The Edge of Desire

Chapter 8

Letitia wasn’t easily shocked, but when she woke the next morning to the inescapable sensations of a large, warm-not to say hot-male body spooned around hers, she very nearly leapt from the bed.

She did sit up. Struggling out from under a heavy arm, she stared, mouth acock, then looked across the room to the windows they’d left uncurtained-at the sunshine streaming in.

“Christian!” She jabbed his shoulder. When he didn’t respond, she jabbed his upper arm, leaning closer to hiss at him, “You have to wake up and go to your room!”

Over all the times they’d made love, she’d never spent the night in his arms. Never woken to find him beside her.

Exasperated-and not a little panicky-she jabbed again, and he moved-but only to wrap one huge hand about her fingers.

And draw her inexorably back down…

“No!” She tried to pull back, but had no purchase. “We can’t!”

He rolled over. Looking sinfully sleep-tousled, he cocked a lazy brow at her. “Why not?”

He continued to drag her closer, until, frustrated, she let herself tumble across his chest. All but nose-to-nose, she glared at him. “Because my maid will be here with my washing water and I absolutely refuse to be discovered in flagrante delicto with you in this bed.”

He smiled, slow, sensual, teasing. “Don’t worry.” He reached for her nape. “I locked the door.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, swiftly replayed his stormy entrance the previous night. “You did not. You slammed it.”

Large and warm, his palm caressed her sensitive skin. “I got up during the night and locked it.”

She blinked. “You did?” She frowned, trying to imagine why he’d thought to do so. Why he’d planned…

He gripped and drew her head down. “Stop thinking. Come and enjoy something you never have.”

She found herself lowering her lips to his. She halted just before their lips met. “What?”

He lifted his hips and she felt…his morning erection.

Her eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” He drew her down the last inch, into the kiss.

She let him, wondering, tantalized. Seduced.

She’d heard about men’s proclivities in the morning, but as she’d never shared a bed all night with him-and had actively discouraged Randall from spending one more minute with her than he absolutely needed to-she’d never had a chance to experience…the different, strangely compelling sensations of making love when they were already warm and relaxed beneath the covers.

When there were no clothes to remove, no barriers separating their warm skins, so that from the very first touch they stepped onto a higher level of intimacy, yet one that, presumably because the outcome of their tangling naked limbs was all but preordained, held much less urgency, much less driving need-much more simple, tactile pleasure.

Sensual pleasure of a depth and breadth she hadn’t previously known. She let him show her, let him settle her astride him, lift her and ease her down so she took the rigid length of him deep, let him lie back and fondle her breasts as she-clinging to the lazy languor of the moment-rode him slowly.

The end, when it came, was lazy, too. Warm pleasure, bright as the morning sun, welled and spilled down her veins, the glory heightened when he locked his hands about her hips and thrust upward, again, and again, then on a long groan joined her.

One hand tangled in his hair, she lay in his arms, and let the warmth and the peace of the morning hold sway-for just a little while.

But outside the door, locked or not, reality waited.

She stirred, pushed against the weight of his arms across her back. He held her for an instant, pressed a kiss to her temple, then helped her up. Without further argument he rose, found his clothes and donned them, then, passing her on the way to the door, he caught her to him for one last, sweet kiss, then with a salute, left her.

Eyes narrowed, she stared at the closed door for a full minute, then shook her head and crossed to the bellpull to ring for Esme.

Twenty minutes later, in yet another black gown, this one of fine silk crepe, she descended the stairs and headed for the breakfast parlor. She swept in, inclining her head gracefully to Hightsbury in acknowledgment of his bow-and only then remembered that her father invariably breakfasted in his library.

Leaving her to entertain his guest.

Blotting his lips with a napkin, Christian rose and, with an easy smile, drew out a chair for her-the one next to his.

She hesitated. His eyes challenged her. Chin tilting, she swept forward and sat. After resetting her chair, Christian resumed his seat beside her.

Hightsbury had anticipated her needs; tea and toast magically appeared before her. She smiled at the butler, then, bending to the pressure of a large knee against hers, said, “Thank you, Hightsbury. We’ll ring if we need you.”

Evincing no surprise at being dismissed, Hightsbury bowed and left them.

She turned her gaze on the far less predictable male alongside. “What?”

Christian raised his brows at her bald query. “I thought, all things considered, that you might wish to know my intentions.”

Lifting her teacup, she opened her eyes wide at him over the brim. “You have intentions?”

“Indeed. And as you feature prominently, I thought I should mention them.”

She searched his eyes, unsure whether to encourage him or not.

He didn’t wait for her to make up her mind. He looked down at his hand, resting by his plate, at the gold signet ring on his little finger. “I was wrong-wrong not to tell you about my peculiar commission, wrong to leave you without any means to reach me.”

