The Edge of Desire

Chapter 2

After dining alone and reviewing and digesting the conversations and interactions of that afternoon, Christian-much to the disgust of his more vengeful side-felt compelled to call again at Randall’s house.

Not that he had any interest in the house; it was its mistress who drew him.

He’d thought he’d understood where he and she now were vis-à-vis each other, yet there were undercurrents between them he couldn’t explain. When he’d taken his leave of her that afternoon and she’d given him her hand, he’d grasped it-and felt her pulse leap, her breathing tighten.

Felt everything in him respond.

She reacted to him as she always had, if anything even more intensely-just as he was affected by her. He hadn’t expected either to be so, had assumed she’d loved Randall with all her considerable heart and soul, and that her attraction to him and his to her would consequently have faded, if not died.

Not so.

As he strode briskly down South Audley Street, his more vengeful side-the side her betrayal and marriage to Randall had brought into being-sneered. Contemptuously reminded him how he’d felt when Barton had so distressed her with Justin’s coat, how helpless he’d been to suppress the primitive response to protect and defend her-one that, at that intensity, only made sense if he loved her. If, in his heart of hearts, he still, despite all, saw her as his.

His to protect, even if she was no longer his to possess.

His position, he cynically admitted, was pathetic.

Inwardly frowning, he neared Randall’s house, a block south of Grosvenor Square-and saw, to his considerable surprise, every window ablaze with light, much as if a ball were taking place. Mystified, he went up the steps and rapped sharply on the black crepe-draped door.

Mellon looked flustered when he opened it; leaving his cane with the man, Christian strolled into the drawing room-and discovered the reason why.

The large room was packed with women. Ladies. A swift survey informed him they were all Vaux-those of the main line together with innumerable connections.

The Vaux were one of the very oldest ton families. They were all but legendary, one of those families everyone knew of and kept track of, a recognized cornerstone of society. Christian noted a few males among the crowd, all more senior than he, but the company was predominantly female-and all were talking.

Luckily in whispers and the soft tones considered appropriate to a house in mourning; he could hear himself think. Because of the crowd, many of whom were standing, and being Vaux were of the tall, commanding type of female, he was only seen by those in the groups nearest him. And while those ladies stopped talking long enough to take due note of him, to bob curtsies or nod as appropriate to his rank, they quickly returned to their hushed conversations.

Randall might not have been a Vaux, but he’d married one of their leading lights. His death therefore was of considerable note to the wider family, something to be acknowledged by attendance at this gathering, not a wake for the departed but a show of support for the bereaved.

Locating Letitia on a chaise by the hearth, Christian made his way toward her. Cleaving a path through the crowd, most of whom knew him, wasn’t easy; charm to the fore, he progressed by slow stages.

Which gave him time to study his target.

Seated between her paternal aunts-Lady Amarantha Ffyfe, Countess of Ffyfe, and Lady Constance Bickerdale, Viscountess Manningham-Letitia presided over the assembly with a calm, composed air.

Her expression clearly stated she knew this gathering had to be, and she was perfectly ready to host it and play her part…

Except she didn’t look bereft.

She hadn’t earlier, either, but he’d put that down to her concern for Justin, something that, in her, might be strong enough to override grief. Temporarily. But as he neared the chaise, he could see no evidence that she’d shed so much as a single tear for Randall.

In another female, he might suspect repressed grief, some emotional blockage that kept the woman in question in a state of emotional denial, barring all expression and the release of grieving. But the Vaux lived for emotion. The only way they knew to survive was firmly in the here and now, immersed in the immediate moment and unashamedly giving their emotions full rein.

Witness Letitia’s storm of the afternoon. That’s what happened with Vaux. They were, as one, single-minded when in the grip of their latest flight.

Letitia’s current flight should have been grief, but there was no sign, not even a hint, of that emotion when she raised her eyes to his face, giving him her hand as he bowed before her.

Her clear-eyed composure unsettled him; to gain time to regroup, he turned to acknowledge her aunts.

