The Edge of Desire

Chapter 5

Later that evening, deliberately later than a gentleman would normally call on a lady, Christian rapped on the door of the house in South Audley Street.

Mellon opened the door and promptly looked scandalized.

Christian ignored him and walked in. “Please inform your mistress that Lord Dearne requests a few minutes of her time.”

Mellon blinked, then recalled himself and bowed. “Ah…I believe her ladyship has already retired, my lord.”

All the better to rattle her. “I doubt she’ll be abed yet.” Christian looked down his nose at the obsequious Mellon, then raised one brow. “My message?”

Flustered, Mellon turned to the drawing room. “If you’ll wait in-”

Christian strolled toward the front parlor. “I’ll wait in here.”

Mellon dithered, then surrendered and flapped away toward the stairs.

Smiling intently, Christian walked into Letitia’s domain and looked around. On the end of one sofa table, a candelabra still burned, bathing the silk rug in golden light and shadows.

The sight brought the phantom scent of jasmine back to his senses. Tightened his belly and his groin.

He drew in a breath and looked around the room, and felt her there, around him. While he waited-he knew she wouldn’t hurry-he studied her things, searching for some insight into how she’d changed in the twelve years they’d been apart, but there was nothing he saw that seemed in any way different. More intense, more powerful, more well-defined, perhaps, but in all respects she was still the same Letitia Vaux he’d fallen completely and irrevocably in love with more than thirteen years before.

She’d grown, matured, but she hadn’t changed.

Presumably that meant that the same rules applied-that the ways he’d used to deal with her in the past would still work.

He had to learn more about Randall, and most especially about Letitia’s marriage to the man. Whatever else Justin Vaux was, he was sharply intelligent; he had to have had some compelling reason to believe Letitia had killed Randall. Christian needed to learn what that reason was in order to do what Justin had obviously felt needed to be done-protect Letitia from suspicion.

That was his logical, rational reason for what he was about to do.

His emotional reason had nothing to do with Randall’s murder, but everything to do with his marriage.

“He’s what?” In her bedchamber, seated before her dressing table mirror, still in her black gown but with her long hair tumbling about her shoulders and back, Letitia turned to stare at Mellon.

“He said he’d wait in the front parlor.” Mellon all but sniffed. “Quite at home he seemed.”

Letitia felt her temper stir. “I daresay.” Turning back to the dressing table, she set down her brush. She held her own gaze in the mirror for an instant, then said, “Tell him I’ll see him in the library. Show him in there, and shut the doors to the front parlor.”

In the mirror she watched as Mellon, his lips pinched in disapproval, bowed and withdrew.

Her lips quirked; ironic that in this she agreed with Mellon. If he could have told her how to avoid Christian Allardyce, now Marquess of Dearne-a nobleman accustomed to getting what he wanted and ensuring he always did-she would happily fall in with any plan.

But she knew how futile running from a large and powerful predator was; he would only pursue her all the more intently. And from past experience she knew that if pushed, he could, and would, act with a supreme disregard for convention every bit the equal of her own.

They were who they were; society’s rules only applied if and when they chose.

As the door closed behind Mellon, her dresser, Esme, engaged in laying out her nightclothes on the bed, straightened. “Do you want me to go down with you, my lady? It is late, and you being so recently widowed and all.”

Letitia glanced at her and smiled fondly. Esme, whom she’d brought with her on her marriage, tall, lanky, and rather severe, but an excellent dresser, was the only servant in the household she trusted. “Thank you, but no.”

Whatever Christian had in mind, she had a strong notion she would need privacy to deal with him. “Lord Dearne probably has more questions.”

She could imagine he would have. When they’d parted the previous night, her temper had been on edge, hard and bright, sharpened by disappointment that he’d actually followed through on his plan to use her vow to give anything in return for Justin’s safety to try to hurt her. To in some small measure pay her back for what he thought she’d done. To make her want him again, and then perhaps deny her.

Regardless of what his plan had been, she’d refashioned it in a way that had resulted in an interlude she could accept. What had been between them was still there; she hadn’t been entirely surprised that that was so.

As for the power of it…that had been both a surprise and a delight.

She’d slept better last night than she had for twelve years. Not since the night she’d seen him off to the wars.

And the sight of him afterward, the way he’d just lain there-as if sensually flabbergasted-had gone a long way toward salving any slight she might have felt. All in all, last night had gone far more her way than his.

Which almost certainly explained why he was waiting downstairs in the library.

Not the front parlor; she was far to fly to the nuances of place to let him use the lingering echoes of last night to distract her.

He’d stood by her side at the funeral that afternoon, but in public, on such a somber occasion, they’d exchanged only the barest greetings. He’d been nothing but unfailingly supportive; she’d leant on his arm, and been grateful he’d been there.