Her gaze locked on his face. He had her full and complete attention.

Forcing himself to sit still and not squirm, he went on, “Twelve years ago, when I was younger, and, yes, caught up in the romance of being a spy, I made that mistake. I adhered absolutely to the ‘tell no one more than they need to know’ rule. If I had the time again, I’d act differently, but I can’t rewrite history.”

Glancing up, he met her gaze. “You said fate had thrown Randall in your path-now it appears fate has stepped in and removed him from your life. Which leaves the way open for me.”

Her eyes flashed.

He held up a staying hand. “Before you erupt, know this-I freely admit to the mistake I made twelve years ago, but I’ll be damned if I pay for it for the rest of my life.” He caught her gaze. “And I’ll be damned if I let you pay for it any more than you already have.”

Her eyes slowly narrowed to slits. Her lips thinned. After a long moment she inquired, in her sweetest voice, “Don’t you think that’s rather presumptuous? Just a touch overarrogant, even for you?”

He held her gaze and bluntly replied, “No.” After a second, he went on, “My service to our country cost us both, but you far more than me. But the war is over, my service is past, and now Randall’s dead, there’s no reason for either of us to keep paying in any way whatever.” He hesitated, then went on, grasping the thistle of complete exposure, “The future we envisioned twelve years ago-it’s still there, waiting for us if we wish to pursue it. I intend to.” He paused, then, his eyes still locked with hers, said, “No more secrets between us-I wanted you to know.”

Once again he couldn’t read her eyes. Couldn’t see her thoughts in her expression.

A full minute ticked by, then she looked away, sipped, and set down her cup. “Times change.”

“True, but people like us don’t. What used to be between us is still there-not exactly the same perhaps, it’s evolved as we have, but the strength, the depth, the power of it is, if anything, even greater.”

She drew in a slow breath. “Perhaps, but…I no longer know if that-the future we envisaged twelve years ago-is what I, now, want.”

He’d expected that, had known she wasn’t likely to throw her arms around his neck and encourage him to speak with her father then and there. And if the implied rejection still stung, he told himself it was far less than he deserved for, as she’d correctly termed it, deserting her.

Regardless, he wasn’t about to accept any dismissal, certainly not yet. Reaching for his coffee cup, he evenly replied, “I’m prepared to wait for however long it takes for you to make up your mind.”

He sipped, aware of the sharp, frowning glance she leveled at him.

Sometime last night he’d made a decision, one that had kept him in her bed. That morning, he’d sought to draw her back to him; instead he’d discovered how elusive she could be, how much her own person.

Discovered how independent and strong-willed she’d grown.

Discovered that she was no longer someone he could dominate and lead, but instead-given she was his goddess and, courtesy of their past, he was cast as a contrite supplicant-he might very well have to follow.

Regardless, he’d never been more certain of his path.

She continued to regard him suspiciously as she crunched her way through a piece of toast.

He clung to silence. He’d said all he had to-told her his intentions and that he would wait, that he wasn’t going away. The ball was in her court; the next move was hers.

Pushing away her empty plate, she patted her lips and goddesslike decreed, “I believe I should speak with my brother.”

Letitia hadn’t requested any escort on her walk to the old lodge, yet given Christian’s statement-of his intentions, no less-she wasn’t surprised that he was ambling beside her, easily keeping pace as she marched along.

Despite his forthrightness over said intentions, she had no real belief that she understood his motives. Being well acquainted with his baser traits, she knew it was possible that he was acting out of protectiveness and using their connection to keep her close, to help manage her as matters unfolded.

In men like him, protectiveness toward women like her was ingrained, and while in the past it had grown out of his possessiveness, she could no longer be sure that was still the case.

Could no longer be certain he truly wanted her.

Could not be certain his “intentions” weren’t simply a reflection of what he thought he ought to do, ought to feel. How he thought he should now behave with respect to her, the lover he’d effectively jilted.

She wasn’t at all pleased with Justin for telling him her secret; whether if left to herself she would ever have told him, she honestly didn’t know. That point was now moot because Justin had told him-but she didn’t, she’d realized, know what else her idiot brother had seen fit to reveal.

Reaching the lodge, she swept through the door with considerable force. Christian followed rather more slowly.

Her gaze fell on her brother, seated at the table, about to tuck into a heaped plate of ham and eggs.

She pinned him with a narrow-eyed glare. “How dare you?”

Justin eyed her measuringly. “How dare I what?”

“How dare you share details of my private life-including the reasons behind my marriage to Randall, which you swore never to reveal-to him.” She flung out a hand toward Christian, now blocking the doorway.

Justin shrugged. “Randall’s dead. Christian isn’t.” With his knife, he pointed as if directing her attention. “He’s here.”

