The Edge of Desire

Chapter 17

At ten o’clock that night Christian, with Tristan at his heels and Tony a few paces behind, walked down a narrow alley in the labyrinth of lanes between Cannon Street and the Thames. In Mayfair’s wide streets the moon shone down, but here the tenements and warehouses hemmed the lanes in; it was nearly pitch-dark. This close to the river, fog had already thickened, wisps wreathing about their greatcoated shoulders, clinging as they passed. Their boots fell softly on ancient cobbles.

“I’m glad you know where you’re going.” Tristan’s voice came in a whisper from behind. “I just hope you know the way back.”

Christian’s lips quirked.

Five yards farther on he halted and faced a plain wooden door. Raising a fist, he knocked once, waited a heartbeat, then knocked twice.

A moment passed, then a small screened window in the door slid open. There was no light within. Another silent moment ticked past, then a hoarse voice demanded, “Who is it?”

“Grantham.”

The window slid shut.

Tristan tapped his arm. Christian glanced his way, saw Tristan’s raised brows, whispered, “Previous title.”

“Ah.”

They waited, patiently, for several minutes, then they heard heavy bolts sliding back.

A huge bruiser hauled open the door. He nodded to Christian. “The master’ll see you.”

Christian’s lips twitched. “Good evening to you, too, Cullen.” He stepped over the threshold.

Cullen snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Here-who’s these two with you?”

Christian glanced back at Tristan and Tony. “They’re just that-‘with me.’ Gallagher won’t mind. Incidentally, how’s his mood?”

Cullen scowled at Tristan and Tony, but allowed them inside, then shut the door and bolted it. He turned back to Christian. “He’s prepared to be entertained-which I’m thinking is just as well for you.”

Christian inclined his head. “We’ll see. I know the way.” He strolled down a barely lit corridor, then, ducking his head, stepped through an open doorway into a room that never failed to surprise.

It was Gallagher’s domain, and he’d set it up as a gentleman’s study, glaringly incongruous given what lay beyond the polished oak door, yet although no expense had been spared and the room was indeed luxurious, someone-Christian had always suspected Gallagher himself-had exercised restrained good taste.

Straightening, he walked farther in, nodding to the gargantuan presence behind the massive mahogany desk. “Gallagher.”

“Major.” Gallagher dipped his head a fraction-the best he could do by way of a nod. He had some condition that made his body store excessive amounts of fat, making the simplest movement difficult. But there was nothing wrong with his brain. He studied Tristan and Tony through small, bright blue eyes almost lost in rolls of fat, then looked at Christian and tipped his head toward the others. “Friends of yours?”

“Indeed. This is an insalubrious neighborhood, especially after dark.”

Gallagher emitted a cackle. “At any time of day.” Evincing no further interest in Tristan and Tony, he fixed his gaze on Christian. “So what can I do fer you?”

Christian kept his smile easy. “You can tell me all you know about the proposed sale of the Orient Trading Company.”

Gallagher’s eyes widened a fraction. “You have an interest there?”

“I’m acting for one of the part owners.”

Gallagher wasn’t slow. “The heir, heh? Or should I say heiress? Heard tell it was Randall’s widow got the whole of his share.”

Christian nodded. Gallagher’s price was information; if you wanted some, you gave some in return.

“So has she decided to sell?”

“Until we know more, she can’t decide one way or the other.”

Gallagher raised his brows. “Not the sort of business a lady like I hear tell she is would want to sully her dainty fingers with, I’m thinking.”

“True. She doesn’t. But her brother knows the value of a cash-generating asset.”

“Ah-ha.” Gallagher took a moment to digest that, then offered, “Last I heard, before Randall got himself murdered, he’d come to an agreement of sorts with Neville Roscoe. Not a binding one-an agreement in principle, as it were. I heard tell Roscoe had some stipulations, some conditions he wanted Randall to meet before they shook on the deal.”

“But Roscoe’s price was right?”

“So I heard. Randall was right chuffed when he left Roscoe.”

Christian raised his brows. “You have a watcher inside Roscoe’s?”