Lady Constance arched a brow at him. “Letitia mentioned she’d appealed to you over finding Justin. Not that the Continent might not be the best place for the boy, all things considered, but it would be nice to know where he’s gone.”

“Nonsense!” Lady Amarantha waved that aside. “He should come back and face his trial. It’s not as if anyone would convict him.”

Christian blinked; he looked to Letitia for guidance.

She promptly stood. “If you’ll excuse me, aunts, I must speak with Dearne.”

“Of course, dear,” Lady Constance said. “But later we must talk about the funeral.”

Promising to return and give that subject its due, Letitia grasped his arm and steered him toward a corner of the room; while others stopped them to express their condolences, to which she replied with her prevailing calm, they reached their destination in good time. Astonishingly, not one of those who spoke with her seemed at all perturbed by her lack of outward grief.

Turning to stand beside her and look out over the room, he bit his tongue against the urge to ask, baldly, whether she’d loved Randall. The question plagued him, yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

He’d always assumed she’d been head-over-ears in love with the man; that was the only circumstance he could imagine that might have been strong enough to make her turn aside from the promises they’d exchanged. Her promise to him that she would wait until he returned from the wars, that she would be no other man’s-that she loved him.

If she hadn’t loved Randall, why had she married him?

Why had she broken her promises to him?

Confusion wasn’t the half of what he felt.

In contrast, she clearly felt none. Surveying the company, she softly snorted. “They may be here because they’re family, but the truth is Randall’s murder is likely to be the juiciest scandal of the season. I can’t imagine what might trump it, especially with the rumor of Justin being involved.”

He frowned. “Has that got out?”

“Oh, yes.” Contrary to her lack of grief, there was no doubt of her anger. “Quite a few mentioned it in their greetings-they’d heard about it, including that Justin has disappeared-fled, as they’re putting it-long before they crossed this threshold.”

Christian looked down the room-at Mellon, hovering just inside the doorway.

“Indeed.” Letitia had followed his gaze. “I have absolutely no doubt Randall’s senior lackey is who we have to thank for that. He’s always hated Justin-hated, not just disliked.”

“Why is that? Justin, after all, is his master’s brother-in-law.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I have no idea.” She turned to face Christian. “We need to clear Justin of suspicion as soon as possible. The rumors will be rife by tomorrow.”

He met her gaze. “I’ll start searching in earnest tomorrow, but unless he’s merely gone to visit friends, or is staying somewhere reasonably obvious and hasn’t in fact deliberately gone to ground, then flushing him out isn’t going to be easy.”

She frowned. “I’ve racked my brains, but I have no clue where he’s gone. He didn’t mention leaving town.”

After a pause, Christian asked, “Why is it that no one seems to expect you to be wailing and tearing your clothes?”

“I’m a Vaux-I wouldn’t tear my clothes.”

“Possibly not, but you should be wailing.”

She met his eyes briefly. “Sorry, no wailing tonight. Nor any crying, either-it does terrible things to my complexion.”

He looked at her, simply looked. While she felt the weight of compulsion in his gaze, she had no intention of explaining why she wasn’t grieving for Randall. Especially not to him. Such an explanation would inexorably lead to further questions, ones she had even less interest in answering.

Their past was past. The promise of it dead and buried. Gone.

Stolen from her.

By Randall, and him.

Which was the reason she was making not the smallest pretense of grief or sorrow. Her agreement with Randall had ended on his death; she was free, now, to behave as she felt. Her only surprise was that, as Christian had remarked, none of her extended family seemed at all shocked by her lack of feeling; she’d thought she had done better at pretending to love Randall over the years.

She surveyed the room. “I wonder how long they’ll stay?”

About another hour was the answer. She wasn’t entirely surprised that Christian, denied the explanations he wanted, remained by her side, his charm disguising his determination.

When she’d squeezed fingers and touched cheeks with the last of the ladies and thanked them for their concern, she turned to him, met his gaze and arched a brow. “Well?”

He glanced around the now empty room, large and peculiarly lifeless; although it was furnished in expensive style, as she’d informed him, it wasn’t a room she favored. His gaze returned to her; he waved to the door. “Let’s go to the library.”