“I know he’s here, but that gives you no right-I gave you no leave-to divulge my personal secrets!”

Justin frowned, his temper rising to match hers. “Well, someone had to. You hadn’t bothered to tell him. Not even after Randall’s death!”

“I would have told him sometime, but that’s not the point!”

“So what is the point?”

“The point is-”

Christian walked forward and pulled out a chair. He didn’t wait for permission from Letitia-certainly didn’t wait for her to sit-before settling at his ease. Leaning back, patient, he waited.

Letitia paced along one side of the table, raging at her brother across the expanse. Glowering, Justin tracked her movements, his cutlery unused in his hands.

Arms and hands flying, Letitia ranted; scowling blackly, Justin gave as good as he got. For his part, Christian said not one word, far too wise in Vaux ways to attempt to intercede; far better for both to air their tempers, to let the pent-up emotions free. While Letitia might be berating Justin over his “disloyal revelations,” that was only her principal complaint; if it hadn’t been that, she would have been upbraiding him over his attempt to deflect suspicion from her by encouraging it to fix on himself. Justin, meanwhile, although dogged in his defense of Christian’s right to know the long-ago truth, was equally irritated by her refusal to accept his grand sacrifice.

Eventually, Christian knew, they’d run down. Letitia, he estimated, had at most a few minutes more left in her. Justin might have greater stamina-not that he would wager on it-but he wasn’t truly angry, more irritated with her for calling him to account for a fault that, in his eyes, was hers.

Christian focused on her face, faintly flushed, eyes sparkling. Despite her protestations, he did wonder if she would ever have told him of her own accord. Knowing her pride, knowing how deeply she’d despised Randall, he doubted it.

As he’d predicted, she eventually sighed, and rubbed the center of her forehead. “This is getting us nowhere.”

Justin opened his mouth, caught Christian’s warning glance and grudgingly shut it. Tightening his grip on his knife and fork, he looked down at his plate. Only to discover that his man, Oscar, clearly a veteran of Vaux affairs, had slipped a cover over the dish.

Without a word, Oscar reached past Justin and whipped the cover off.

Justin grunted his thanks and cut into an egg. “There’s no point carrying on. What’s done is done-now we have to deal with it.”

Having run out of steam, Letitia plopped down on the chair Christian pushed out for her. “I still can’t believe you thought I’d killed Randall.”

“If you’d been able to hear yourself that night, you wouldn’t have any great difficulty.” Justin shoveled in some ham, studied her while he chewed. He swallowed and said, “At least Hermione’s safe from any further matrimonial machinations.”

Letitia nodded.

After their outburst, both needed a moment to recoup. Inwardly smiling, Christian took charge. “Now that we can all think, might I suggest it’s time to focus on the problem before us?”

Letitia and Justin turned their heads and regarded him with identical expressions suggesting neither was sure which problem he was alluding to.

He enlightened them. “If Letitia didn’t kill Randall-which we know to be fact-and Justin didn’t kill Randall-which we also know to be the case-then who did kill Randall?”

They both stared at him, then frowns slowly darkened their handsome faces.

“We now know Randall was killed between the time Letitia left him, and the time Justin went to the study to speak with him.” For Letitia’s benefit, Christian sketched the information from Justin and Pringle that had enabled him to establish that point.

Her frown deepened. “Mellon must know something.”

“Possibly. But equally, Randall might have been expecting someone and let them into the house himself. Mellon could well have been en route to his room at the time, and so not have heard the door.” Christian looked at Justin. “What do you know of Randall? I never met the man-describe what type of man he was as best you can.”

Justin thought as he finished off the last of his ham; pushing away his empty plate, he grimaced. “He was something of an enigma. You imagined he would fit the normal mold-he certainly seemed to outwardly-but the closer you got and the more you learned of him, he…just didn’t match expectations.”

“There were no friends at his funeral,” Christian said. “No male acquaintances of any degree.”

Justin’s brows rose; his gaze grew distant. “Now you mention it, I can’t recall ever meeting him with anyone he introduced as a friend. He knew others, of course, and was known by others, but it was all the usual passing acquaintances one has in the clubs. In his case…I can’t think of anyone I’d name as his friend.”

Refocusing on Christian, Justin went on, “That’s what I mean about him not meeting expectations. What gentleman of the ton has no friends?”

Christian inclined his head. “Regardless, it had to be a friend-at the very least an acquaintance he trusted-who murdered him, given the position of the body and the two glasses on the table near the hearth.”

Justin nodded. “So we need to look for Randall’s friends. Whoever and wherever they might be.”