Gallagher snorted. “Nah-not inside. What I wouldn’t give for that. But a body’s got to learn what he can howsoever he can-I’ve got someone keeping an eye peeled outside.”

Christian nodded. “Do you know who else was looking to buy?”

“The usual suspects-Edson, Plummer, and I heard tell Gammon was making overtures, too. But once Roscoe raised his hand, there weren’t much competition.”

“Unsurprising-Roscoe’s hells are probably even more profitable than the Orient Trading Company’s.”

“Aye.” Gallagher nodded. “So I’d think.” He studied Christian for a long moment, as if deciding whether to speak, then said, “I don’t know exactly why you’re asking, howsoever, if you’re thinking Randall’s murder had anything to do with the sale, I’d say you’re barking up the wrong tree. For certain Edson, Plummer, and Gammon weren’t best pleased when Roscoe butted in and snatched the prize, but unless there’s some bad blood there no one knows about, there’s no benefit to any of them in killing Randall. All that’s done-all it could ever do-is delay the inevitable.”

Gallagher settled on his massive chair. “From the business side of things, given the company was on the sale block anyway, Randall’s death hasn’t changed anything-unless the new owner decides to hold onto the company, and that, in effect, changes even less.”

“Perhaps,” Christian suggested, “there’s some reason that, for someone, a delay in the sale was desirable.”

Gallagher shrugged, a faint movement of his massive shoulders. “Could be, but if that’s the case, I ain’t heard nothing about it.”

Christian hesitated, then asked, “Do you know anything more that’s pertinent to this subject?”

Gallagher thought, then shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. Randall wasn’t one of us. He was on the upper end of things, like Roscoe. Never anything actually illegal, but they’re both on our fringes, which is why we keep a weather eye on them and their doings.” Gallagher smiled, not a pretty sight. “Just in case. But I’m thinking that when it comes to Randall, Roscoe would know more.”

“Very possibly.” Christian glanced at the others, collecting them. “We’ll leave you, then. Thank you for your time.”

“And me knowledge.” Gallagher’s eyes sharpened. “If you want to keep me sweet, you send word when you learn who killed Randall, and even more important, if the widow and those other two agree to sell. If Roscoe’s going to grow twice as big, twice as powerful, I want to know.”

Christian nodded as he ducked through the doorway. “I’ll send word when I know for certain.”

It was after midnight when Christian let himself into his house. The large mansion was quiet, peaceful and serene; moonlight pooled on the tiles of the front hall, falling through the multifaceted skylight far above.

Aware of the quiet luxury of his home, yet even more aware of what it lacked, Christian snuffed the candle Percival had left burning and in the moonlit dark slowly climbed the stairs, wondering if he’d made a tactical error.

If he shouldn’t, instead, be climbing a set of stairs in South Audley Street.

Yet he wanted Letitia to realize that he wanted more than the merely physical from her, with her…and if he were honest, he’d wanted her to feel a tiny portion of the need, the driving compulsive need, he felt for her. So he’d grasped the chance of a night apart in the hope it would spur her to think more of him and her, and of becoming his wife.

The marquess’s apartments were on the first floor, opposite the head of the stairs. Walking around the gallery, he opened the door that led directly into his bedroom.

Despite the fact that the room was huge, he instantly knew someone else was there-in the same heartbeat knew who it was.

Almost disbelieving, wishing he’d brought the candle up after all, he stepped into the room and silently shut the door.

His night vision was excellent but he didn’t need it to locate her; all his senses seemed to lock on her, helplessly drawn.

She lay in his bed, sleeping.

On silent feet he crossed the large room, shrugging off his greatcoat and laying it on a chair along the way.

Drawing near the bed, he slowed. Halting at one corner, he looked down at her.

She lay sprawled under the covers, her dark hair splayed in a silken wave across his pillows.

Exactly where he wanted her to be.

Where he wanted her to sleep for the rest of her life.

His gaze was drawn by a glimmer across the room-silk shimmering in a stray beam of moonlight. Through the darkness he saw, laid on a chair, a black gown the color of night, a froth of ivory petticoats, two black garters, two neatly folded black stockings, and the gossamer-fine drape of her silk chemise.

