The Edge of Desire

Chapter 3

Christian spent the rest of that day trawling through the likely haunts Justin Vaux might have retreated to, innocently or otherwise. That Justin’s man had gone with him suggested a stay somewhere; when nothing came of inquiring at the obvious places-White’s, Boodle’s, Crockfords, and the smattering of other clubs a nobleman of Justin’s age and ilk might frequent-Christian turned to more serious scouting.

Later that evening, using the Bastion Club as a base, along with the support Gasthorpe provided by means of his small army of messengers and footmen, Christian sent out inquiries along the main highways out of London, especially those leading to the ports in the south and southeast, searching for some sighting of Justin’s curricle.

Since returning to London, he’d glimpsed Justin numerous times in the clubs, but hadn’t spoken to him. Letitia’s brother hadn’t made any effort to speak with him either, but courtesy of those vignettes gained across crowded rooms, Christian knew Justin had grown into his family’s legacy; few seeing him, even in a greatcoat, would forget him, and with his striking good looks, his height, and that hair, most could be counted on to remember if asked.

Unfortunately, as he discovered the next morning when he returned to breakfast at the club, no one recalled sighting Justin over the last days along any of the stretches of highway he’d targeted.

He was finishing his breakfast and mulling over his options when Tristan, Lord Trentham, another club member, strolled into the dining room. His eyes lit at the sight of the maps Christian had spread over the table. “Gasthorpe mentioned you were involved in something. Anything I can help with?”

Christian grinned and waved to a chair. “I didn’t expect anyone else would be in town yet.”

Sitting, Tristan sighed. “Lenore apparently needs new gowns, and of course she needs to check on her uncle and brother.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the house next door. “She’s over there at the moment, but then she’s heading to Bond Street.” He brightened. “So I’m at loose ends, and therefore yours to command.”

Smiling understandingly-all of them missed the action of their former lives-Christian gave him a brief outline of the issues surrounding Randall’s murder, omitting all mention of his previous association with Letitia.

Tristan saw through his ploy. “And you’ve been drawn into this because…?”

Christian held his gaze steadily. “I know the family of old. Our estates are in the same region.”

Tristan studied his face, then smiled. “I see.”

But to Christian’s relief, he said nothing more.

Transferring his attention to the maps, Tristan asked, “Where have you searched so far?”

Christian told him.

After some discussion, pooling their contacts they organized a network of more detailed inquiries, effectively drawing a tight circle around London. After dispatching Gasthorpe’s messengers, Christian surveyed the map and their lists with grim satisfaction. “That, at least, should tell us whether he’s left town, or has gone to ground somewhere within our circle.”

Tristan met his gaze. “You think he’s hiding?”

Christian nodded. “Yes, I do. What I don’t know is why.”

That evening, Letitia attended a select soiree at the home of Lady Lachlan, one of her multitude of connections. A family gathering, more or less. Garbed all in black with a filmy veil shading her features, she relentlessly projected the stance she wished to establish-that while she would pay all due observance to the ton’s sensibilities regarding mourning dress, that while she would not dance, nor indulge in any other form of entertainment, she had absolutely no intention of hiding herself away.

Aside from all else, hiding herself away wouldn’t help Justin.

Events such as this provided her only real opportunity to gauge what the gentlemen of the ton thought. Unfortunately, as she quickly discovered, they, one and all, had followed the ladies’ lead.

“Dreadful business,” Sir Henry Winthrop, a distant cousin, opined. “Can’t think what got into Justin’s head.”

“Justin’s head?” Letitia looked perplexed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Sir Henry blinked, then smiled avuncularly and patted her wrist. “I don’t suppose you do, m’dear. Not the sort of thing a gentlewoman should think about, heh?”

Before she could disabuse him of that ludicrous notion, he was hailed by someone from across the room; excusing himself, he left her side.

The younger gentlemen were even worse.