“We need to return to London. That was Randall’s base-that’s where we’ll learn more.” Considering Justin, Christian frowned. “You, most unfortunately, are our best source of information on Randall. You might not know anything specific-like who his friends were-but you almost certainly have information tucked away in your head, the sort that if we learn a name, you might be able to tell us more.”

Justin shrugged. “So I’ll return to London with you.”

“You can’t!” Letitia told him. “Thanks to your earlier efforts, you’ve succeeded exceedingly well in casting yourself as the murderer.”

“Indeed.” Christian met Justin’s eyes. “And there’s a runner haunting Mayfair who’s determined to hunt you down.”

“So I’ll go to ground.”

Christian nodded. “The question is: Where?”

“Not at your lodgings-Barton, the runner, has already been there. And you mustn’t come near Randall’s house,” Letitia said. “The little weasel is keeping a watch in the belief the murderer-meaning you-will return to the scene of the crime.”

Justin’s brows quirked. “I suppose that cuts out my clubs, too.”

“And unfortunately Barton knows I’m helping, so Allardyce House won’t be safe, either, especially not with my aunts and sisters dropping by whenever the fancy takes them.” Christian met Justin’s eyes. “If either of my aunts see you, it’ll be all over the ton inside an hour.”

“Yes, well, that consideration eliminates our aunts, too.” Letitia frowned. “There must be somewhere safe you can go-somewhere we can easily reach you to pick your brains.”

They all fell silent, thinking.

Eventually Christian stirred. “As a stop-gap we can use my private club, the Bastion Club. It’s in Montrose Place,” he added for Justin’s benefit. “Ultimately that will come under Barton’s eye, too, but for a few days it’ll be safe enough. Meanwhile…there’s an ex-colleague who might agree to give you refuge. If he’s still in London and if he’s so inclined.”

Christian thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll need to return to London and ask him. If he agrees, I’ll send word. Until then, I suggest you remain here.” He glanced at Letitia. “As you doubtless counted on, everyone knows that Nunchance is the last place on earth you’ll be.”

Letitia pulled a face. Justin grinned.

Christian rose. “I’ll head back to town immediately.”

Letitia bounced up from her chair. “I’ll come with you. I need to get back to Hermione.” She swooped on Justin and bussed him on the cheek. “Thank you, brother mine, for trying to protect me, however misguided your efforts.”

Justin snorted, caught her hand and squeezed it. But he was looking at Christian as he said, “Just take care that in exonerating me, you don’t color yourself as the murderer instead.”

Christian’s lips curved in a wry smile. “As it happens, courtesy of your earlier sterling efforts to throw everyone off the scent, the only way we’ll succeed in exonerating you now is by identifying and producing whoever did, in fact, kill Randall.”

They left Nunchance within the hour, bowling south in Christian’s curricle, his powerful chestnuts between the shafts. A parasol shading her face, Letitia sat back and watched the scenery flash by. Esme would follow in the carriage with her luggage, but for herself…she was determined to stick by Christian’s side.

She knew him. If she let him, he’d plant her in a drawing room-or in her front parlor-and leave her there while he went out hunting Randall’s killer. It might be perverse of her, yet despite the contempt if not outright hatred she’d borne her husband, she felt a real need to see his murderer brought to justice-not solely on Justin’s account, but on hers, too. That murder had been committed within her household deeply offended her at some fundamental level.

Murder was not something that could be tolerated in a tonnish house; she was sure that was one of those maxims ladies such as she were brought up to revere.

Regardless, she meant to play an active role in the hunt.

They halted on the road for lunch, but didn’t dally. Once they were bowling along again, this time behind a pair of flighty blacks, she said, “You were speaking the literal truth, weren’t you-about us having to identify and catch whoever killed Randall in order to exonerate Justin?”

Christian held the horses in as a mail coach rumbled by, then let the reins flow again. “Unfortunately, your brother overlooked a number of factors in scripting his little drama. Clearing him of suspicion from the authorities will be straightforward enough-that we can do with evidence alone.”

“But clearing him of suspicion from the ton-clearing his name so he’ll be accepted in society again and be able to marry well-for that…”

“Indeed.” With a flick of his wrist, Christian sent the restive pair racing past a lumbering carriage. “To achieve that, we’ll need to produce not just factual proof, but the murderer himself. Nothing else will do.”

Letitia humphed. “If I know the gossips-and I do-we’ll even need to prove that the murderer, whoever he is, doesn’t know Justin. Or me. Or even Hermione.”

“As none of you know any of Randall’s friends, that, at least, shouldn’t be too hard.”

Letitia mulled over the issue of Randall’s friends-the odd circumstance that, after eight years of marriage, she had absolutely no idea who they were. She’d had no interest in her late husband’s life-no interest in him; their social paths had remained by her decree disconnected.

Not that Randall had minded.