The library, she assumed, because it wasn’t her domain. She acquiesced with a nod, gracefully turned and graciously led the way.

All too aware that he prowled in her wake. The image of a stalking lion popped into her head. With his fairish brown hair, combined with his loose-limbed grace and the power inherent in his large body, the analogy was peculiarly apt.

But when they reached the library, he seemed somewhat at a loss. She sat in one of the armchairs by the hearth and watched him prowl the room, idly inspecting titles as he worked his way closer.

When he finally arrived before her, he stood frowning down at her. “I checked at the obvious clubs-Justin’s not staying at any of them. I’ll make the same rounds tomorrow and see if I can find anyone who’s sighted him.”

Christian paused, wishing he could simply ask her outright about her marriage. The trouble with interrogating her was that she rarely if ever lied; instead, as she’d demonstrated earlier, if she didn’t want to answer a question, she simply wouldn’t. Even if he could bring himself to browbeat her by enacting some dramatic scene, being a Vaux, she’d only trump whatever efforts he made.

Catching her gaze, holding it, he stated, “It would help-greatly-if you simply told me everything you know that might affect this situation.” Including how you felt about Randall. “I’m clearly missing vital pieces of the story.”

And not only over the issue of Randall’s death.

She merely raised her brows at him in that coolly superior way female leaders of the haut ton had perfected. “I have nothing to add to what I told you earlier.”

He had no intention of being so easily dismissed. “What was the subject of your argument with Randall-the one last night?”

She hesitated, clearly debating if that was a piece of information she could offer as a sop. She decided it was. “It concerned Hermione. Randall had hatched a nonsensical scheme to marry her off to the Duke of Northumberland.”

“Northumberland? He must be in his dotage.”

“He is, but that was of no concern to Randall. He wanted the connection to a dukedom. Being connected to an earldom-” She broke off.

When she didn’t continue, he dryly supplied, “Wasn’t enough?”

A faint flush touched her pale cheeks-anger, not embarrassment. “Indeed.”

“And the argument?”

Her gaze strayed to the empty hearth. “He’d been trying to convince me to support the notion over the last few weeks. Last night he pressed me to take Hermione on a visit to Northumberland’s estate. I refused.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “You argued with him for more than twenty minutes.”

Gaze still on the fireplace, she shrugged. “He put his case in detail, but of course I would never agree to such a thing.”

Her tone suggested that Randall was a fool to think she would…in the circumstances. What circumstances? Gritting his teeth, he quietly asked, “Why ‘of course’?”

He’d hoped her abstraction would have her answering before she’d thought, giving him some insight into her increasingly curious marriage. Instead, she slowly turned her head and looked at him. Steadily. Then simply said, “I would never countenance Hermione being used in such a way.”

Every answer he wrung from her only raised more questions-such as why Randall hadn’t understood that. Christian held her gaze, and felt his own temper stir. She wanted him to clear Justin of suspicion, but would offer only limited information.

For whatever reason, she was determined to tell him nothing of her marriage.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, that was the most urgent point he wanted to know.

He took one slow step closer, then leaned down, clamping one hand on each of the chair’s arms, caging her. Bringing his face much closer to hers, looming over her.

His nerves flickered; the scent of jasmine-the scent she’d always worn-teased his senses.

She didn’t press back, retreat, didn’t react in any fearful way to the blatant intimidation. Belatedly he remembered she’d always found his size-that he was significantly taller, heavier, and larger than she, and therefore capable of physically dominating her-exciting.

A lick of desire slid down his spine. He studied her eyes; at such close quarters in the dimly lit room they gleamed like beaten gold, shadowed and mysterious, giving nothing away. But her breathing had quickened. Her lips, when he glanced at them, had parted.

“If you recall”-his voice had lowered to a gravelly purr; slowly he brought his gaze back to her eyes-“I’ve yet to set a price for assisting you in finding Justin.”

The air between them all but crackled. Her lids lowered, but then she forced them up and locked her eyes on his. “Finding him, and clearing his name.”