By now, however, he’d be champing at the bit, wanting to know everything. Ready to demand she tell him all that she was well aware he didn’t know-all she still had no intention of telling him.

Years ago he’d made his decision-and by that made his bed and hers, and made them separate. Now he’d come back from the life he’d chosen, but if he thought, with Randall conveniently dead, she’d blithely open her heart to him again, he would learn he was mistaken.

Pride was one of the few comforts left to her, pride that regardless of her wishes, she’d done the right thing.

She wasn’t about to let him take her pride from her. Wasn’t about to explain to him what his long ago decision had wrought. Wasn’t about to-ever-let him know what that decision had cost her.

How many heartbroken days and nights.

How many lonely years.

The sudden swell of emotion snapped her back to the here and now, to her reflection in the mirror.

She studied her eyes, then deciding she’d made him wait long enough, she considered her hair, debating whether to wind it up into a quick knot. She was otherwise fully dressed, gowned, hooked and laced.

Her hair down, a silky, shining, shifting veil, would distract him more than it would her. He’d seen it down before, usually rippling over her nakedness.

She smiled approvingly and rose.

She glanced at Esme. “Don’t wait up for me. Dealing with his lordship might take some time.”

Unhurriedly, she left the room and headed for the stairs. A vivid memory of when they’d first met swam across her mind. As she started down, she recalled, and felt her lips curve.

She’d been barely sixteen. He’d been twenty-two. They’d met at a local fair; they’d seen each other over the bric-a-brac stall. Their eyes had met-and that had been that.

He’d been atrociously handsome, even then. The sight of him in his guardsman’s uniform had literally made lesser women swoon. While she’d never done anything so maudlin, seeing him standing tall and proud, the wind ruffling his light brown hair, she’d certainly understood her weaker sisters’ affliction.

For her, however, looking hadn’t been enough.

It hadn’t been enough for him either.

In rapid succession they’d become acquaintances, then friends, then sweethearts. He wasn’t always in the country; he was often called away. But every time he returned, their connection only seemed stronger, more definite, something that linked them each to the other and grew with every passing day, regardless of whether they were together or not.

Needless to say, they’d spent every moment they could together.

But they hadn’t become lovers until nearly a year later, when he’d come home and then come north to tell her that his upcoming assignment would see him on the Continent for some considerable time. That he was going into danger had been implicit; she hadn’t needed to be told.

It had been she who’d grasped the moment, who had pulled him down into the hay in the old barn and insisted he educate her in the ways of passion.

Not that he’d fought all that hard, but she’d been well aware that she couldn’t leave it to him to initiate any intimate link. Men like he had certain lines they wouldn’t cross, and seducing her-even though he’d intended eventually to marry her-had been one of those lines. While she was usually a stickler for honor, in that instance she hadn’t seen the point.

Even now, after all the lonely years of nursing a broken heart, she still couldn’t find it in her to regret those passionate moments, those long interludes over one glorious summer when she’d given him not just her heart-that had already been his-but her body and her soul.

The memories still burned bright; for long moments they held her.

Then she blinked, and realized she’d halted outside the library door.

Drawing in a deep breath-girding her loins-she reached for the doorknob.

Only to have the door swing open.

Christian stood there, frowning down at her. “I presume you’re intending to join me at some point?”

She struggled to keep her lips straight. He would have heard her footsteps approach, then stop outside the door.

Thankfully, he didn’t know what had held her immobile.

With the faintest lift of her brows-she could do arrogant every bit as well as he-she glided past him into the room. And saw the book open on the table beside one of the armchairs by the hearth-instantly appreciated the scene he’d set, that he’d expected her to walk into-he calmly reading while waiting for her.

Memories of them in flagrante delicto had ruined his preparation.

The Fates, she decided, were on her side tonight.

Halting before the fire, she turned to face him. “You have more questions, I assume?” Chin high, she locked her eyes on his.

Saw the exasperation that swam through the gray orbs.

Christian didn’t bother to hide his frustration. He needed answers-answers he was well aware she wouldn’t want to give.

And she was stubborn, and intractable, and ungovernable, and generally uncontrollable. He’d tried to set the scene so she’d be at least a little off-balance. Instead she’d already evened the scales. “I had a surgeon I know examine Randall’s body. What he found showed that, contrary to all assumptions, Randall was killed by a single, relatively weak blow to the back of the head.”

“The back?” She saw the implications in a blink. “So…the person who was in the other armchair, sharing a drink with him.”

“That’s my interpretation. Others might have a different view.”

She frowned. “What different view?”

“That you killed Randall, and that later Justin delivered the blows to Randall’s face in order to conceal your involvement.”

She paled. “I didn’t kill Randall.”