“That temper, you know. Always thought it would get the better of him one day.” That from a Lachlan acquaintance.

The reply, from Mr. Kenneally, an Irishman known for his dissolute ways, “I heard he can be quite ferocious when roused. No holding him,” left Letitia literally speechless.

When Christian unexpectedly appeared by her side, she fell on him as the only safe outlet for her increasing ire.

“They’re making Justin sound like a madman!” Facing Christian, she fought to keep her voice down. “The way they’re talking, it’s as if the infamous Vaux temper is an affliction. A prelude to insanity!”

Christian eyed her cynically. “The family, you included, have been perfectly content to be known as the vile-tempered Vaux for generations. You can’t expect people to suddenly forget.”

She sent him a glittering glance. “You know we’re not that bad.”

“Yes. But then I know the Vaux rather well.” The subtle emphasis he placed on the latter words might have had her blushing, but through the veil he couldn’t tell. “It was your great-grandfather who started it, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and he truly was a bona fide terror. From the stories my grandfather related, he must have had the most vicious tongue known to man. Not that my grandfather was all that much better, but by all accounts he was an improvement. My father, as you know, could never be described as a comfortable person, but no matter how verbally violent we might be, we’re not-never have been-physically dangerous.”

“Except when you throw things.”

“We never throw things at people, and our aim is good. You can’t ask for more.” She dragged in a breath. “But none of that-the truth-seems to matter!”

Clutching his sleeve, she swung around and pointed at a youthful gentleman. “Do you know what Finley Courtauld said?”

Through her grip on his arm, Christian sensed just how strung up she was. She proceed to relate numerous comments either made to her or that she’d overheard, all confirming the ton’s solidifying belief that Justin Vaux had, in a fit of the famous-or infamous-Vaux temper, beaten his brother-in-law to death.

Her own temper was not just showing but spiraling-to a dangerous degree.

He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve, squeezed until she stopped her escalating rant and looked at him. When she did, he said in a perfectly even voice, “You’re feeling unwell. Come-I’ll take you home.”

Through the filmy veil she narrowed her eyes at him; her lips had firmed into a thin line.

He returned her gaze steadily; they both knew that if she remained in Lady Lachlan’s drawing room and continued in her present vein, she would risk reaching the stage where her temper slipped its leash and took over.

And they both knew how histrionically violent, how dramatic and sensational, the outcome was all but guaranteed to be.

She humphed, and looked across the room, locating their hostess. “Only because I can’t afford to create a scene at this moment, on this topic.”

“Indeed,” he replied dryly. “The ton really doesn’t need a demonstration of just how violent-verbally or otherwise-a Vaux can be.”

She humphed again, but consented to be led across the floor, to make her farewells, rather brittlely, to Lady Lachlan, then to walk with him into the front hall, where they waited while her carriage was fetched.

Although Letitia preserved a rigid silence, he knew that her temper, once aroused, wasn’t that easy to deflect. To douse. The Vaux temper didn’t respond to logic, reason, or control, not once a certain point was reached, a point she’d already passed. There were a few distractions that would work, but although one-the most effective-occurred to him, given their public location, it wasn’t a viable option.

When he handed her into the carriage and then sat beside her, he could sense the storm building within her, increasingly potent for being suppressed.

She waited until they’d started rolling to release it. “I can’t imagine why everyone-simply everyone-is being so willfully obtuse! Can’t they see…”

She ranted and raved, calling into question the mental acuity of a sizable portion of the ton, ruthlessly stripping bare their foibles, exposing all, the shallowness and jealousy, to a relentlessly clinical verbal dissection.

Much of what she said was correct. She was a highly intelligent observer of her world, and her memory for minor details of people’s lives was remarkable in its depth and clarity. He sat back and listened, knowing she needed nothing more than the occasional monosyllable from him.

The journey to South Audley Street wasn’t long enough for her to run down. As the carriage slowed, then halted before her-Randall’s-door, she cut off her tirade, hauled in a huge breath and held it. Let him hand her down and escort her up the steps and into the house without a word.