Her words were breathless. His lips quirked. “Indeed. But finding him comes first.” He let his gaze drop to her lips. While he considered how to phrase his demand.

He wondered how her lips would taste now…

Wondered what he should ask-what she might give…

As if following his thoughts, she slowly stiffened, steel infusing her. He was jerked to full awareness when her lips firmed.

He glanced up at her eyes-and found them blazing.

“Just find Justin, and I’ll pay whatever price you care to name.”

The words rang with outright challenge. Raising her hands, she pushed against his shoulders-hard enough to make him straighten and step back.

She rose. Proud and haughty, she met his gaze, held it for a pregnant instant, then turned and swept toward the archway. “When you’ve found Justin, let me know.”

Christian watched her disappear into the parlor and inwardly swore.

Transferring his gaze to the cold hearth, he ran his hand through his hair. His temper quickly cooled; his arousal was less forgiving. Reassessing his position didn’t take long.

Turning, he stalked out of the house, picking up his cane and going quickly down the steps, then striding away along the street.

If finding Justin Vaux was what it would take to get him what he wanted, he’d find Justin Vaux.

Letitia knew the ton. It was the circle she’d been born into, in which she’d been raised, and in which she’d spent all her adult life. To her the ton wasn’t a fixed entity, but a fluid, dynamic cosmos that wise ladies navigated and-if they were truly powerful-learned to manipulate.

She hadn’t yet reached master status, but she was by no means a novice when it came to manipulating her peers.

Consequently, the next morning she dutifully donned her weeds, but rather than sit at home in the darkened front parlor, she called for her carriage and set out for the park. Hermione went with her, but after the previous evening’s event, their aunt Agnes, who lived with them and assisted Letitia in chaperoning Hermione, elected to remain abed.

“I thought,” Hermione said, her gaze on the coachman’s back, “that most widows remained indoors for at least the first few weeks.”

“Usually,” Letitia conceded. “But we are Vaux. Not even the most censorious dowager will expect us to sequester ourselves, not with a murder in the family.” She paused, then added, “Indeed, they’d most likely be highly disappointed if we did. And we’re hardly cavorting-merely taking the air.” Heaven knew, after last night she needed it.

Although the day was fine, a warm breeze gently teasing curls, flirting with ribbons, and rather irritatingly playing with her veil, as it was August, there were far fewer carriages drawn up by the verge in the park than was customary during the Season.

Those of the ton with country estates-which was to say most of the nobility-were presently on them, enjoying the summer and more bucolic pleasures. That still left a core of the aristocracy in residence, along with minor branches and connections, those whose sole residence was in the capital and who hadn’t been invited to someone else’s country house party this week.

While sorely in need of fresh air to blow the cobwebs-and the sensual miasma invoked by Christian Allardyce-from her brain, Letitia had another purpose-to assess the reaction of the ton to the news of Randall’s murder.

One couldn’t successfully manipulate society’s thinking without knowing the current situation.

She directed the coachman to draw in to the verge in a large gap between two landaus. The separation between her carriage and the others was sufficient to establish that she wasn’t courting gossip, wasn’t openly inviting discussion of Randall’s sensational death.

“I can see Lady Cowper climbing down from her carriage,” Hermione whispered. “She’s heading this way.”

“Good.” Letitia glanced at the lawns nearby. “You’ll have to give up your seat-the ladies won’t want to mention murder with your delicate ears about. I suggest you stroll, but don’t go far.”

Somewhat to her surprise, Hermione nodded. “All right.” Gathering her parasol, she opened the carriage door. The footman hurried to assist her to the ground.

Hermione loved listening to her elders gossip. Letitia, eyes narrow, studied her sister, suspicious, wondering…but then Emily Cowper reached the carriage and she had to give her attention to her ladyship, and the numerous others who followed in her wake. Emily, who had known her since birth, claimed precedence as an old family friend and joined her in the carriage. Most others merely stopped by the carriage’s side, to offer their condolences and hear whatever she felt able to tell them of the recent shocking events.