Not only was she lying in his bed, she was lying in his bed naked.

The realization had its inevitable effect, yet for long moments he stood silently and watched her, simply because he could. Savoring that he could.

Eventually he turned away and quietly undressed. He didn’t hurry, deeply aware-to his bones aware-that he didn’t need to; she was there-he had all night to absorb the simple pleasure of having her in his bed.

His bed.

That was something quite different-and he couldn’t believe she wouldn’t have realized that. Wouldn’t have known how finding her as she was, waiting for him, would affect him.

She might have come to his house because she was impatient to learn what he’d discovered, but that wouldn’t have placed her naked in his bed. Being there…consciously or not so terribly consciously, she was, in her own Vaux way, telling him something.

But tonight he didn’t want to dwell too much on that, on what decision if any she’d actually made.

Tonight was for embracing the simple fact that he would have her in his bed, in his arms all night. That for at least that long, his dream would be reality.

Lifting the covers, he slid in beside her. The mattress bowed beneath his weight; instinctively she turned toward him, her arms, her body, reaching for him, holding him, embracing him.

Loving him in the dark.

Letitia dreamt, not that the years had fallen away, but that she’d trod a different path. That somehow her feet had found their way not just onto the path of her long ago dreams, but to the end of that road and beyond.

Beyond to a time and place where he and she were the lovers they’d once been, but older, wiser, more mature. Where their love, given voice through long slow caresses, through rich, drugging kisses, through an acceptance of possessiveness that went soul deep, was more intense, richer, a broad river instead of a burbling stream, one that could carry more passion, more powerful emotions, infinitely deeper meaning.

His hands sculpted her body, reverently possessive, as if he couldn’t, still, quite believe she was his. That element of uncertainty in a man who could and did command all aspects of his life-wordless confirmation that her power as a woman over him still lived-quietly thrilled; she moved beneath his caresses, sensuously languid, taking her time to savor, to absorb, to let the pleasure of his loving sink to her bones.

To let it seep into her soul and fill it as he moved over her, parted her long legs with his hard muscled thighs and, with one slow powerful thrust, filled her.

She arched beneath him, the veil between reality and dreams flickering, as it had throughout. Some part of her knew that all she felt was real, yet this reality lay so close to, not simply her long ago dreams but the natural evolution that should have come from them, that the two effortlessly merged.

Dreams and reality became one as she rode with him through the night, wrapped in his strength, cushioned within his bed, cradled within the warmth of his loving. She embraced him, clung, took him into her heart, drew him deeper into her body, let her soul reach for his and wrap around it.

Merge with it.

That’s how it felt as they raced toward the peak, stretched, reached it, hung suspended for one bright, glittering, scintillating moment…then together they shattered, let go and fell, let release claim them, let the void have them, let glory fill their veins with incandescent pleasure, golden and glowing.

When it was over, and he’d disengaged and drawn her to him, she lay safe in his arms, cocooned in his bed.

It was easier, so much easier, to communicate this way, in the dark, through lingering kisses, intimate caresses. To show him, let him see…what in the stark light of day she still found hard to put into words, to declare.

In the dark, in his arms, it was easy to ignore the risk.

To ignore her underlying, perhaps irrational fear.

To simply love him.

Turning her head, she gently kissed his chest, then snuggled her head on his shoulder and let her dreams take her.

Sated, replete, so deeply satisfied on so many levels he couldn’t raise a thought, Christian held her close, closed his eyes-felt an emotion, familiar and strong, well and pour though him.

More intense than ever before. More certain.

Feeling her body stretched out along his, feminine curves pressed to his chest, her long legs tangled with his, her skin soft and flushed beneath his hands, he felt his lips curve as he surrendered to sleep.

Christian stirred her as dawn approached. Faint pearly light washed into his room, gliding ephemeral fingers over the bed as within it she cried out as passion crested and broke, and a long glorious wave of satiation washed through her.

Through them.

Holding the moment, and him, close, she wrapped herself in its warmth and, with a smile on her lips, sank back into slumber.

“Letitia?”

She sensed him shaking her, but refused to respond.