He nodded. “I know. But Justin thought you did. At the very least he believed you might have.” He trapped her eyes. “Let’s assume Justin came upon Randall already dead. Dead of a relatively weak blow to the back of the skull from the poker conveniently nearby, a blow a tallish woman-you, for example-could easily have struck. We know Justin had heard you and Randall arguing-violently as usual. When he came upon Randall dead, he instantly jumped to the conclusion that you’d killed him-and set about covering up what he thought was your deed.”

She was frowning more definitely now, following his argument, not, he noticed, protesting his reasoning.

The hope grew that, in her need to find her brother, she would answer the myriad questions crowding his brain.

He moved closer, so he was standing before her, a little to the side so he wasn’t directly confronting her; he’d try persuasion first. “Why did Justin believe you had killed Randall?”

She glanced at him, puzzled, met his eyes-but her puzzlement wasn’t over Justin’s reason, but that he’d done what he had. She saw him searching, and refocused-recalled his question, and put up her shields. She looked away. “I have no idea.”

He looked down. The rug beneath their feet wasn’t anywhere near the quality of the one in her parlor. “Letitia.” He tried to keep his tone even, patient. “It’s patently obvious that the rift between you and Randall went far deeper than his views on Hermione’s future.”

“And that, my lord, is none of your business.”

Her tart accents had him looking up-directly into hard hazel eyes.

“If Justin was so misguided as to believe I might have-in a fit of Vaux temper, no less-killed Randall-and yes, I accept that it appears he did just that-then presumably he had some reason. When you find him, you might try asking him-not that I imagine he’ll share details of my private life, not with you.”

He felt his lips thin, felt control and success slipping from him. “Letitia-”

“Don’t you ‘Letitia’ me.” Her eyes narrowed to shards. She faced him directly. “You have no right to demand to know details of my marriage. You gave away that right years ago.”

No, he hadn’t. She’d taken that right away from him. He felt his face set, clamped down on his temper. “That’s not how I recall it.”

She opened her eyes wide. “It isn’t? How do you recall it, then?”

The flagrant challenge hit him like a gauntlet in the face. “Like this.” He caught her arms, yanked her to him and crushed her lips with his.

She resisted-tried to hold firm, passive, against him-for all of two heartbeats.

Then the fire that, apparently, never stopped smoldering between them leapt to life. Hungry and greedy, eager for more, heightened and strengthened by the previous night’s encounter.

Wanting more.

To his immense relief, she did. She made no secret of her desires, let them rise to meet his freely, slid deeper into his arms, pressed against him, and invited.

Satisfaction. Satiation. Consummation.

He knew that was where they were headed, that it was already impossible to change their course-that there was no real reason, at least none in his overheated brain, they should. She was a widow, and he was free. There was nothing to prevent them from indulging the passions that flared so hotly, so powerfully, between them.

But tonight he had another goal he hoped to achieve along the way. Passion was, in his experience, the only force strong enough to override her stubbornness. The only lever he could use to get her to tell him something that, for whatever incomprehensible reason backed by her feminine will, she refused to divulge.

So he gave her what she wanted, but held part of himself back. Enough to remain in control. Such as control was when they were together like this, wrestling in the flames.

That’s what it felt like, all greedy hands, heat and fire. Igniting at a touch, built by each passionate caress until it spread like wildfire beneath their skins. And they burned.

He waited until they both were-then waited some more.

Waited while he sat her on the edge of the big library desk, bared her breasts, then tasted his fill.

Until she was gasping; until, head back, she was clutching his head to her, reveling in his skill, in the increasingly hot caresses he pressed on her. He hadn’t been celibate for the last five years-not since he’d discovered she’d married. He’d learned a few things she didn’t know in that time, things he was very ready to share with her.

Things that would put her in the state most conducive to him getting some answers.

She was sitting on her gown, effectively encasing her legs and hips in stiff bombazine. He touched her through the fabric, caressed until she moaned, then with a scorching kiss-one that nearly cindered his plans-she made her wishes known.

In response he eased her off the desk, propped her against it, then drew her skirts up as he went to his knees before her. She blinked down at him, her eyes heavy with desire and clouded with lust, arched a brow when he caught her gaze. He inwardly smiled, knowing she’d relish the sight of him on his knees before her. She’d relish the sight even more when he was done.

He lifted her heavy skirts up and back, exposing her long, long legs; running his hands up the long curves from her calves to her hips, he pushed the skirts high, then tucked the fabric behind her so it was trapped by her hips against the desk’s edge-out of his way.

So that the only veil between him and the curls at the apex of her thighs was her filmy silk chemise. He ran his hands up beneath it, and she shuddered.

He looked up and saw she’d closed her eyes; a line of concentration furrowed her brow. He let his hands explore her jasmine-scented skin, the swells and hollows he’d first claimed so long ago; he hadn’t taken the time-had had no time-to reacquaint himself with them last night.