As she’d predicted, given that she and Hermione were appropriately garbed in black bombazine and she evinced no desire to encourage those stopping by to linger, their presence elicited no censure, especially not with Emily Cowper, patroness of Almack’s, sitting so solicitously beside her.

Letitia knew her ton.

As she’d expected, there were many who, along with their condolences, were only too happy to recount what they’d heard. To her dismay, the universal theme was that Justin, in a fit of the famous Vaux temper, had brutally slain his brother-in-law. Whether his temper had been aroused on his own account, or on hers, or on Hermione’s, was the chief point of conjecture.

No one-not one person-questioned Justin’s guilt.

Letitia was grateful for her veil; she’d never been especially good at hiding her feelings, and she certainly wouldn’t have been able to conceal her mounting dismay as lady after lady simply assumed Justin was Randall’s murderer.

The veil also allowed her, when from the corner of her eye she caught sight of a group amassing a little way from the carriage, to cut her eyes in that direction.

What she saw horrified her. What was Hermione doing?

Her sister, animated and exclaiming, stood at the center of a circle of fascinated ladies, young and old, all hanging on every word she uttered, increasingly hotly.

She was defending Justin. Letitia didn’t need to hear Hermione’s words to know that was so.

Swallowing a curse, she immediately developed a headache. Excusing herself to Lady Cowper and the other three ladies with whom she’d been speaking, she dispatched the footman to fetch Hermione with a message that she was needed immediately at the carriage.

Her sister broke off in mid-tirade, and ignoring those around her, came hurrying over. She gripped the carriage’s side. “What’s happened?”

Supremely aware of curious eyes, and even more curious ears, Letitia gestured weakly. “I have the most dreadful headache-we need to return to the house.”

Hermione frowned, surprised by the headache, something she knew Letitia rarely suffered from. “All right.” The footman opened the door and she climbed into the carriage.

Letitia gave the order to return to South Audley Street in a suitably faint tone.

Both footman and coachman were Randall’s people. While she could have spoken quietly enough to leave the coachman unaware, the footman, perched directly behind the seat on which they sat, was another matter. She resigned herself to holding her tongue-and her temper-until they reached the house.

Nevertheless, as they turned out of the park and into Park Lane, she couldn’t resist asking, “What were you talking so animatedly about?”

Hermione’s face took on a mulish cast. “Justin. I was telling them all that he couldn’t possibly have murdered Randall.”

As Letitia had feared. Behind her veil, she pressed her lips tight and said no more.

She reined her ire in while they traveled through light traffic back to the house, then waited some more as they descended from the carriage and climbed the steps. When they entered the front hall, with Mellon hovering, with entirely assumed calm she dispensed with her veil, leaving it with her gloves and reticule on the hall table, then, her movements invested with increasing tension, she swept into the front parlor. “Hermione, I’d like to speak with you. Now.”

Her sister blinked, then followed. Looking back at Mellon, Letitia instructed, “Please shut the door.”

Reluctantly, Mellon did. After eight years he knew the signs of a storm brewing, but with the door shut, he wouldn’t be able to hear clearly, not unless she screamed.

Not certain that she wouldn’t, once the door was shut she swung on her heel and stalked into the library.

Mystified, starting to frown, Hermione followed more slowly in her wake.

Letitia’s irate stride carried her to the fireplace. Dragging in a huge breath, she swung around and pinned her sister with a furious gaze as she paused in the archway. “What in heaven’s name did you think you were doing?”

Hermione’s mulish look returned. “I was defending Justin. Someone needs to, and I didn’t hear you saying much at all when those ladies came up to the carriage.”

Letitia struggled to find calm enough to form a coherent reply. She hauled in another breath, held it for an instant, then flung up her hands. “I know you’ve only limited experience of the ton, but you have to pay attention! You cannot-absolutely must not-defend Justin. Not with words. All that does-all it will have done-is confirm in everyone’s mind that he is in fact guilty.”

Hermione frowned. “Why? I was telling them specifically that he isn’t.”