“I know I said I’d see you in the morning”-his voice was a gravelly rumble in her ear-“but I hadn’t envisaged it would be quite so early.”

She felt moved to complain. “Why is it so damned early?”

“Because you have a decision to make.”

“Oh?” She felt him shift in the bed so he was lying back against the pillows, his arms crossed behind his head. She considered, decided she had to know. “What decision would that be?”

“About what you want to do.” She felt his gaze on her face, then he went on, “Whether you want to make my staff very happy, or slip back to South Audley Street before anyone sees.”

She groaned. She’d known there’d be a price for sleeping in his bed, but the bother of having to get up, dressed, and out before the tweenies were about hadn’t registered. “Damn!”

Wrestling aside the covers, she glanced at the window, and groaned again. She was torn, but…

He chuckled, then sat up, throwing off the covers. “Come on-I’ll walk you home.”

He helped her lace up her gown, then led her silently down the stairs and out of the front door-just in time; they could hear the maids’ voices approaching from behind the green baize door as they slipped outside. He drew the front door closed, then took her arm, wound it with his, and they set off to walk the short distance to…the house where she was staying.

That’s how she’d always thought of Randall’s house; it had never been hers.

She glanced at Christian, strolling beside her. When he’d joined her in his bed last night, the very first thing she’d done was run her hands over him, confirming he wasn’t in any way hurt. Even half asleep, some part of her mind had been on full alert on that score, ready to take charge if it had proved necessary. Scanning his face in the pale morning light-devoid of even the faintest hint of a bruise, as was the hand-his right-that lay over hers on his sleeve, she concluded that his meeting with Gallagher had passed civilly enough.

Looking ahead, she asked, “So what did you learn from your excursion last night?”

Christian told her, seeing no reason to hold anything back. Unsurprisingly, she asked about Roscoe; he related what he knew of the man; he’d run into him a few times in his professional capacity in his early years of working for Dalziel.

“So,” Letitia said, as they neared Randall’s house, “I take it our next move is to go and see this Roscoe person and find out what he knows.”

“Indeed.” Christian halted before the steps. “I’ll go and see him as soon as we can arrange a meeting.”

“I’ll come, too.” Letitia halted beside him.

As she faced him, he took in the determined light in her eyes, the stubborn set of her chin. Inwardly sighed. “Unfortunately, in the same way you couldn’t go with me to speak with Gallagher, you can’t come with me when I visit Roscoe.”

She narrowed her eyes on his. “Nonsense. Gallagher’s an underworld czar-a known criminal-but you told me yourself Roscoe’s another Randall.”

“I meant in terms of his business interests. Otherwise, Roscoe’s nothing like Randall. He’s ten times-a hundred times-more dangerous.”

Her lips thinned; her eyes couldn’t get any narrower…then her expression cleared and she smiled. Too sweetly. “If Roscoe’s as clever and as canny as you say”-turning, she started up the steps-“then he’s not going to tell you the details of a business agreement he struck with Randall.”

Halting on the top step, she plied the knocker, then faced him as he joined her. She smiled again, this time more assured. “Roscoe won’t divulge those details to anyone but me-the one who, businesswise, now stands in Randall’s shoes.”

She waited a heartbeat-no doubt to allow him to grasp the incontestability of her reasoning-then briskly said, “I’ve an at-home I must attend, then a luncheon. I assume we’re all to meet later at the club?”

When, after a moment’s hesitation, his face expressionless, he nodded curtly, she informed him, “I’ll join you there.”

With a regal inclination of her head, she moved forward as Mellon opened the door.

Raising a hand in mute farewell, Christian turned and walked down the steps. Gaining the pavement, he paused, then set off, striding back to his house.

While she was spending her day swanning around the ton, he would spend at least a part of his arranging to ensure she didn’t accompany him to see Neville Roscoe.

She would understand once she’d thought it through; she knew him-understood men like him. She couldn’t possibly expect to spend the night in his bed, to acknowledge him-them-at least that far, and then expect him to take her, to stand back and allow her, to do something so reckless as to visit Neville Roscoe.