As if following her train of thought, Christian asked, “Did Randall accompany you to the usual functions?”

“Yes, but only the major ones, or those where he knew certain other guests would be-those with whom he wanted to rub shoulders.” She thought back. “He wasn’t all that socially inclined, not in tonnish terms, but he did like to be seen, to claim his place, as it were, every now and then.”

Another mile swept by, then he asked, “I assumed that he married you for your social connections. Wasn’t that the case?”

She grimaced. “I assumed the same, but the answer was yes and no. I was more like…oh, a trophy. At least that’s how I felt. Not so much a person as an object, something to be acquired and put on a shelf to be admired, but otherwise…”

That, she realized, was a reasonably accurate summation of her marriage. There never had been any pretense, at least not between them, that Randall had married her for love, not even for desire.

Unprompted, she murmured, “Our marriage was more like a civil truce. I didn’t like him, I didn’t respect him, but we’d made an agreement and I stuck to it. And for all that I detested him, so did he.”

She wasn’t surprised when Christian asked no more, but she knew he had more questions-ones he couldn’t, had no right to, put to her. Such as how often Randall had shared her bed. The answer was far less than she’d expected, but Christian didn’t need to know that. Didn’t need to know that courtesy of her earlier association with him, she’d had the confidence and the ammunition to drive Randall away-and keep him away. He’d never asked her who her lover had been, so he’d never known to whom he was being compared. All he had known was that he didn’t measure up-not in any way.

With a younger brother and more male cousins than she could count, she’d known where the major chink in men’s armor was. Reducing Randall to a near impotent state, at least with respect to her, hadn’t been too difficult.

She’d gained control of that aspect of her marriage, and had otherwise largely lived a life apart from her husband. Unfortunately that meant…

As they rolled into London, she sighed. “I do hope you have some idea of where to search for Randall’s friends, for I freely admit I have none.”

Christian glanced at her. “No man is an island. Donne was correct. Randall will have had some connections somewhere.”

He looked up at the sky. They’d made good time, yet late afternoon was edging into evening. “It’s too late to call on that colleague I mentioned. I’ll take you back to the house.”

Letitia wrapped her shawl more tightly about her as the shadows of the buildings engulfed them. “Hermione and Agnes will be waiting to hear.”

They weren’t the only ones. After halting briefly in Grosvenor Square to pick up one of his grooms, Christian drove on to South Audley Street. Tossing the reins to his groom with instructions to walk the horses around to the mews behind Grosvenor Square, he alighted and handed Letitia down. As the curricle moved off, he glimpsed a familiar head ducking behind the area railings opposite. Inwardly shaking his head, he turned and climbed the steps to where Mellon, struggling to hide his disapproval, and failing, stood holding the door.

Shrugging off his heavy greatcoat, he left it with the butler, then walked into the front parlor. Letitia wasn’t, as he’d expected, seated on one of the sofas regaling Hermione and Agnes with their news. Instead, she stood poised by one of the front windows, peering-glaring-past the lace curtains. “That horrible little man is still there! Did you see?”

Lips quirking, he halted by the sofa opposite the one Agnes and Hermione occupied. “However reluctantly, one has to give him credit for unswerving devotion to his cause.” He nodded to Agnes and Hermione.

Letitia humphed, and turned back into the room. Joining him before the sofa, she sat, allowing him to sit, too.

“So Justin’s perfectly all right-you spoke with him?” Eyes bright, almost painfully eager, Hermione leaned forward.

Letitia nodded. “The idiot thought he was protecting me.” She described where Justin had been hiding and what they’d learned from him.

At the end of her recital, she glanced at Christian. “You may as well stay for dinner-if you haven’t any other pressing engagement?”

When he inclined his head in acceptance, she rose and headed for the bellpull. “We need to put our heads together and decide what to do next.”

He waited while she summoned Mellon and gave the order for an extra place at dinner. He’d have to question Mellon again, but now was not the time. He shifted his gaze to Hermione. She was biting her lower lip, clearly chewing on her thoughts. In the circumstances, she was currently at the top of his interrogation list.

When Mellon retreated and Letitia returned to the sofa, Hermione looked up at her. “So you don’t think Justin killed Randall-and you’re looking for the real murderer?”

Flopping back down beside Christian, Letitia nodded. “To clear Justin’s name completely and beyond question, as we must-the future head of the House of Vaux cannot carry the stigma of being suspected of murder in even the least degree-then we have to produce the real murderer, and have him convicted of the crime.”

Mellon returned to announce that dinner was served. They all rose and repaired to the dining room. As he took his seat alongside Letitia’s at the end of the table, Christian noted that no expense had been spared-not with the highly polished table, a stunning example of the craftman’s art, nor with the silver and crystal, both on the table and on the sideboard against the wall. Expensive artwork, curtains, rugs, and satin-striped upholstery completed the room, along with an elegant crystal chandelier.