He followed her into the front parlor.

She halted, half turned and cast a rapier glance back, not at him but at Mellon. Randall’s butler plainly recognized the signs of an impending explosion; he’d paled and remained hovering in the hall, making no attempt to come closer.

“You may retire.” She spoke quietly, slowly, each word bitten off. “I require nothing more from you tonight.”

Under her gaze-one promising all manner of dramatic retribution should he remain an instant longer-Mellon paled even more, bowed and scurried away, his alacrity testifying to prior experience of such unvoiced threats.

The instant he disappeared, Letitia made a hissing sound; swinging around, she stalked back to the door, slammed it shut, then turned to Christian. “Did you see? Outside? That ghastly weasel of a runner is across the road, still keeping watch.”

Raising a hand, she ripped off her veil, along with the comb anchoring it. She flung it on a chair. “I’d like to strangle Mellon”-she curled her hands as if fastening them about the butler’s neck-“for visiting this whole nightmare upon us. Then again, he has the intellect of a flea. Presumably he can’t help being a dolt. Regardless, I don’t know where the authorities’ brains are-how they can countenance…”

She paced, ranted and raved. Hands were flung freely, skirts were kicked out of her way, fingers were wagged and stabbed for emphasis.

Christian stood in the center of the parlor and watched the show. As always, he was the rock, unaffected by the storm, while she was the lashing waves, the fury and tempest. She circled him, all fire and brimstone, lightning and raw emotion. He waited, knowing she’d talk herself to a standstill, or at least to a point where her mind reasserted control and she refocused on the here and now.

He had time to study their surroundings. This was her room-the difference between it and the rest of the house, at least all the other reception rooms, was pronounced. This was Vaux territory, her domain, richly and sumptuously furnished, a feast for the senses. Two sofas faced each other across the fireplace; matching sofa tables across the back of each held large crystal vases filled with flowers. Other tables and two armchairs were arranged about the room. The candelabra and most ornaments were of gleaming silver. Silks and satins were the primary fabrics, the colors jeweled-toned blues and greens touched with gold-vivid and dramatic hues to create the perfect setting for a vivid and dramatic lady. The effect was of unabashed sensual luxury.

Yet her presence was restricted to this room. He wondered why.

Eventually she halted and frowned at the fabulous green and gold rug. Then she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes still sparked; her temper had yet to die. “And then there’s you.” Her lips curved, as cynical as he often was. “Playing your own game.” She swung closer, halting directly before him. She looked into his face, studied his eyes. “What have you learned?”

He arched one brow. Let a moment tick past before answering. “We finally found someone who saw Justin in his curricle in the early hours of the morning after Randall was killed. An ostler at an inn on the outskirts of the city-on the Dover Road.”

“Dover?” Looking down, she frowned. “There’s nothing at Dover.”

Other than the packet to Calais. Christian saw no value in stating the obvious.

She shook her head. “He won’t be going to Dover.”

Which, despite appearances to the contrary, was his-and Tristan’s-experienced conclusions. “We think he’s deliberately laying a trail to make it appear he fled the scene, and then the country.”

She looked up at him, still frowning. “He’s deliberately making himself look guilty?”

“That’s the way it…feels.” Instinct more than fact had informed his and Tristan’s opinions.

Her frown deepened. “But…why?” Swinging away, she flung out her hands. “Why do such a senseless thing?”

He had one very good idea, but it wasn’t wise to suggest it, given her still fraught state. His supposition was all but guaranteed to send her into another bout of histrionics, albeit aimed at her brother, not him.

She suddenly swung around and strode back to him. “We have to find Justin. We have to locate him wherever he is, and bring him back and exonerate him in the eyes of the authorities and the world.” Halting before him, even closer this time, eyes locked on his, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “You have to do something!”

He caught her finger.