Tonight he took his time, until she grew restless. Until her hand tightened in his hair and she settled against the desk, parting her thighs. He glanced up at her, caught a glittering glimpse of gold and green from beneath her lashes. He smiled, and accepted her invitation, watching her face as, with the backs of his fingers, he lightly stroked the crisp curls at the apex of her thighs, then turned his hand and slid his fingers into the haven between, and caressed. She closed her eyes. He found her entrance and circled, time and time again, until her breasts were heaving, until her fingers tightened painfully in his hair. He slid one long finger into her, penetrated her to his full reach, then stroked slowly out. The tension holding her didn’t ease, but her grip on his hair did. He pressed in and stroked again, and eased closer.

Letitia shuddered. Pleasure spilled down her veins in a never-ending stream, one he continuously fed. The sight of him supplicant at her feet went some way to deadening her irritation with him-this, once again, wasn’t supposed to have happened.

But it had, and she wasn’t about to argue. Wasn’t about to deny herself the pleasure he and only he could give her.

Especially as he was so intent, and so assiduous, in doing so.

He knew how to pander to her senses; he clearly hadn’t forgotten. He knew just when to wait, when to take, when to demand. When to command.

Her hand in his hair helped keep her upright as the telltale tension, all fire and bright, glittering sensation, built and rose inexorably within her-fed, expertly orchestrated, by his caresses, explicit and increasingly intimate.

Then he grasped her thigh and parted her legs farther. She felt him shift. A shiver of expectation slid down her spine as she waited for him to rise, to lift her and impale her.

Fill her.

Instead she felt the rough rasp of his beard on her inner thigh, simultaneously felt his hair brush her belly, through her hand on his head realized he’d pressed his face closer.

Then she felt his tongue and realized why.

“Christian!”

She fought to lift her lids, managed to crack them open a sliver, enough to look down and see…

On a moan, she closed her eyes again. Let her head fall back, felt her fingers clench in his hair.

As he did diabolical things to her with his tongue. With his mouth and his teeth and that wicked tongue made love to her there.

Her senses stretched, expanding to take in the novel sensations, her body, her nerves, greedily rejoicing.

He knew what he was doing-knew how to wind the sensual rack he’d placed her on tighter and tighter until she thought she would shatter, only to ease off, let the tension slacken, draw her back from that glorious edge just enough to keep her from falling over.

And then he’d push her forward again. Stoke her fires, build the sweet tension until she was just about to-

His mouth left her. His breath washed over her swollen flesh as he breathed, “Did Randall ever treat you to this?”

She frowned. “Of course not.” Then she realized and amended, “He wasn’t…” In the end, she gestured. She couldn’t think well enough to lie.

His wicked tongue rasped slowly over where she was most tender and she gasped. “Accomplished?”

“Much of a lover. For God’s sake-”

“Is that what you held against him?”

“No.” She struggled to open her eyes, to drag air into her parched lungs so she could tell him what she thought of his methods of interrogation, but no doubt sensing her intent, he went to work with his mouth again, and she couldn’t find the strength.

Couldn’t fight her way free of the drugging sexuality, the sheer eroticism of his actions, especially once he brought his hands and clever fingers into play as well.

Then he drew back to suckle, oh so gently, on the delicate bud just beneath her curls, at the same time testing, teasing, the entrance to her sheath with two large blunt fingertips.

“But you did dislike Randall.” He made the statement quickly, while changing the angle of his attack.

She decided no answer was required.

Another minute of excruciatingly exquisite pleasure passed, then he lifted his head. “Why was that?”

He had her balanced on the cusp of the storm, on the bright sharp edge of the peak of oblivion. She had to tip over, had to have that one last touch-

She opened her eyes and looked down into his, breasts heaving as she dragged enough air in to say, “I didn’t dislike Randall. I hated him. With an absolute passion.”

A passion as strong as her love for Christian, but that she kept to herself.

She glared as well as she could. “Satisfied?”

His lips curved-intently. “For now.”

Between her thighs, he shifted his hand, thrust his fingers deep-and she shattered.

Finally, finally, finally.

Letting her head fall back, she gloried in the waves of intense pleasure that rolled through her, sharp, bright, primitively right. She didn’t question that last, simply acknowledged it.

He rose to his feet, caught her as her knees buckled, supported her when she slumped against him, and with his hand still buried between her thighs, spun the pleasure out and out, until it faded.

She sighed and settled against him-waited for him to release his erection and take what he wished of her, take his pleasure in her, slake his desire for her.

Instead he held her trapped between his hard, aroused body and the edge of the never used library desk; bending his head, he whispered against her hair, “Why did you hate Randall?”

She let her lips curve but kept them shut. That was one question she wasn’t going to answer. Would not answer, no matter what he did.

No matter what state he reduced her to.

When she said nothing, he cajoled, “Leti-tia,” drawing her name out as he used to do.