Flicking out his napkin, he glanced at Letitia. “Did you entertain much?”

She looked up, then, as he had, looked around the room. “A little, but not as much as I might have.” Realizing the significance of his question, she added, “And they were always my friends and acquaintances-the only names Randall ever suggested were politicians or ton figures he wished to meet and talk with, not people he already knew.”

Seated opposite Christian, Agnes shook her head. “He never did bring people home.” Agnes looked at Letitia. “Not even when you and Hermione were out.” She glanced at Christian. “When Letitia takes Hermione with her, I usually remain at home. And people like Randall always overlook the old ladies of the world.”

At their peril. From the light in Agnes’s eyes, Christian surmised she’d kept a closer watch on Randall-and very likely Letitia and Hermione as well-than any of them knew.

Agnes looked down as the soup course was placed before her. “Sadly, rack my brains though I have, I can’t offer any suggestions as to Randall’s friends.”

“Nor can I.” Hermione picked up her soup spoon.

Conversation lagged as they worked their way through the fish course, the entrée, then moved on to dessert. Throughout, Hermione frowned abstractedly at her plate.

Christian waited until the footmen withdrew, then under the table nudged Letitia’s knee. She looked at him. When he directed her gaze to Mellon, standing correct and upright behind Randall’s empty chair, she blotted her lips with her napkin, then waved an imperious hand. “You may go, Mellon. We won’t need anything more.”

Mellon would have preferred to stay and satisfy his curiosity-he’d heard their earlier comments about his late master’s friends-but he had to bow and withdraw.

When the door closed behind him, Letitia turned to Christian-to discover him regarding Hermione with that steady, gray, impossible-to-escape gaze of his.

Hermione, wrapped in her own thoughts, remained oblivious.

“In order to expose Randall’s real murderer-as we must-we need to learn exactly what went on here on the night he was killed.” His gaze still on Hermione, Christian laid his napkin on the table.

Recalling that her sister knew something about that night that she’d yet to share, Letitia, too, fixed her gaze on Hermione.

Who finally looked up.

Finding both Letitia and Christian focused on her, Hermione glanced at Agnes, only to see her aunt also waiting patiently to hear what she would say.

Hermione grimaced. She brought her gaze back to Christian’s face. After a moment of studying him, she said, “Before I tell you what I know about that night, swear to me that you’ll make sure Justin’s safe.”

Letitia opened her mouth to utter a blanket assurance; Christian stopped her by closing one hand about her wrist.

Holding Hermione’s gaze, he said, “I swear on my honor as an Allardyce, and as Dearne, that I will do everything in my power to see your brother cleared of Randall’s murder.” He arched a brow at Hermione. “Good enough?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“So what did you see?” Letitia frowned. “And how did you come to see anything at all?”

Christian squeezed her wrist again, then released her. To Hermione, he said, “Start with your evening, before you went to bed.”

Hermione looked down at her fingers, smoothing the hem of her napkin. “Agnes and I had a quiet evening. I was already in bed when Letitia came home.” Her gaze flicked up to Christian’s face. “My bedroom is above the study.” She returned her gaze to the napkin. “I can’t hear people converse in there, no words, but I can hear loud noises. I heard Letitia railing at Randall-I knew it was something about me, but I didn’t know what.” She glanced at Letitia. “You kept saying it was nothing, but it was obviously something-enough of a something to have you screeching.”

Letitia made a dismissing gesture. “The issue died with Randall. It’s…”

Hermione arched a brow. “Dead and buried?” She nodded. “I did wonder whether that was, at least in part, behind what I later saw-or thought I saw.”

When she didn’t immediately go on, Letitia opened her mouth-Christian grasped her wrist and silenced her again. She shot him a weak glare but desisted. Grudgingly.

“So I heard Letitia ranting.” Hermione picked up her tale. “Then I heard her slam the study door and storm up the stairs and into her room. I thought, after that, that I’d be able to fall asleep.” She paused. “I was just dozing off when I heard Randall and another man talking-I couldn’t hear the words, I never can, but I could hear the rumble of their voices. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t, then I heard a thud. A heavy thud.

“I listened, but the voices had stopped. I told myself it was the door shutting, or something like that…only I knew it wasn’t. I know the sounds in that room, and I’d never heard a thud like that-sort of soft but heavy.”

Christian asked, “Did you notice the time?”

She shook her head. “My candle was out. I kept trying to fall asleep-I don’t know for how long. I kept imagining what that thud might be. I actually thought it might be a dead body. In the end, I knew I wasn’t going to sleep until I knew, so I got up to go and see. I thought that the worst that might happen was that Randall might be at his desk-he often worked late. If he saw me, I was going to say I couldn’t sleep and was heading to the library for a book. But I had to dress-I wasn’t going to get caught by anyone in my dressing gown.”