She frowned, tugged, but he didn’t let go. Lifting her gaze to his eyes, she narrowed hers in a glittering, dangerous glare.

Which had entirely the opposite effect on him than she intended.

Through his hold on her hand, he could feel the tension thrumming through her. Her temper was another form of passion; her earlier outburst had opened the floodgates, leaving her passionate, sensual self very close to her surface.

It had been twelve long years since they’d been this close. He looked into her eyes, and saw desire and heat well even as her lips firmed.

“I think,” he said, refusing to let her hand go even when she tugged again, “that it’s time to discuss a down payment.”

He was playing with fire and he knew it.

Knew her fire all too well.

Had never forgotten it.

“Just for getting a sighting?”

He smiled intently. “Consider it an incentive to learn more.”

Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower; they gleamed like molten gold. With her hand trapped in his, no more than an inch separated them, separated the black bombazine covering her breasts from his chest.

“What, then?”

Her voice had lowered, her tone provocative, challenging, demanding. A tone that, despite all, certainly despite her intention, racked his arousal one notch higher.

She held his gaze. “What do you want?”

The answer was obvious. “A kiss.”

“A kiss?”

Her expression was, to him, transparent; she’d guessed his direction regarding payment correctly. She wasn’t surprised by his choice; instead, she was…

Angry all over again. He saw the flash of temper in her eyes in the instant before she wrenched her hand from his slackened grasp, snapped, “Very well,” reached up with both hands, framed his face, moved into him-and kissed him.

With all the passion her temper had stirred.

With all the heat, all the fire pent up inside her.

It was a relief to let it go. Letitia let every reservation, every barrier she had, all the walls she’d erected over the long years to bank her passion, fall. Simply fall to the ground.

Let all the yearning in her passionate soul free.

He wanted a kiss? Very well. She would give him one, one he wouldn’t soon forget, and gain as much as she gave-for one long moment revel as the woman she used to be.

His.

She wasn’t the least bit surprised when he reacted, when he wrapped his arms about her and hauled her against his chest. It had always been like that-her passion effortlessly igniting his.

His lips firmed, then he tilted his head, the kiss changed and he was in command, so he could part her lips and invade her mouth and lay claim.

And send her senses soaring.

Heat poured through her, welled and swelled and spread. She could feel it in him, that same helpless reaction, in the hot kisses he pressed on her, the scorching heat between them as he stole her breath, then gave it back.

Need and desire infused her, and him, there, potent and real in the hardness of his lips, in the grip of his hands on her back.

She would have laughed if she could have, thrown back her head in sheer joy. In the indescribable delight of feeling alive again, of feeling lust, desire, and physical need again.

Of being his again, for however short a time.

She grasped the moment voraciously, tunneled her fingers into his hair and gripped his skull, clung, hung on as they swirled in the spiraling vortex that had risen up and seized them. Frankly reveled in the knowledge that she could still lure him, could provoke the languid lion to action, and more, could still arouse him.

That last was beyond question. The hard ridge pressed against her belly was testament enough to his state. As were his increasingly hungry, nay ravenous, kisses.

She urged him on. Reached up and wound her arms about his neck, pressing against him in flagrant invitation.

Need flared deep inside. Hotter than she remembered, molten and greedy.

And suddenly the kiss wasn’t enough.

Dragging her hands from his hair, she pressed her palms to his shoulders, ran them slowly down his chest, savoring the heavy muscles that seemed harder, heavier, than she recalled.

She knew what it felt like to touch his skin, to feel it against hers. The memories surged, brilliant moments that had tided her over all the long years since. They erupted into her reeling consciousness, and compelled.

Then his hands were on her, closing about her breasts and kneading, sculpting her body, blatantly possessive, and she had to respond.

To his heat and his need and his desire.

To the passion he pressed on her through the kiss, through the commanding, demanding caresses that set her skin afire, that flayed her nerves with sensual pleasure, and an explicit promise of more to come.