Rather than learn what he might try next-and as she still needed a moment more to regain control of her limbs-she informed him-teased him with, “Justin was right. I would happily have killed Randall if I’d been the sort of person who killed people. And while I wouldn’t do anything so scandalous as to dance on his grave-although the temptation did occur to me this evening-I certainly won’t be shedding so much as one tear on his tombstone.” She paused. “Which reminds me-I better order one.”

Raising her hands to Christian’s upper chest, she pushed, leaning back as she did so she could see his eyes. “Shall we get on with this?”

The look he gave her was that of a man pushed too far, but she knew how to fix that. How to circumvent any inclination to argue or question her further.

Bracing one hand on the planes of his chest, she lowered the other, flicked the buttons at his waist free, slid her hand into his trousers and curled her fingers about his hard length.

His jaw clenched. She could see him debating how long he would let her play before he again took charge. She smiled, leaned into him, moving him back a fraction, then sank down.

To her knees, just as he had.

Locking both hands around his heavy member, she admired her prize-then opened her lips and applied them to the blunt head of the thick shaft, lightly licked, then slowly slid her lips down, taking him in as she’d heard the act described, hoping she was doing it correctly.

From the sound that strangled halfway up his throat, given the way his hand clutched in her hair and held her rather than pushed her away, she wasn’t far wrong.

She’d heard about this years ago, had had more than a decade to fantasize about having him at her mercy. Now at last she had him where she wanted him, she wasn’t about to let him go without learning a great deal more.

Without confirming firsthand what drove him to desperation.

She set herself to that task with her customary enthusiasm.

Christian couldn’t breathe. Both his hands had lowered to tangle in her hair. The desk beside him gave him some support; without it he might have collapsed in shock, in complete and totally unexpected sensual overload.

Her mouth on him there…he’d never even imagined it. Not all ladies were aware of the act, nor keen to devote themselves to a man’s pleasure in that way.

Letitia clearly saw advantages-he should have known she would, but he hadn’t thought…couldn’t think…

Her tongue curled around him and he heard himself groan.

Her small hands found his sac, weighed, toyed, then caressed-and he knew, despite the carnal delight, that he couldn’t-wouldn’t-last much longer.

He fought to give her as long as he could, to take the delicious torture, but then she became more intent, and he had to slip a finger between her luscious lips and prise them from him.

Pull her up against him, grasp her hips and hoist her up.

She needed no directions; she wound her long legs about his hips, angled her hips and sank down as he thrust up. He buried his aching erection in her heated sheath, felt her stretch and take him in, then cling. Clutch. Caress.

They’d come together in this fashion on long ago nights, in illicit interludes in darkened parlors and gardens. In gazebos and conservatories.

Memories rolled through him, but they couldn’t dim, couldn’t touch, the glory of the moment. She arched, head high; hands on his shoulders she rose up on him, then her eyes locked on his and she slid down, down, taking him all as she lowered her head and brought her lips slowly down on his, wound her arms around his neck-and surrendered.

Let him have her as he would.

Let him lift her, then slowly impale her again, let him battle desire and need to drag the moments out, to savor her body in all its feminine glory freely yielded.

In that instant she made him hers again, totally captured his soul again, for as her green-gold eyes, heavy-lidded with passion, met his, there were no barriers, no shields, no screen to veil the reality that shone in their depths.

He held her steady and rocked into her; her lids fell and he thrust again, deeper, filling her completely.

Thrust again and felt the mouth of her womb.

Felt it and her sheath contract, felt the ripples of her release caress his entire length, held his breath, tried to rein in his galloping heart to cling to the moment for just an instant more, but she pulled him over, took him with her.

They shattered together, tumbling headlong into the abyss of satiation.

Warmth surrounded him as it never had with any other woman. Her warmth, her fire, her passion.

All he’d craved for the last twelve years, and she was in his arms once more.

He slumped back against the desk, holding her in his arms, unable to move, too sated to care.

Letitia eventually stirred. She could, she knew, grow seriously addicted to the feeling of golden pleasure, the inevitable sensation of aftermath she always experienced with him, flowing like sweet honey through her veins.

Such an addiction would not be wise.

But she didn’t see any harm in gorging on what he freely offered.

Of course, he’d thought he would get answers to his questions by reducing her to mindless, quivering need. So she’d given him answers, much good would they do him.

She should be furious, but the revelation that she could, if she wished, sweep him away-sweep aside his control and reduce him to mindless, quivering need-went a long way toward dousing her temper.

Indeed, as she wriggled and he obliged and, moving very carefully, disengaged and set her on her feet, she couldn’t help feeling a trifle smug.

Unfortunately, her limbs were still too exhausted-wrung out and boneless-to support her; she wobbled, but he grabbed her, gathered her in and settled her against him. Feeling strangely like purring, she nestled against him and let contentment claim her.

Let her mind assess where they now were, and what she should say, how she should go on.