“Did you hear anything while you were dressing?” Christian asked.

“Or going downstairs?” Letitia put in, trying to hurry things along.

Hermione frowned. “No-not until I was on the landing. I didn’t use the main stair, but the one in my wing. It comes down in the corridor past the study. When I reached the landing, I heard the study door open. I hadn’t taken a candle-I could see well enough-so I crouched down on the landing and looked through the banisters.”

She glanced at Letitia, then at Christian. “I saw Justin come out of the study. I didn’t see his face-he turned and looked back into the room, then he walked on to the front door.” She paused, caught by her memories. “I would have called to him, but he seemed…strange. Stunned, I suppose, now I know what he’d done. Even then, I suspected something bad had happened, so I didn’t say anything, just watched him open the front door and walk out, then he pulled the door closed behind him.”

Straightening in her chair, Hermione paled, but met Christian’s eyes gamely. “I waited a little, everything was quiet, then I crept down the stairs and looked into the study. I didn’t go in-I could see enough from the doorway. I…I thought Justin had killed Randall. It was so horrible…but I’d never liked Randall-never liked that Letitia had had to marry him no matter how much she pretended it was a love match. And, well, he was dead now-that was obvious. But I didn’t want Justin to be caught, so I thought…the only thing I could think of doing was to lock the door and slip the key back inside. I hoped it would look like the key had fallen out of the lock later-perhaps while they were beating on the door. I knew no one could possibly think Randall had taken his own life, but I thought having the door look like it was locked from inside would at least confuse things.”

Christian grimaced. “In that you succeeded, but Mellon knew Justin had called to see Randall and later left.”

“But I didn’t know that,” Hermione said. “Justin might have just arrived and Randall had let him in-I couldn’t tell. Anyway, the key was in the lock, Randall usually kept it there, he sometimes did lock the door-so I locked the door, slid the key back inside, and went back upstairs.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t get any sleep, though.”

Christian could imagine. He considered, matching Hermione’s story with Justin’s, then he looked at Letitia, frowning in concern at Hermione, then at Agnes, who was patting Hermione’s hand.

For her part, Hermione seemed relieved. It was she who asked, “So what will you do now?”

Both Letitia and Agnes joined her in fixing inquiring gazes on him.

Deciding no harm could come of sharing his deductions, he glanced at the door, confirmed it was shut, then in a voice that wouldn’t carry, said, “I believe what happened was that after Letitia left Randall-while Justin was reading in the library after having dismissed Mellon-someone else called on Randall, someone he was expecting, given Mellon didn’t hear the doorbell. His visitor was someone he knew, someone he trusted. That person sat in the chair by his study fire and they shared a glass of brandy.”

“So the person was almost certainly a man,” Letitia pointed out. “Very few women drink brandy.”

He inclined his head. “So this man and Randall chatted amiably-Hermione heard no shouting. Then Randall rose, headed for his desk, presumably to fetch something-and the man picked up the poker and hit him on the head. Randall fell, dead. His murderer dropped the poker, then-presumably via the front door-left the house.”

All three of his listeners were nodding.

“So,” he concluded, “our next step is to learn who the friend Randall entertained that night might be. And to confirm, if we can, how he got into the house, and how he left it.”

All three women’s expressions grew determined.

“And whoever he is,” Hermione said, “he’s Randall’s murderer.”

Letitia was pleased Christian had shared his thoughts so freely-without her having to drag them from him-but what she now wanted to know was how he proposed to learn who Randall’s mysterious friend-cum-murderer was. However, not wanting to encourage Hermione to think she could play any role in their hunt, she waited with what patience she could muster until Hermione and Agnes retired.

The instant the door shut behind them, she swung to face Christian, once more seated beside her on the sofa in her parlor. “How-”

He pulled her into his arms. Into a kiss. Not a scorching one. One she might, if she’d put her mind to it, have resisted.

But she didn’t resist. Instead found herself melting into his embrace. Mentally cursed, but by then it was too late.

He kissed her until her wits had long flown, until she was breathless, and achy, and thinking of things she’d had no intention of thinking about-sins she’d had no intention of committing-until he’d kissed her.

When he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, his heavy-lidded with the passion and desire that always-always-lay between them, she could barely marshal one coherent thought. And that one…

She fought against the drugging tide, tried to reorient-knew she had questions she wanted to ask, but couldn’t lay her mind to any of them. Blinking, she tried to reassemble her wits.

Before she succeeded he was on his feet, and she was on hers, and he was towing her to the door.

She couldn’t even manage a frown. “Where are we going?” Even to her ears she sounded more interested than scandalized.