She had to have that more.

Had to make him want as she did, make him desire as she did. To strip away the studied calm with which he faced the rest of the world and touch the real man-the warrior, the ruthless demanding conqueror-beneath.

The knowledge that she could had always thrilled-a thrill she’d never thought to feel again. But he was there, arms like steel trapping her, his lips on hers, his tongue plundering her mouth, his large hard hands sliding down to cup her bottom and shift her provocatively against him again…and nothing else mattered.

She pressed his coat wide, fell on the buttons closing his shirt, returned his kiss with a fervor to match his. To taunt, to incite, to demand.

And he gave her what she wanted, dropped every last shield and joined her on that primitive sensual plane on which they’d always danced.

She wasn’t even aware when they sank to the floor, to the silk rug that lay between the sofas.

Christian drew her down beside him. Thought had long flown. Instinct ruled.

In asking for a kiss, he hadn’t expected this-an explosion of need, his as well as hers, a raging fire in his blood he was unable to deny, to control, to even guide. A conflagration from which there was no drawing back.

She was the heat he’d been searching for, the warmth, the life. She was raw passion and need, a bright, slender, scorching flame he’d never been able to forget.

Yet he’d forgotten the danger of playing with fire.

She’d set him alight, and now he burned.

No other woman had ever been able to cinder his control, not in any circumstances and certainly never with just a kiss.

His only consolation was that on the plane of need they’d breached, she had no more control than he.

She wanted him with the same urgent scorching passion as he wanted her. In that, nothing had changed.

As he slid free the last button closing her bodice and yanked the fabric aside, slid his hand beneath and with a flick of his fingers dispensed with her chemise, and finally, finally, after twelve long years, set his hand to her firm flesh, she arched into him, then sighed.

So did he. For one finite moment he savored the silken skin beneath his palm, then she wriggled, urgent and demanding, and he bent his head and set his lips to her flesh-to taste and possess and drive her wild.

How long he managed to string out the heated moments, he couldn’t tell, but he doubted it was long; they were both too hungry-their passions too long denied-too desperate for all that they both knew could be to linger.

As he pushed up her black skirts and exposed her long legs, ivory pale and so familiar just a glimpse of them sent yet more heat racing to his groin, he didn’t even wonder whether she would stop him.

She’d found the buttons at his waistband, then she found him-and his world rocked. He paused, eyes closed, felt every touch of her too knowing fingers, their hungry, greedy stroking, felt her simple possession like a brand, not just on his skin but in his brain; head back, he groaned.

Heard the delighted chuckle she gave.

That acted like a spur, pricking sharp and deep, as she’d known it would. In this arena, they’d always wrestled for supremacy, and while he usually won, she held enough power in her Vaux soul, enough passion, to challenge him.

To provoke him as no other woman ever had. Ever could.

Even as he thrust one knee between hers, forced her legs apart and touched her, even as his fingers delved in her wet heat, stroked, then penetrated, then thrust more deeply-even as she gasped and clutched his upper arms, a supplicant surrendering to her master, breathlessly, wordlessly, begging him for more-he knew it was all illusion. That he was as much her slave as ever she was his.

He yielded to the urgent tug of her hands, yielded to his own raging desire, and moved over her, spreading her thighs and settling between.

The jolt to his memory of being there once again, his flanks clasped by her long, firm thighs, his hips cradled by hers, the blunt head of his erection bathed by the scalding heat of her welcome, might have been powerful enough to jerk him back to sanity, but she raised her hands and framed his face-and drew his lips down for a searing kiss.

Cindering any hope of rational thought.

Trapping him once again in their mutual conflagration. She shifted beneath him, and the flames roared.

He reached down, found her knee and lifted it to his hip, opening her beneath him.

Then he thrust in.

Thrust home.

Her body arched under his. She moaned, the sound trapped in their kiss; her body clutched his, tightly, then beneath him she melted.