Eventually, summoning every ounce of censure she could lay her tongue to, she coolly informed him, “Your inquisitorial methods did not impress. Don’t try to question me like that again. And just to make sure we’re quite clear on the matter, there will be no more payments of any sort until you find Justin.”

She paused, thought, then frowned. “Incidentally, in light of the down payments and incentives you’ve already received, have you learned anything yet?”

Christian inwardly sighed. With one hand he absentmindedly readjusted his clothing while he told her about Tristan and their inquiries. “Tristan called around this afternoon.” He glanced at her face as he said, “Did you know your brother is no longer-indeed, may never have been-the profligate rake he’s purported to be?”

She frowned in quite genuine puzzlement. “No.” She met his eyes. “What have you-or your friend-heard?”

“It appears that, sometime since coming on the town, or thereabouts, Justin has…turned over an unexpected leaf. He’s in reality highly circumspect in his associations, and conservative to a fault, especially with money.”

Because he was watching, Christian saw the comprehension flare in her eyes-at the mention of money. But the Vaux were wealthy, always had been. They were major landowners, in similar circumstances to himself. “It appears,” he continued, “that with Justin there’s no gambling, that he’s not the least interested in frittering away his patrimony as the bulk of his peers are. Admittedly none of his friends couch it in miserly terms, but rather that he simply isn’t interested in losing large wads of cash, and they can’t recall that he ever was. He also seems to have developed a monkish attitude to women, not complete abstinence but…”

Still studying her face, he summed up Tristan’s and his own findings. “Justin seems to have taken a very mature line from a relatively early age. As if something happened that shocked him to his senses much earlier than is the norm.”

She reacted to his guess that there’d been something-some event she knew of-that had affected her brother as he’d described; he saw speculation light her eyes.

Equally saw her expression close as she shuttered herself against him.

Shutting him out, despite what they’d just shared.

Despite the fact he was searching for Justin.

He caught her gaze, asked anyway. “Do you have any idea what happened to make Justin…so different from what one might expect?”

She looked at him and baldly stated, “No.” She was lying, and knew he knew she was.

Before he could say anything more, she drew back out of his arms, shook her skirts into place, then, buttoning up her bodice, calmly walked away from him.

Toward the door.

She spoke as she walked, facing away from him. “I’m sure you know your way out by now. Do lock the door behind you.”

His lips thinned. “Letitia.” He waited until she paused, but she didn’t look back. “Whatever you and Hermione do, don’t forget about Barton.”

“He’s still out there?”

“Yes. I spotted him when I came in.”

“He’s obsessed.”

“Very possibly. Catching Justin would help his career.”

She hesitated, then inclined her head, still without looking back. “I’ll bear that in mind-and warn Hermione.” She proceeded to the door. Opening it, she went through; turning, she looked back at him as she reached for the doorknob. Met his eyes across the room. “Good night.” Her lips curved slightly. “Sleep well.”

He narrowed his eyes on the door as, quietly, she shut it.

Dealing with the Vaux had never been a simple matter.

Throughout the next day, Christian devoted himself to finding Justin Vaux, and tried his damnedest to keep his thoughts from Justin’s infuriating sister. Infuriating, and enthralling.

The following morning he set off for South Audley Street early. Reaching Randall’s door, he strode past it, then crossed the street to where he’d spied the top of Barton’s head; the man had ducked into the area beside a house’s steps to avoid his gaze as he’d scanned the street.

Halting on the street above the crouching runner, who’d taken refuge on the steps leading to the house’s basement, he mildly inquired, “If I might ask, what do you think you’re doing?”

A moment ticked past, then Barton heaved a put-upon sigh and stood. He had to look up to meet Christian’s eyes. “I’m keeping a close watch on the deceased’s house. On the scene of the crime.”

Christian studied the unprepossessing man. “And by doing so you hope to achieve…what?”

Barton tried his best to look superior. “It’s a well-known fact among us runners that, more often than not, the murderer returns to the scene of the crime.”

“You believe that?”

“Indeed, m’lord. You’d be surprised how many villains we catch simply by being patient and keeping a solid watch.” Barton eyed him a touch suspiciously. “’Specially in the night hours. People tend to think no one will recognize them in the dark.”

Christian held the man’s gaze and let his brows slowly rise. “Is that so? Well in that case, as to Randall’s house, you can expect to see me coming and going rather a lot-in the nighttime as well as during the day.”

“Be that as it may, m’lord, we haven’t figured you for this crime.”

“No, but one might imagine my presence in the house might deter the villain.”

Barton frowned. “No saying what villains will do, but the way I see it, chances are Lord Justin Vaux will try to speak with his sisters. I plan to be here when he comes calling.”

Recognizing that nothing was likely to dissuade the runner from continuing his watch, Christian wished him luck and left.

Returning to Randall’s house, he knocked on the door. When Mellon opened it, he walked in. “Are the ladies down yet?”