“And why is that?” Letitia looked pointedly at her sister and answered the question, “Because you think he did indeed kill Randall.”

She started pacing before the hearth; when Hermione’s frown deepened to a scowl, she went on, “That’s how all those around you in the park will interpret your words. To the ton, a verbal denial is second best to an admission. A heated denial-and I saw how strongly you were speaking-is tantamount to outright confirmation.”

The belligerence in Hermione’s face slowly faded. “Oh.” After a moment, in a small voice, she asked, “Have I made things much worse?”

Still pacing, still trying to work off her temper, Letitia waved her hands. “More difficult, perhaps, but I don’t believe our position is irretrievable. I’ll just have to work harder to steer perceptions in the right direction.”

Hermione watched her for a minute, then asked, “How will you do that? Steer perceptions?”

“By seeding doubt. For instance, when those ladies mentioned Justin’s guilt, I was slightly startled, then puzzled that they’d come to such a conclusion. I didn’t try to argue them around, but instead left them with the suspicion that perhaps what they’d heard wasn’t what really happened.” She waved again, pacing further. “To manipulate the ton, you have to use guile and subtlety, not direct words.”

Hermione’s lips formed an O of comprehension.

Letitia’s pacing-now fueled more by burgeoning concern that contrary to what she’d told Hermione, her sister’s misguided efforts might just have sunk their cause-led her deeper into the shadowed library-far enough that she noticed a pair of highly polished Hessian boots.

The boots encased a pair of long legs. Halting, she whisked her gaze upward to Christian’s eyes; he was sitting in an armchair in the shadows, watching her. “What are you doing here?”

Her greeting was in no way encouraging, but he smiled nevertheless. The smile of a man who knew her well-well enough to know her temper was largely spent.

“I came to ask for information with which to pursue your errant brother, and”-his gaze switched to Hermione-“to again ask your sister what she knows.”

She swung to face Hermione in time to see her sister fight to banish consciousness from her expression. “Whatever you know, please tell us.”

When Hermione met her gaze, anxiety and even a touch of fear in her eyes, she urged, “We’re trying to help Justin-we can’t do that effectively without, as Dearne put it, reconstructing the crime. If you know something, anything relevant, we need to know.”

Hermione hesitated, then pressed her lips tight and shook her head.

Letitia sighed. “You’re not helping, dearheart. You must tell us-”

“I can’t!” Hermione’s response was almost a wail. Letitia got the impression she wanted to stamp her foot, but then her eyes filled with tears. “I…I don’t know anything.”

Spinning about, Hermione ran back through the archway.

An instant later they heard the parlor door shut.

Letitia closed her eyes and sighed again, this time feeling the accumulated tension and energy flowing away, leaving her drained.

Eyes closed, she stood there, before the hearth in Randall’s forgotten library, and tried to relocate her mental feet.

She sensed Christian draw near. She hadn’t heard him move, but her nerves ruffled as only he had ever made them do.

“She obviously knows something.” His voice, low and deep, came from beside her.

“Obviously.” She didn’t open her eyes.

“Why do you think she isn’t telling us-not even you?”

His quiet tone, his patient voice, led her mind where she didn’t want it to go. But she refused to back away from the truth. Her belief in her brother’s innocence was absolute; nothing could shake it. Opening her eyes, she moistened her lips, half turned to face him. “She won’t tell us because what she knows makes Justin appear guilty.”

Christian’s gray eyes held hers. “Yes.” A moment passed, then he asked, “Can you accept that he might be?”

She forced herself to think, to consider it-rationally rather than emotionally-but emotion in this instance was too strong. “No.” She shook her head. “He didn’t kill Randall. Justin might be popularly known as a rake and a gamester, as a profligate hellion, but he’s no murderer.”

Calmly she met Christian’s steady gray gaze. “You know that as well as I.”

After a moment he nodded. “Unfortunately, the ton doesn’t share our opinion.” He moved back a little, giving her space to breathe. “What did Hermione do?”

She told him.

“How much damage did she cause?”