Letitia arrived at the Bastion Club a minute before Dalziel-two minutes before Justin slipped in via the back lane. She frowned at her brother as he sank into a chair in the library, but he merely smiled back.

She inwardly sniffed, and gave her attention to Christian as, for Dalziel’s and Justin’s benefit, he recounted what he’d learned from Gallagher.

“Roscoe.” Dalziel shook his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but our list of suspects already includes Trowbridge, Swithin, fourteen hell managers, countless possible disgruntled staff, business rivals-and to that we must now add all those who might have very good reasons to stop the deal with Roscoe going ahead. As that last crew include many who would consider murder an acceptable deterrent in such circumstances, we can’t discount them.”

“Actually,” Christian said, “Gallagher thought that last scenario unlikely. It seems everyone in that group is resigned to Roscoe growing more powerful. And as he keeps very much to himself and takes care not to impinge on their turf, then their motivation for not wanting to exchange Roscoe-plus-Randall for just Roscoe is hard to see.”

He paused, then added, “From my own observations, if Randall’s chosen buyer was Roscoe, then I’m inclined to think Gallagher is right-the others will back away and let him have that bone.”

Dalziel looked steadily at Christian for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s your area of expertise-if you think it unlikely, then by all means let’s erase them from our list. Even then, the list is too long, and we’ve made precious little headway in defining which of the available suspects we should pursue. Apropos of that, I’ll go with you to see Roscoe. I’ve heard about the man for years, but we’ve never met. See if you can set the meeting for tomorrow morning. I’ve other appointments, but for that I’ll make time.”

Christian nodded. He glanced at Letitia.

Before he could lay his tongue to adequate words with which to broach the subject, Dalziel did.

Like Christian, he’d looked at Letitia, but then his dark gaze moved on to Justin. “We’ll take Justin with us as Letitia’s representative.” His gaze returned to Letitia. “I doubt Roscoe will talk openly about any deal without some assurance, albeit by proxy, from you.”

“No.” Letitia all but visibly bristled; the air about her seemed to sharpen and crackle. “There’s no reason for Justin to risk exposure. I’ll accompany you.”

Dalziel’s dark gaze didn’t waver. “You can’t meet with Roscoe.”

A bald statement of what all the males in the room knew to be absolute fact.

She heard, not just the words but the nuance, that in no circumstances would they take her with them, would they allow her to go.

She drew in a quick breath and looked at Christian. The question-the plea-in her eyes was plain to see.

He read it-for one instant considered-but it simply could not be. He shook his head. “You can’t accompany us.”

Her eyes flared-not just with anger but with hurt, too, and something else he couldn’t define.

Before he could look deeper, she lowered her lids. An uncomfortable, heavily charged moment ensued; more familiar with her than the others, both he and Justin knew her emotions had erupted-that that was what was roiling through the air, rippling across everyone’s nerves, the projection of her temper.

The herald of an almighty explosion.

Justin uncrossed his legs and sat up-slowly. Christian looked at him; they exchanged a glance, but before either could react-could even think of how to-she reined the unruly passions in.

Not completely, but enough to let them all realize they’d been holding their breaths.

Before anyone could say or do anything, she seized her reticule and-without looking at any of them-inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your plans.”

She stood, swinging around so fast none of them caught sight of her face. Leaving them scrambling to their feet, head high she swept to the door, opened it and went through.

They heard her heels clattering-quickly-down the stairs, then the front door opened-and shut.

Feeling horribly awkward, and out of their depth, the five men stared at the open library door, then Justin sighed, walked forward and shut it.

The sound of the latch released them from the spell; they glanced at each other, then Dalziel looked at Christian and grimaced apologetically. “I take it I metaphorically stepped on her toes.”

Justin shook his head. “By the reaction, I’d say it was the ones with bunions.”

Christian drew in a breath; his chest felt tight, as if he were the cause of her distress. He caught Justin’s eye. “Just how”-he waved at the door-“upset is she?”

Justin grimaced and waggled his head from side to side. “She might throw a Vaux tantrum, she might be truly angry-or she might be in a rage. The last you never want to see, and unless I miss my guess, she was on the brink of that, but drew back from wreaking havoc on us-and while I thank God she did, I’ve never seen her do that. I didn’t know she could.”