He glanced back as he opened the door. “Upstairs. To your room.”

When she stared at him, faintly stunned, he raised his brows. “You didn’t think I was leaving, did you?”

She honestly didn’t know what she’d thought.

And before she could decide what she should think-of his presumption, of his high-handed, arrogant assumption that she would, after just one kiss, be sufficiently besotted to fall in with his plans…she had.

“This room?” He pointed to her door.

She started to nod, stopped herself, but he’d already opened the door and was towing her inside.

And then the door was shut and she was in his arms, and nothing else mattered.

She was distantly aware that that shouldn’t be so, but as her clothes fell like autumn leaves to the floor and his clever hands and even cleverer mouth found her bare skin, she couldn’t remember why.

Couldn’t summon a single reason against indulging with him.

Couldn’t see why she shouldn’t let her starved soul free, let it rejoice in the pure sensuality he brought to her. That he offered with both hands, with his mouth, with his body.

That he fed her with each kiss-scorching and possessive now-that reached her through each touch, each explicit caress, each frankly possessive stroking of her valleys and planes.

In the heat and the fire that followed, in the familiar passions that she and he ignited, that raged as they always had between them, cindering reservations and all ability to think in a conflagration of need. Overwhelming and sustaining. Demanding and succoring. Needing and caring.

The give and take between them had never been complicated. Always direct, always unmasked. Every time they came together, she could only glory that that hadn’t changed-not in the least.

She knew why she lay back and welcomed him into her body. She wasn’t so sure she understood why he was there. But after the eight lonely years she’d spent in that bed, she was in no mood to deny herself the absolute irrefutable proof that her sensual side still lived.

That the passionate self who delighted in physical pleasure that she’d buried when she’d married Randall hadn’t died.

Had been resurrected in all her feminine glory.

By him-her long-ago lover.

Sunk deep in the slick heat of her luscious body, her long legs about his hips, her long, svelte form undulating in uninhibited concert beneath him, Christian could only close his eyes and give thanks that-in this at least-she wasn’t about to deny him. Wasn’t about to shut herself off from him.

He hadn’t been sure. Hadn’t known whether she would suddenly pull back-whether she would let him remain this close while she made up her mind.

To his mind, this was his only hold on her-the only certain way, the only certain times, he would have to reassure her. To make her believe in him again, that he would always be there, there to love her every night and every day.

She raced up the peak, and dragged him with her. No matter how firmly he tried to hold back, she knew how to command him, how to shred his control. How to take his hand and leap-over the edge, into the void, into the pulsing heart of their passion.

They burned together, shattered together, gasping, clutching, holding tight as they flew…then clinging as they slowly spiraled down to earth again.

Into each other’s arms again.

If last night had seen him take a new direction, tonight had given him hope. As he disengaged and, with a smothered groan, rolled onto his back and gathered her to him, felt her curl against him, he couldn’t imagine what he would do if she tried to remain apart from him. If she decided against him and tried to cut their ties.

A week or so ago when she’d come to him for help, he hadn’t known that what ruled him now still lived within him. Now he did. Now he felt it, knew it-would, could, no longer deny it. Had no wish to deny it. A week of being with her again had brought him, if not precisely full circle, then to a similar place, a similar state of emotional acceptance to that he’d reached twelve years ago, yet now he was older, wiser, more appreciative of his needs, and hers.

She had to see-he prayed she would see-that if twelve years ago they’d been an ideal couple, now they were even more so, not less. That the years had given them both more depth, greater strength.

Deeper passions.

“What do you plan to do next?”

Her words breached the fog of pleasured aftermath. Clearly the years had also given her a greater ability for recuperation. “I…” He replayed her demand, heard the conciseness in her tone, realized she expected to be told-and she was testing to see if he would share. “I need to question all the staff, Mellon and the footmen I spoke with earlier included. Someone must have let Randall’s mysterious friend in, or if not, have some experience of him from some other time.”

He hesitated, then, adhering to the new script he’d written wherein he held nothing back from her, said, “But first, I should call on that colleague of mine.” He glanced at her face, through the dimness met her eyes. “I don’t know if he’s in town, or has resigned his commission and gone to the country, but if he’s here and agrees, he’s one of the few I would trust to hide Justin, and he has the resources to help our investigation in other ways, too-if he’s free and so inclined.”

She studied his eyes. “Who is this colleague?”

He drew a deep breath, let it out with, “His name’s Dalziel. I’ll go to his office tomorrow morning-he’s usually at his desk reasonably early.”

“I’ll come, too.” Her eyes were mysterious, but her tone carried a warning.

He nodded, and gathered her closer. Settling his cheek on her hair, he meekly said, “We can go after breakfast.”