A small climax, he realized, but he’d be damned if he let her escape with just that.

He needn’t have worried. The instant he started to move within her, each stroke slow, long and deliberate, she was with him again.

Although a touch surprised by the small explosion-just because he’d entered her, for heaven’s sake-Letitia had no intention of settling for just that. Now she had him exactly where her body craved him, she was determined to wring every last iota of pleasure from the event.

From the chance that had somehow materialized to give her senses, for so long starved, succor.

So she reveled in the sensations of him, so rigid and heavy, so incontestably male, moving within her. She met him and matched him, wound her leg about his hips and drew him still deeper. Gloried at his moan, at his surrender as he took every last inch she offered and filled her.

Opening her senses, she drank in, soaked up, every little pleasure-the weight of him pressing her to the floor, his hips pinning hers as he drove repetitively deep within her, his chest heavy against her aching breasts-a delicious ache she’d all but forgotten-his lips still locked over hers, his mouth still feasting on hers, his tongue mimicking his possession of her in a flagrantly erotic way.

With joyous greed she grasped every chance to let her rejected, shriveled, almost moribund passionate soul milk all it could from the encounter, all it could of what he and circumstance had conspired to deny her for twelve long years.

All his thirst for revenge and her dramatic temper had today, between them, unwittingly unleashed.

So she strove for no control; she simply wanted.

She made no effort to guide or direct; she simply urged him on. Urged him to ride her as hard as he would, as deeply as he wished, amazed to discover that he seemed as desperate, as driven, as she.

To revisit all they’d had. To touch the heat, the incredible flaming peak, again.

To at the end, all flushed skin and damp flesh, hands grasping, locking, fingers clenched, lungs so tight they burned, lips fused, mouths melded, blind and desperate searching for release, let desire wield its whip and drive them the last little way, to crest the peak together.

To together soar over the edge and into the void.

To fracture and fall, in passion’s embrace to let pleasure claim them.

To shatter them, and fill them.

With a golden glory she hadn’t felt for so long it made her weep.

Spent, he slumped upon her. She could feel his heart still racing, pounding in his chest, feel the tempo echo where they joined.

She drew a slow, shallow breath, then raised a hand, wiped the tear that had slid from beneath her lashes, paused. Then, hesitantly, driven by an urge she had no wish to name, she raised her hand to his hair and, tentatively, caressed. When he settled under the caress, her heart contracted. She continued, gently ruffling his hair, just as she used to.

A quiet, tender minute ticked past. His heartbeat gradually slowed; his breathing eased.

She wasn’t sure if what she felt was her parched heart shattering, or if the sensation in her chest was of that same parched heart, refreshed by the last moments, slowly swelling, returning to life.

The latter was unwise, and would most likely prove self-destructive, at the very least exquisitely hurtful. He hadn’t loved her, not as she loved him, and never had, no matter what she’d thought. It would be foolish beyond permission to imagine that had changed, especially given how he now thought of her.

Regardless, she could control her heart no more than she’d been able to control the passion of the last minutes.

Any more than she’d been able to control it all those years ago.

Finally, he stirred, withdrew and moved off her-only to slump heavily on his back alongside. Luckily, the silk rug was large.

Reaching down with one hand, she flicked her skirts down over her knees, not out of any sense of modesty-with him she had none-but because, with passion fading, the air felt cool.

They lay side by side staring up at the ceiling.

When he gave no sign of breaking the silence, she decided that, as his hostess, it fell to her to do so.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her voice was low, sultry-even more raspy than it usually was.

Christian felt more than heard the words, as if they were some damnable caress, stroking down his chest and lower. Inside, not outside; not stroking his skin but his very nerves.

Nerves she’d-they’d-just sated to an extent he hadn’t recalled as possible.

He felt her sidelong glance, knew she was waiting for him to make some response, but…he simply couldn’t find the words. Could barely find his brain, let alone assemble sufficient wit to have a coherent conversation.