Justin frowned; he met Christian’s eyes. “What worries me is that I’m not sure, if she is in a rage, that she’ll even be able to see straight.”

Christian felt an icy hand clutch his heart. “I’ll go after her.” He turned to the door. “I’ll arrange the meeting with Roscoe and send word.” Hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Dalziel. “Where will you be?”

“For my sins, at the office. If I’m to accompany you tomorrow, I’ll be there until late.”

Christian nodded and went out, closing the door behind him. Going down the stairs, he saw Gasthorpe hovering, uncharacteristically uncertain, by the front door. Without preamble he asked, “Which way did she go?”

“Toward Mayfair, my lord. On foot. I would have summoned a hackney, but she’d already…”

Stormed off. “That’s quite all right, Gasthorpe. I’ll see she gets home.”

Gasthorpe hurried to open the front door; Christian went out, went quickly down the steps, strode down the path, turned right into Montrose Place, then lengthened his stride.

He caught up to her just beyond the corner of Green Park. Head still high, reticule clutched in both hands, she was striding along-entirely forgetting her customary glide. He doubted she was paying any attention to her surroundings; people walking in the opposite direction took care to get out of her way.

Knowing well enough not to try to take her arm, he fell into step alongside her. He glanced at her face; her expression was far too stony for his liking.

She knew he was there, but she gave no sign.

Eventually, he asked, his tone the epitome of mild, “Why are you so set on seeing Roscoe?”

That was, apparently, the right question to ask to break the hold she was keeping on her temper.

She stopped walking, rounded on him; eyes blazing, she locked them on his. “It’s not Roscoe, you dolt! I couldn’t care less if I never set eyes on the man in my entire life!”

He searched her eyes, a frown in his; he was now entirely at sea.

She saw, and flung up her hands. “It’s you, you fool!” She thumped him on the chest with her reticule. “I don’t-can’t…”

He recalled-belatedly-her agitation over him seeing Gallagher.

She drew in a shuddering breath. Eyes still locked on his, she spoke through clenched teeth; although she didn’t actually stamp her feet, she managed to convey that impression. “I can’t handle not knowing what’s happening to you. Knowing you’re going into danger-and on my account. Knowing you like it, that you find it exciting-that you might do God knows what if the mood strikes you!”

Waving her hands, she continued to rail at him-in the middle of Piccadilly in the middle of the afternoon, with total disregard for the interested-nay, fascinated-onlookers.

He stood there and let her, while understanding slowly seeped into his brain.

“Didn’t you notice the damned track I wore in your rug last night? I’m a Vaux, for heaven’s sake-I can’t not know!”

He suddenly-in another road-to-Damascus revelation-saw the light. Just in time to stop himself from pointing out that he’d spent the past twelve years behind enemy lines doing supremely dangerous things. That wasn’t, he now realized, her point.

He suddenly realized, fully and completely, just what that was.

He would have beamed delightedly had he not also comprehended how strung up she was, how brittlely tense.

Finally comprehended that that was a measure of how much he now meant to her.

He trapped her gaze. “About Roscoe.”

She blinked, her tirade momentarily derailed.

Moving slowly, holding her gaze, he gently took her arm. “There is no physical danger of any sort involved in meeting with him.”

She frowned, but let him turn her and guide her onto the path behind her, one leading into Green Park. “So I can go?”

He steered her on, under the leafy trees. “Let me explain. While going to see Gallagher was dangerous, that danger stemmed from the area in which he lives, not from him. He might be an underworld czar, but he’s not about to attack anyone, at least not directly.” He glanced at her; she was looking ahead, as yet unmollified, but at least she was listening. “Regardless, even if Gallagher had lived in Chelsea, you still couldn’t have gone to meet him because of the risk of someone seeing you and speaking of it, ultimately resulting in a serious scandal. That-the threat to your reputation-was the reason, all physical danger aside, that you couldn’t go with me to meet Gallagher.