Mellon took his cane with reluctance but was forced to admit, “Yes, my lord. But they’re just sitting down to breakfast.”

“Excellent. I’ll join them. You may announce me.”

Mellon clearly wished he had some other alternative, but accepted the inevitable and did so.

Letitia greeted him with a sparkling gaze-one of anger, although not directed at him. She waved him to the chair beside her, barely waiting for him to exchange greetings with her aunt Agnes and Hermione, the other two at the table, before informing him, “I went belowstairs this morning looking for my dresser, and discovered that runner in the kitchen, talking to Mellon as if they were old friends, and scrounging breakfast while he was at it!”

Which explained why Mellon had quit the room the instant he’d finished announcing Christian, all but sliding past him in the doorway.

Engaged in scrounging breakfast himself, Christian asked, “As I found Barton in the street just now, I take it he beat a hasty retreat?”

Letitia glowered. “He did once I’d finished with him.”

Christian helped himself to the ham Agnes passed him. “He apparently swears by the old saw that the murderer always, eventually, returns to the scene of the crime.”

Addressing herself to a mound of kedgeree, Letitia sniffed. “So I gathered.”

They all ate for some moments in silence. Then the footman returned with a fresh pot of coffee. Letitia dismissed him once he’d set the pot down. “Please close the door after you, Martin.”

The instant the door clicked shut, she looked at Christian. “Have you found Justin?”

She’d kept her voice low.

Christian shook his head. Sitting back, he set down his knife. “We’ve searched in all the likely places and found no sign. Last night it occurred to me that I might have been going about our search the wrong way.”

She frowned. “How so?”

By not taking sufficient account of Vaux intelligence. Something he’d been guilty of in other respects. He picked up the coffee cup Agnes had filled for him; she and Hermione were as eager as Letitia to hear his report. “As I said, we’ve been hunting for your brother everywhere one might expect to find him, to no avail.” He took a sip of coffee, then caught Letitia’s eye. “I thought perhaps it was time to ask where the very last place you’d think to find him would be.”

Hermione, also frowning, said, “You mean the place he’d be least likely to go?”

Christian nodded.

Letitia’s face cleared. She exchanged a glance with Hermione, then shrugged. “Nunchance. That’s the one place you can be certain he won’t be.”

Christian saw the light. “Yes, of course. I understand he’s had a falling out with your father.”

Letitia’s lashes screened her eyes. “You might say that.”

From her tone, he surmised it would be fruitless to ask why.

Puzzling over his words, she fixed him with a frown. “But I can’t see how that gets you any further. Justin definitely won’t be at Nunchance.” She hesitated, then-perhaps because he hadn’t asked-consented to explain. “My father has grown rather worse with the years.”

Recognizing the wisdom of telling him enough so he would understand that Justin really wouldn’t be at Nunchance Priory, their family estate, Letitia hunted for the right words. “Some years ago something occurred that set Justin at loggerheads with Papa. Unfortunately, my marriage to Randall only added to the tension. Rather than fading over time, as I’d hoped, that tension escalated to a major rift, to the point where now they can’t be in the same room without coming to verbal blows. No, even worse than that-flaming rows the like of which even our family hasn’t seen for generations.”

She held Christian’s eyes. “You know what they’re like. They’re quite capable of tearing strips off each other, lacerating and painful, and they’re equally stubborn, so there’s no hope of reconciliation because neither will back down.”

Reaching for her teacup, she shrugged. “Over the last years, Justin has only visited Nunchance at Christmas, and then only for a fleeting visit on the day, to see me and Hermione and the rest of the family. I honestly don’t think he and Papa have exchanged a civil word in all that time.”

Sipping her tea, she considered the possibility that Justin might have sought refuge at Nunchance-perhaps staying out of their father’s sight-but she couldn’t see him being that cautious. More specifically she couldn’t see him reining in his pride to that extent, enough to hide like a felon in his family home. She shook her head and set down her cup. “Wherever Justin’s gone, he won’t be at Nunchance.”

Turning her head, she arched a brow at Christian. “So what are you planning?”

He met her gaze briefly, then looked across the table-at Hermione. Her sister remained oblivious, busy slathering marmalade on her toast.

“I have various avenues to pursue-I’ll let you know if I hear anything promising.” His gray gaze returned to her face. “Incidentally, everything we’ve uncovered about your brother’s life since we last spoke has confirmed his…somewhat novel direction. Far from being a wastrel and a hellion, he’s a son to make any father proud.”

Letitia merely nodded, wondering where he was heading with that comment-where he was trying to lead her.

He held her gaze, unhurriedly searching her eyes. “You don’t seem all that surprised that Justin should be the antithesis of his reputation.”

Ah. That was where he was heading. She smiled. “As a loving older sister, I can only rejoice at his exemplary sense.”