She glanced at the archway, but Hermione hadn’t returned. “Considerable, unfortunately. Some of the most avid gossips, finding that I wasn’t about to feed the scandal, had passed from me to her. She largely undid what I’d done, and then went further.”

She frowned, imagining the outcome and how she might deal with it.

“What are you planning?”

She glanced up, met his eyes. “I’ll have to appear rather more than I would like, but it has to be done.” Raising a hand, she brushed back a loosened lock from her temple, noted that his eyes followed her hand. She turned away. “As I told Hermione, I need to seed doubt-and now I need to do it in far more minds. If the ton grow convinced beyond shaking that Justin is guilty, proving him innocent won’t be enough to clear his name. Even if he’s officially exonerated he’ll never recover his standing. I can’t let that happen. One day he’ll be the Earl of Nunchance and head of the House of Vaux.”

When Christian didn’t reply, she glanced at him. Hands on his hips, he was staring at the floor, a frown marring his handsome face. She grasped the moment to study it, felt as always a visceral tug-searched for distraction and recalled that he’d come to ask for information. “What did you want to ask me?”

He glanced up. She saw him think back-clearly whatever had caused that frown had been something else.

“I need to know the names of Justin’s friends and associates. However many names you know.”

She grimaced. “That’s not all that many.” She thought, then recited, “Ludwell and Arkdale. Geoffrey Amberly. Rittledale. And Banningham. Those are all I know for certain, at least over the last years.”

Christian nodded; he lowered his arms. “I’ll ask around and see what I can learn.” He stepped closer. “We need to locate Justin and get him to tell us what went on. Tell Hermione that’s what I intend to do.”

Letitia’s eyes widened, but she held her ground. Inclined her head. “I will. But she’s stubborn.”

He held her green-gold gaze. “Aren’t you all?”

Once again they were close; once again excruciating awareness arced and all but crackled between them. The past seemed tangible, a web of feeling threatening to snare them anew. Yet…seeing the deep worry clouding her eyes, he couldn’t resist lifting one hand and gently touching the back of one finger to her pale cheek.

Her eyes flared. Ruthlessly suppressing his answering response, he lowered his hand and stepped back. “I’ll let you know what I learn.”

With a brisk salute, he turned-then turned back. “One thing. Barton’s outside, keeping watch. If Justin sends word, or by some chance you find you can get a message to him, warn him not to go to his lodgings, or to come to this house.” He hesitated, then said, “Tell him to come to mine.”

She studied his eyes, then nodded “All right.”

With a vague wave, he turned and left her-standing before her husband’s empty hearth.

Christian swung down the steps into the street and set off for Grosvenor Square.

All those who caught a glimpse of his face gave him a wide berth.

One part of him-the vengeful part-couldn’t believe what he was doing. That, once again, he was falling under the spell of Letitia Vaux, the Jezebel who’d ripped his heart from his chest and then later thrown it away.

Wanting to knock Barton’s teeth down his throat was one thing; given how the runner had behaved, he would probably have felt as strongly had it been any gently bred lady. Or so he’d tried to tell himself.

But today…it was one thing to discover that he still lusted after her as intensely as he ever had, but to allow himself to feel tender toward her-what sort of self-flagellating moron was he?

Even more to the point, how had his plans of revenge, admittedly vague and unformed, degenerated to such a degree? To where he now wanted to comfort her, to soothe her and ease her way?

A scowl darkening his features, he strode along and couldn’t think of an answer. The truth was, when he’d seen her today, bowed down not only with worry for her brother but having to battle the ton’s perceptions, and then shouldering the additional burden Hermione had unwittingly created, all because she understood that for them, in their circle, family came first…he’d understood, to his soul he’d been touched, and he’d felt…

Something he hadn’t felt in years.

Reaching the pavement before his front door, he halted and stared at the highly polished panels.

The truth was…even though he knew that she hadn’t truly loved him, that contrary to what he’d believed, all that they’d shared in the past had been nothing more than a passing fancy to her, it didn’t seem to matter.

He’d loved her then.

And he still did.

Dragging in a breath, he slowly let it out, then marched up the steps and let himself into his house.