“The reason you can’t go to the meeting with Roscoe is the same-if anything, even more so. If you were seen entering or leaving his house, regardless of the circumstances, your reputation would be shredded irretrievably.” That caused her frown-the quality of it-to change. His eyes on her face, what he could see of it, he strolled slowly on. “Roscoe lives in Pimlico, in well-to-do affluence. If Gallagher was unlikely to pose a physical threat, Roscoe is even less likely-that would be totally and comprehensively uncharacteristic. Roscoe would think it beneath him to resort to violence of any sort.”

He drew breath, then quietly said, “So you don’t need to worry about me when I go to see him.”

She didn’t say anything, simply kept walking by his side. Then she glanced at him, quickly read his eyes, then once more looked ahead. And sighed-tightly, but a little of her dangerous tension slipped away. “I know it’s irrational-you don’t have to tell me, I know. I didn’t feel this way-well, not so strongly-before, when you went away to war, but now…” She gestured helplessly. “I can’t help how I feel. And what I feel-and when I feel…”

“It affects you strongly.” Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers. “I know. I understand.” She wouldn’t feel so powerfully unless she loved him even more powerfully.

He knew those feeling irrational fears couldn’t simply stop. And in her case, before, his “going into danger” had indeed been the prelude to something disastrous happening in her life; small wonder that she reacted badly to any such situation now.

“Tomorrow, I’ll go to see Roscoe with Dalziel and Justin in the morning, then I’ll come back-directly back-and tell you what happens, what he says, what we learn-what the status is regarding the sale of the company.”

The telltale tension that had kept her ramrod stiff beside him ebbed step by step. Eventually she glanced at him, met his eyes. “You promise you’ll come directly back?”

He smiled slightly, turned her around and started them back toward Piccadilly. “Word of an Allardyce.”

She nodded and looked ahead. “Good.” After a moment she added, “I’ll be waiting.”

But that was for the morrow. That night they met at his aunt Cordelia’s house, first in her drawing room, then later they sat side by side at her long table while a highly select company dined.

It was primarily a political gathering, a renewal of contacts before the autumn session got under way; discussions ranged widely. Now he was Dearne, and fixed once more at home, Christian knew he would need to take a more active interest. Somewhat to his surprise, he discovered Letitia was more than qualified to advise him.

When he cocked a brow at her-Randall had held no seat in either the Commons or the Lords-she shrugged. “I act as Papa’s surrogate of sorts. I keep an eye on events, and if I tell him his vote is needed, he’ll grumble but come down to cast it. These days Justin could do the job, but with their falling out, the task has remained with me.” She glanced around the table. The ladies had yet to retire, primarily because they were, one and all, too deeply involved in the discussions going on. “It’s at events such as this that one hears the true story. Not just what the news sheets say, not just what the Prime Minister might decree, but the true nature of affairs underlying the decisions, or forming the basis for those yet to come.”

She looked back at him. “Do you plan to be active in Parliament?”

He met her gaze. “Until I know more, I can’t say, but…if one holds a seat in the Lords by virtue of one’s birth, it seems incumbent on one to do what the job requires-just like any other part of the duties of a marquess.”

She considered him for a moment, then nodded. Looking about the table, she murmured, “In that case, you might want to consider…”

Over the next twenty minutes, she gave him a concise political history of those about the table, the ladies included. With the discussions still raging, Cordelia dispensed with the customary separation and the whole company rose and adjourned to the drawing room.

They circulated, then Cordelia swooped, captured Letitia and bore her off to clarify some point with two other ladies-leaving Christian to fall victim to Lady Osbaldestone.

Watching Letitia’s back-wondering if, once they left, he could persuade her to walk across the square rather than around the corner into South Audley Street-he didn’t even know that terrifying dame had him in her sights until he felt something strike his foot. Glancing down, he discovered it was her cane; he looked up and met her eyes, blacker than night, sharp and shrewd.

“You could do much worse,” she regally informed him, “than to follow what is clearly your inclination. Indeed, there are many of us who view Letitia’s previous marriage as a regrettable if unavoidable aberration, one that should be wiped from the collective conscious of the ton.” Her eyes bored into his. “We’re counting on you to accomplish that task. See you don’t let us down.”

With that, she inclined her head and moved on to her next target.

