obvious, yet when she finally found herself alone in her room, bathing, then dressing for the evening, she discovered her mind had a will of its own.
When it came to all that had passed in the night, and in the small hours of the morning, while she could recall and relive every moment, every detail, her mind flatly refused to go any further. It was as if some dominant part of her brain had decided those events were in some way sacrosant, that they stood as they were and needed no further examination. No dissection, no analysis, no clarification. They simply were.
It was, indeed, as if she’d stood at a crossroads, and now she’d gone around the corner, she couldn’t see where she’d been. Which left her facing forward along a road she’d never imagined traveling.
Putting the last touches to her coiffure, she paused and studied herself in the mirror. She still looked the same, yet…was it something in her eyes, or maybe in her posture, the way she stood, that assured her, at least, that she was no longer the same woman?
She had changed, and she didn’t regret it. There was little in this world for which she’d trade so much as a minute of the time she’d spent in Tony’s arms.
Indeed, there was no point looking back. She was his mistress now.
And if she didn’t know what that new status would bring, or how to cope, she’d just have to learn.
She looked into her eyes for a moment longer, then let her gaze run down the sleek lines of the deep purple silk gown Adriana had designed and she and Fitchett had created. The heart-shaped neckline showcased her breasts without being obvious; the cut below the high waist made the most of her slim hips and long legs, while the small off-the-shoulder sleeves left the graceful curves of her shoulders quite bare.
Turning, she picked up her shawl and reticule, then headed for the door. Luckily, she learned quickly.
The cacophonous sound of the ton in full flight rose to greet Tony as he paused at the top of the steps leading down into Lady Hamilton’s ballroom. Her ladyship’s rout was one of the events traditionally held in the week before the Season began; society’s elite were almost to a man foregathered in town—everyone who was anyone would be present.
Looking down on the sea of bright gowns, of sheening curls, of jewels winking in the light thrown by the chandeliers, he scanned the throng, relieved when he located Alicia standing by the side of the room, Adriana’s court, some steps in front of her, partially screening her. Relief died, however, when closer inspection revealed that three of the gentlemen between Alicia and Adriana were not conversing with Adriana.
Jaw setting, he strolled with feigned nonchalance down the steps; cutting through the crowd, he made his way directly to Alicia’s side.
She welcomed him with a smile that went some way toward easing his temper. “Good evening, my lord.”
He took the hand she offered, raised it brazenly to his lips, simultaneously stepping close. “Good evening, my dear.”
Her green-gold eyes widened a fraction. His easy, languid smile took on an edge as, setting her hand in the crook of his arm, he took up a stance—a clearly possessive stance—by her side.
With every evidence of well-bred boredom, he glanced at the gentlemen who had been speaking with her. “Morecombe. Everton.” He exchanged the usual nods. The last man he didn’t know.
“Allow me to present Lord Charteris.”
The tall, fair-haired dandy bowed. “Torrington.”
Tony returned the bow with an elegant nod.
Straightening, Charteris puffed out his narrow chest. “I was just describing to Mrs. Carrington the latest offering at the Theatre Royal.”
Tony allowed Charteris, who appeared to fancy himself a peacock of sorts, to entertain them with his anecdote; he judged the man safe enough. Morecombe was another matter; although married, he was a gazetted womanizer, a rake and profligate gambler. As for Everton, he was the sort no gentleman would trust with his sister. Not even with his maiden aunt.
Both clearly had their eyes on Alicia.
Behind his polite mask, he took note of the undercurrents in the small group; focused on the men, it was some minutes before he noticed the swift glances Alicia surreptitiously cast him. Only then realized she was, if not precisely skittish, then at least uncertain.
It took a minute more before he realized her uncertainty was occasioned not by any of the three gentlemen before her, but by him.
He waited only until the notes of a waltz filled the room. Glancing at her, he covered her hand on his sleeve. “My dance, I believe?”
His tone made it clear there was no doubt about the fact; as he hadn’t previously spoken, it should be patently clear that her hand being his to claim was an arrangement of some standing.
Fleetingly meeting his eyes, she acquiesced with a gracious inclination of her head.
The glances he noticed Morecombe and Everton exchange as, with a polite nod, he led her away gave him some satisfaction. With any luck, they would move on to likelier prey before the waltz ended.
Reaching the dance floor, he drew Alicia into his arms, started them revolving, then turned his full attention on her. He studied her eyes, then raised a brow. “What is it?”
Alicia looked into his eyes; she felt her lips firm, but managed not to glare. I haven’t been a nobleman’s mistress before hardly seemed worth stating. And now she was in his arms, sensing again the familiar reactions—the physical leap of her senses soothed by the feeling of comfort and safety—her earlier worries over how she should react—how he would behave and how he would expect her to respond to him—no longer seemed relevant. “Have you made any progress with your investigations?”
That, at least, was something she could ask.
“Yes.” For a moment, he looked down at her as if waiting for her to say something else, then he looked up for the turn, and went on, “I heard from Jack Hendon this morning—he’s confirmed all that your brothers learned.” Glancing down, he met her gaze. “Incidentally, he was impressed—you might tell them.”