Especially not with the scent of jasmine everywhere around him.

The physical vortex they’d created had been wild enough-mind-bending, senses-scrambling, shattering enough. But the emotional whirlpool it had left behind was…at least for now, more than he could cope with.

He felt battered, raked raw.

Her hand in his hair, gently stroking as she always had before, had shaken him to the depths of his soul.

Regardless, he knew he had to regroup, at least enough to take his leave.

She’d been studying his profile. She definitely seemed more well-grounded than he. From the corner of his eye he saw her lips quirk-recognized the fleeting smile as one of smug, feminine satisfaction.

Before he could summon the will to react, it faded. Her expression grew closed, shuttered.

He turned to look at her as she looked away.

And pushed herself to a sitting position.

She started to rebutton her bodice. “No one has ever claimed a Vaux failed to honor an obligation.” She glanced at him, briefly met his eyes. “I don’t imagine any Allardyce would either.”

Bodice closed, she swung her legs beneath her and got to her feet. She shook out her skirts, then met his eyes again.

Her lips had thinned. “Consider what just occurred as a significant payment against our account.” She straightened, and looked haughtily down at him. “Now you have to prove yourself worthy of your hire.”

The look in her eyes told him very clearly that she’d correctly divined, and was totally unimpressed by, his ill-formed intention of using her payment to exact some convoluted revenge.

One fine brow slowly arched; he was fairly certain she could, even now, read the few thoughts his brain had managed to assemble. He’d forgotten just how well she knew him.

“I’ll find Justin.” His voice came out as a resigned growl.

That infernal brow of hers arched higher. “Good.” With a crisp nod, she half turned toward the door. “You can see yourself out.”

When he made no further comment-in his present state unnecessary speech was beyond him-she merely raised both brows, swung on her heel and swept out of the room.

Leaving him lying in disarray on her fabulous silk rug.

He waited until he heard the door click behind her, then he groaned and sat up. Upright wasn’t much of an improvement; he still felt…stunned, blindsided, reeling.

He knew what he’d intended-just a kiss, a taunting, teasing one that would have left her wanting and reminded her of what she’d turned her back on.

He knew what had happened-she’d seized his intention and turned it back on him, and with typical Vaux disregard for safety had unleashed a maelstrom that had plunged them both back into the past.

Back into each other, and not just physically.

He knew what had occurred, even now could recall each stunning instant with startling clarity-feel her taking him in, even feel her hands on his overheated skin, burning him, branding him.

What he didn’t know was why.

And even less did he know what it meant.

She-they-between them had taken a step back through time, as if the intervening years hadn’t mattered. As if all that had happened in those years didn’t truly exist, not on the same plane.

As if all that had occurred in those years hadn’t affected what lay between them.

He didn’t understand how that could be so. She’d walked away from her promise to wait for him and happily married another man. When he’d returned briefly to assume his title after his father’s death, he’d heard that her marriage to Randall was widely regarded as a love match-there being no other explanation for a lady of Letitia’s birth and family circumstances marrying so far beneath her.

Yet tonight, on the exquisite green and gold silk rug in her parlor, they’d plunged into the past-and it-every moment, every touch, every gasp-had been exactly as it had been before.

If anything, even more intense than before.

Even to that moment afterward when she’d gently tumbled his hair.

Everything had been the same-yet given what had happened between then and now, how could that be?

Mentally shaking his head, he got to his feet and righted his clothes.

Then he headed for the door, dousing the candles as he went. The front hall was in darkness. He opened the front door, set the latch to lock behind him, and stepped out into the balmy night.

Walking home through the darkness helped clear his head.

By the time he reached his front door, he’d clarified at least two points.

While he didn’t understand what had happened, he intended to find out.

And although he’d intended the price for his services to be nothing more than, at the most, a fleeting liaison, he’d changed his mind.

Now, he wanted a great deal more.