Letitia reappeared moments later. “Lady Osbaldestone said you were looking for me.”

He’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Indeed. I think we should leave. There’s something I should tell you, but not here.”

She agreed readily enough. They took their leave of Cordelia-who to Christian’s alerted eyes looked far too satisfied-then walked out into the night.

Once they’d gained the pavement, Letitia wrapped her shawl more snugly about her shoulders. “What did you want to tell me?”

Christian took her hand and drew her to walk beside him. He crossed the street and headed around the deserted square; the gates to the park in the center were locked at sunset. “Did you know that some of the ladies-who exactly, I don’t know, but Lady Osbaldestone at least-suspect you had some…for want of a better word, ulterior motive for marrying Randall?”

He glanced at her, saw the face she pulled. “I always worried they might-they’re so sharp-eyed, nothing much escapes them-but while Randall was alive, they kept their suspicions to themselves. I’d hoped they would continue to do so.”

“They are, they will…I think.” They would as long as he did as they wished.

“I gather she spoke to you-what did she say?”

“In her usual inimitable fashion she was cryptic, but I gathered she and they, whoever ‘they’ encompasses, were not at all happy about you marrying Randall.”

“They weren’t. But now he’s dead, so…” She shrugged. Frowning, eyes down, she kept pace beside him.

They’d reached the other side of the square. He led her up his steps, fishing in his waistcoat pocket for his latch key.

Only when they halted before the door did she look up and realize.

“This is your house.” Letitia looked at Christian.

He shrugged. “My bed’s bigger than yours.”

An unarguable point.

When he simply held her gaze, and waited, she inwardly shrugged. She waved to the door. “All right. Just as long as you remember to wake me up in time to walk me home.”

He smiled and opened the door. The truth was, she felt more comfortable there, in his house, than she ever had in Randall’s. And she had far greater faith in Percival’s discretion than she had in Mellon’s.

As it transpired, Percival wasn’t there to greet them.

Christian noticed her looking down the front hall. “I told Percival not to wait up.”

Of course he had. She caught his gaze as he drew her to the stairs. “You planned this-bringing me here.”

“Of course.” He looked ahead as they started climbing. “I told you there was something I wanted to tell you, and I can only tell you that here. Upstairs.”

She arched her brows, but he didn’t meet her gaze again, didn’t add anything as he led her to his bedroom.

He didn’t, in fact, say another word. Not for a very long time.

Instead he spoke with actions, more persuasive than any words could ever be. Both in the way his hands drifted over her body, reverently, worshipfully, in the way he reined in his desire enough to let her take the lead, for her to take her time stripping the clothes from his large frame, unwrapping him-discovering anew the heavy muscles, the strength, the hardness, the heat.

The solid reality of him, a male of her kind, in his prime-and he wanted her.

He’d never made any secret of that, yet that night when he reached for her, she sensed there was more. That this was what he’d wanted to tell her, as his lips moved on hers, as his tongue filled her mouth, as skin to naked skin his body claimed hers and his hands grasped, held while she clung.

I love you.

I need you.

Please be mine.

The litany replayed over and over in Christian’s mind. Love was a word that long ago had come very easily to them both. Now…now he knew what the word meant in all its pain and glory, he couldn’t simply say it-couldn’t let it fall from his lips like any other word.

Powerful, dominant, all-consuming. Love now burned, a strong, steady flame within him, and using a single, simple four-letter word to encompass all it was wouldn’t do.

Love had to be seen, felt, experienced.

To be fully expressed, love had to be let free, had to be allowed to burn, to claim and consume, to rack and then, in benediction, suffuse them with its gold and silver glory.

Love required surrender to be fully realized.

So he surrendered.

And let her see.

Love ruled him in the here and now, and into his future, just as it had for the past countless years, ever since he’d first laid eyes on her. Love between them was a reality that wouldn’t be denied, not by years of separation, not by Randall and his machinations.

That night, he told her. Told her he loved her with all his being-his heart, his body, his soul.

And when at last they lay in a tangled heap, racked, unable to move, satiation a heavy blanket weighing them down, he knew she’d heard, knew she understood.