“Indeed. But you also know why Justin is as he really is.” He arched a brow at her. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me?”

She held his gaze, then shook her head. “Knowing that won’t help you find Justin.”

“I see.” Christian smiled easily and inclined his head. “In that case, ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to the hunt.”

He rose, bowed to Agnes, nodded to Hermione, then looked at Letitia.

Frowning, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

He looked down at her, let his smile grow edged. Softly replied, “You knowing that won’t help me find Justin.”

Her mouth dropped open, then she shut it with a snap and glared at him.

Unperturbed, he saluted her, then turned and walked out of the room.

Entirely confident that she would work out where he was going soon enough-and that she would follow.

He set out an hour later, driving out of Grosvenor Square in his curricle with his pair of prime chestnuts between the shafts. The long drive north was very familiar, yet the necessary tacking to get out of London’s crowded streets, then threading through the traffic clogging the Great North Road-the mail coaches, the wagons and drays-commanded his attention, so that despite the length of the journey, he had little time to think.

His ultimate destination was Nunchance Priory, but he wanted to time his arrival there, so he’d decided to stop at his home, Dearne Abbey, for the night.

He pulled up in the graveled forecourt as twilight was taking hold. His staff were ecstatic to see him.

“I’ll have your room ready in a jiffy, my lord.” Mrs. Kestrel, his housekeeper, all but rubbed her hands in glee. “And Cook set a roast on the spit the instant we heard you were back.”

Christian acknowledged her enthusiasm with an easy smile, then turned to his steward, hovering hopefully at the mouth of the corridor leading to the estate office, and gave himself up to business.

Later, he dined in solitary state-there was no one else, not even a distant impecunious cousin, in residence-then he elected to climb the stairs to the long gallery to reacquaint himself with the extensive, uninterrupted views across the fens to the Wash.

The view at the best of times was a lonely one. Mile upon mile of low, flat fields with the sea a distant silver-gray glimmer on the horizon. What houses there were were cottages, built low and largely swallowed by the never-ending fields.

The abbey was built at the very edge of the fenland, on a slight rise, with its back to the limestone cliff that marked the boundary of the low lying land. The house dominated its surroundings, a large Palladian mansion of perfect proportions built on the old abbey ruins by his grandfather.

Christian stood at one long window and looked out across the fields, into the deepening twilight. He owned much of what he could see, highly fertile land that guaranteed his and his family’s financial future.

Yet the huge house around him lay empty. For the first time since returning from the Continent and properly taking up the mantle his father had bequeathed him, he felt the weight of it. Sensed in his new life, as in this house, a lack, a hollowness wrapped in elegant calm, peaceful, serene, but empty.

Barren.

Folding his arms, he leaned against the window frame and looked out as the light faded and night slowly crept across the land.

This house-his house-was waiting. Ready, in perfect condition, fully staffed with people eager to serve. Yet he’d made no move to claim a bride, to bring her there, and start a family that would-once again-fill the corridors with laughter and gaiety.

The house was made for that, for an active, bustling family. Something his aunts, Cordelia and Ermina, would certainly remember with fondness, and look forward to seeing again.

That was what lay behind their disapproval, increasingly severe, of his continuing unwed state. They’d offered to help, of course, but when he’d refused, politely but categorically, they’d been wise enough to desist; stubbornness wasn’t solely a Vaux trait.

Not surprisingly, that thought brought Letitia to mind. Into his mind, filling it.

For long moments she was with him again; she was the only woman he’d ever envisaged there-standing beside him, her arm linked with his, looking out over his fields.

She was the only woman he’d ever imagined making a life with-making a family with.

The only woman he’d ever wanted in his bed-there or at Allardyce House.

He’d known the truth years ago, and it still remained true. She was the one his heart and soul desired.

Unbidden, the dreams he’d had of them long ago rolled back into his mind, dreams he’d spent years embellishing, building them, clinging to them through all the long years he’d spent deeply embedded in an alien culture, an enemy land. They’d been his inner refuge, his strength.

The emotions wound into those dreams roiled through him, unexpectedly intense. Reawakened and given new life by his recent hours with her, the her who’d stood at the center of those lost dreams.

For they’d been false…as had she.

His reaction to that fact was as violent as it had ever been. He still didn’t understand how, or why, she’d done as she had.

All that mattered was that she’d married Randall.

And killed his dreams.

Lowering his arms, he went to push away from the window frame, but stopped.

Looked out across the quiet night and wondered how much he still wanted those dreams.

She was now a widow; she still responded to him as she always had.

He no longer knew what she felt for him-something, certainly, even if it wasn’t what he’d thought. She hadn’t been in love with him as he’d been with her.

But did that matter?

The truth was…

For long minutes more he stood looking out unseeing, wrestling with the question of how much he was willing to give-to bend, to forgive, to accept-to recapture a semblance of those long-ago dreams.