The solitude and fresh air were precisely what she craved.
After the door had closed behind Tony, she’d lain in bed for ten minutes before the insistent refrain playing in her brain had prodded her into action. Ringing for Bertha, she’d washed, dressed, and joined Miranda and Adriana in the breakfast parlor.
Miranda and Adriana had been busy organizing their morning’s engagements; she’d excused herself on the grounds of a slight headache and her need for a quiet walk to refresh herself. Accepting her excuse, the other two had left to get ready to visit Lady Carlisle; she’d climbed to the schoolroom and checked on her brothers, then quit the house, Maggs at her heels as per his “master’s orders.”
She’d accepted his escort with equanimity; she’d grown quite fond of the unprepossessing man. Interpreting his orders to watch over her literally, he’d retreated to stand beneath a large tree, now some distance away, leaving her to her thoughts.
Which were what she’d come to the park to confront.
It—her present tack—wasn’t going to work. She’d thought her best way forward was to adhere strictly to her position as Tony’s mistress and not wish for more, to rein in her dreams and accept what she’d been given, what he’d freely offered. But that view was fatally flawed— last night had proved it, had illustrated the truth beyond doubt.
The connection between them, so much more, so much stronger than any mere physical link, was not compatible with, would not remain constrained within, the bounds of the relationship of a nobleman and his mistress. Their connection was a vital thing, a living force in and of itself; it was growing, burgeoning, already demanding more.
Last night, she’d nearly told him she loved him, had had to fight to swallow the words. Some night soon she’d lose that fight. One way or another, the truth would out—in toto, there was more to it, more depths, more aspects than even that powerful fact.
She might already be carrying his child; it was too early to know, yet the possibility existed. In the beginning, she’d assumed he’d know what to do, would take precautions, yet he hadn’t, nor had he expected her to. If she’d been shocked by her wanton behavior last night, her reaction to the idea of bearing Tony’s child had only confirmed how little attention she’d paid her to her latent hopes, aspirations, and dreams. Until now.
In her heart, and now very clearly in her mind, she knew what she wanted. The question facing her was how to get it; leaving matters as they were was, she now accepted, no longer an option.
Drawing in a breath, she lifted her head and looked unseeing at some distant trees. She’d taken serious risks to secure Adriana’s and her brothers’ futures, boldly gambled and won. It was time to act in pursuit of her own future—to realize the dreams she’d never allowed herself to dream but which Tony had brought alive.
She would speak with him. She felt her chin set. Just as soon as A. C. was in custody, she would talk to Tony, explain how she felt about them, about their future. How he would react was the risk, the unknown, yet… she had his declaration of love to lean on, and, indeed, more. Their connection itself; through it she sensed how he felt, his need, even if he didn’t consciously acknowledge it. In time, he would recognize the truth as she had, and reassess as she had, and adjust.
Grimacing, she looked down. She would be gambling that their love truly was as she saw it—a huge risk, yet one she felt compelled to take.
The thud of footsteps approaching over the grass reached her. Looking up, she saw a footman in plain black livery striding purposefully her way.
Glancing to the left, she saw Maggs, leaning against the tree trunk, come alert, but as the footman halted and bowed, Maggs relaxed and resumed his unobtrusive watch.
“For you, ma’am.”
The footman proffered a note. She took it, opened it, read it, and inwardly cursed. Chickens were coming home to roost thick and fast. Sir Freddie Caudel most formally and politely requested an interview.
She looked across the lawn to the black carriage drawn up on the gravel drive. With a sigh, she tucked the note into her reticule. “Very well.”
The footman bowed and escorted her to the carriage. Maggs, closer to the carriage than she, remained where he was, half-obscured by the tree.
Reaching the carriage, the footman opened the door and stood back, clearly expecting her to enter. Puzzled, she looked in, and saw Sir Freddie, dapper and urbanely elegant as usual, sitting inside.
Smiling easily, he half rose and bowed. “My dear, I hope you’ll forgive this unusual approach, but for reasons that will become clear as we talk, I wished to speak with you in the strictest privacy. If you will do me the honor of sharing my carriage, I thought we might roll around the Avenue—it’s quite peaceful at the moment—and conduct our discussion in relative comfort, out of sight of prying eyes.” He smiled, his pale gaze somewhat rueful, gently humorous, and held out his hand. “If you would, my dear?”
Inwardly sighing, she gave him her hand; gathering her skirts, she climbed into the carriage. Sir Freddie released her and she sat opposite him, facing forward. Sir Freddie nodded to his footman. The man shut the door; an instant later, the carriage started slowly rolling.
“Now.” Sir Freddie fixed her with a calmly superior smile. “You must let me apologize for this little charade. I’m sure you understand that, given the nature of my interest and thus the reason behind my request for an interview, there would be nothing more unappealing to me than in any way whatever giving the gossipmongers reason to wag their tongues.”
Alicia inclined her head; from her experience, now extensive, of Sir Freddie’s circumlocutory periods, she knew it was pointless to try to rush him. He would get to his peroration in his own good time. Nevertheless…“Now we are here, you perceive me all ears, sir.”
“Indeed.” Sir Freddie returned her nod. “I should also explain that I did not think it appropriate, in the circumstances, to call at Torrington House.” He held up a hand as if to stem a protest she hadn’t made. “I’m quite sure I would be treated with all due consideration, indeed graciousness, however, I am aware that Manningham is an old and valued friend of Torrington’s.” Sir Freddie paused, as if weighing that fact anew. Eventually, he said,
“Suffice to say I deemed it impolitic to call on you there.”
Again, she inclined her head and wondered how long he would take to come to the point. Given that point—his offer for Adriana’s hand—she turned her mind to finding the words with which to refuse him.
Sir Freddie rambled on and on; his voice, polished, light, his accents refined, was easy on the ear. Smoothly, he described his current position, his reasons for looking for a wife, then moved on to Adriana’s manifold charms.
The carriage suddenly rocked, the wheel dipping in a pothole; mildly surprised that such a thing existed on the fashionable carriageway, Alicia refocused on Sir Freddie’s eloquence, and discovered he was still describing, in phrases both flowery and convoluted, just what it was about her sister that had attracted his notice.
Counseling patience, she folded her hands in her lap, and waited. Her mind slid away… she imagined Maggs, under his tree, watching the carriage go around and around the park…
Instinct flickered. The carriage blinds had been drawn from the first, she’d assumed to prevent the interested seeing Sir Freddie speaking with her. The carriage rocked again; the blinds swayed—and she caught a glimpse of what lay outside.
It wasn’t the park.
She looked at Sir Freddie as the sounds outside registered. They were traveling down some major road, not one lined with trees, not even with shops, but with houses—a road that led not into the city, but out of it.