The Edge of Desire (14 page)

Justin fixed his eyes on Christian’s face. “Given the whole…” Searching for words, he gestured. “…
situation
between Letitia and Randall, and how that had echoes in this business about Hermione, I honestly thought he’d pushed her one step too far. That she’d seen red, picked up the poker when he turned away from her, and struck him. And killed him.”

“You didn’t think to go up and ask her—see her, find out, what state she was in?”

Justin grimaced. “I honestly didn’t know if she
knew
she’d killed him—as I said, the blow wasn’t that easy to see. She might just have struck him, not realized she’d struck so hard, then just flung down the poker and stormed out. Not the most likely thing, not with anyone else, but with her and Randall…well, it wasn’t inconceivable.”

“And you weren’t really thinking all that clearly.”

“Well, no. All I could think about was that she’d killed
him, and all because of her marriage to him—all to protect the family, and that even then, she was protecting Hermione….” Justin’s jaw hardened. “I just thought it was time someone in the family protected
her
.”

Christian had question upon question crowding his mind—about Letitia, her marriage, the “situation”—but he forced himself to concentrate first on clarifying what had happened that night. “Let’s say it was eleven forty-five when you entered the study and found Randall dead. Mellon saw you leave the house, and he admitted he’d already been in bed for a time.”

Justin nodded. “I told him to take himself off, that I’d see myself in.”

“So he said. But Letitia must have left Randall shortly after that. You know your sister—she might rant, but the longest she’ll go for is ten minutes, then she runs out of steam, runs out of temper—and usually storms out and away from whoever she’s screeching at. In this case Randall. And that’s exactly what she says she did—so she must have left Randall at, say, ten thirty-five. Ten-forty at the latest.”

Frowning, Justin nodded for him to continue.

“So you find Randall at eleven forty-five, and wield the poker—but according to my knowledgeable surgeon, while Randall was definitely dead before you struck him, he’d only been dead for fifteen to thirty minutes at most. Not the hour that would have been the case if Letitia had killed him.”

Justin looked incredulous. “Someone else was there?”

Christian nodded. “It appears someone else saw Randall between she and you.”

“I didn’t hear anyone else arrive.” Justin grimaced. “Not that I necessarily would have.”

“Mellon swore no one did.” Christian reviewed what he now knew. “We’ll have to follow that up later, once we’re back in London.” He refixed his gaze on Justin’s face. “Let’s leave the mechanics of Randall’s death aside and concentrate on motives. What is it about Randall’s marriage to Letitia that explains all this?”

Justin blinked, then stared, expressionless, at him. Then he blinked again. “You don’t know?”

“Obviously not.”

Justin let his puzzlement show. “But why hasn’t she told you?”

A rhetorical question, but he gritted his teeth and replied, “You’ll have to ask her. But for now, why don’t you tell me.”

Justin’s perplexity turned to a frown. After a long moment he said, “It’s not my place.” His frown deepened, then he shook his head. “I can’t understand
why
she hasn’t told you.
Before
, I can understand—you never went near her, and so never gave her the chance…not that if she’d wanted to she couldn’t have created a moment. But now she’s asked you for help, and you’ve been seeing her for what? Six, seven days? And she
still
hasn’t told you?”

Christian looked at him. “Just tell me.”

There was that in his voice that brooked no further argument.

Justin met his eyes, raised his brows fleetingly, then capitulated. “I knew you and Letitia planned to marry, that she’d sworn to wait for you to return from the wars.”

He wasn’t surprised; Justin and Letitia had always been close.

“All was well until eight years ago. All just rolling along as it usually did, then suddenly—no warning whatever—m’father informed us, Letitia and me, that we—the Vaux, the family—were bankrupt.”

Christian blinked.

Justin saw and grimly nodded. “Indeed. Somehow, he’d run through the entire fortune, and it wasn’t a small amount.”

“How?”

“Investments.” Justin’s lips curled, and Christian knew what had turned him so conservative. “Somehow or other—it was never clear—the whole lot had gone. Worse, we were in debt, and sinking fast. There was no way back, no way
out. Except…at just that time, Randall, who Letitia had met but only in passing, made an offer for her hand. The pater refused, of course—when Randall pressed, Papa intimated that the family weren’t flush with funds. Not long after, Randall came back—with a complete and accurate summation of the family’s finances, and a plan to resurrect them.”

“Let me guess—the plan included Letitia marrying him.” He heard himself ask the question, but part of his mind had already disengaged. Was already absorbed with another, quite different question.

“Not included—the plan was
contingent
upon their marriage. And not just that. There were conditions. Some of them I don’t know—once she’d decided she had to do it, Letitia took it upon herself to finalize those with Randall. I do know that part of the agreement was that there would be no hint whatever that Letitia had married to secure the money—that he’d bought her, as it were. He insisted, and she ultimately agreed, that to the ton and the world, the marriage had to appear to be a love match.”

“Was there any chance Randall was in any way connected with the bad investments your father made?” Again the words fell from his lips perfectly sanely; inside his skull, a chant of
Why, why, why?
was starting to pound.

Justin met his eyes. “There was no hint of it.” Then he added, “Not then.”

That recaptured his attention; he narrowed his eyes. “But now?”

“When Randall started proposing investments to me, I got suspicious. Knowing why he was doing it, there was just too much of an echo with the past. I started asking around. I haven’t found anything definite, but…the feeling’s still there. That if all those years ago we’d looked more carefully, we would have found a connection.”

“Is that what’s behind your rift with your father?” Some small part of his mind persisted in filling in the gaps. The rest was consumed with more pressing issues.

Justin sighed, closed his eyes. “Yes. I couldn’t—still can’t—forgive him for losing all that money. For putting all our futures at risk, for being the reason Letitia sacrificed herself—her happiness, the future she should have had—to secure ours.” He opened his eyes. “That’s what I can’t stand—it still rankles. Every time I see him.”

Christian nodded absently.

A moment ticked past. He was about to push back from the table—to pursue the urgent need building inside him—when Justin, who’d been broodingly studying him, said, “You know, I take it back. I
can
understand why Letitia hasn’t told you. You should have known how it was. She loved you. The only thing that might have swayed her was duty to the family—you had to have known that.”

The observation gave him pause. He hadn’t known that because…

Regardless, a lack of faith on his part didn’t excuse the oversight—the slight—implicit in Justin’s story. He dragged in a huge breath. “I…see.”

He could hardly speak—couldn’t think. The emotions churning inside him were so powerful he wasn’t even sure he could stand. He pushed up from the table. “If you’ll excuse me…I’ll see you in the morning.”

Puzzled, curious, but after one glance at his face not about to detain him, Justin nodded.

As he reached the door, Justin called, “You may as well bring Letitia with you tomorrow. She’ll be happier once she sees me.”

He raised a hand in acknowledgment but made no reply. He had no idea what state Letitia would be in come morning.

He might just have strangled her by then.

Leaving the lodge, he strode swiftly, increasingly quickly, back to the house.

L
etitia heard Christian’s footsteps an instant before he flung open the door to her room. Catching the door’s edge with one hand, his gaze pinned her where she sat swiveled around in surprise on the stool before her dressing table, then he stepped into the room—and slammed the door behind him.

He stalked toward her, glowering furiously. More angry than she’d ever seen him, angrier than she’d thought he could be. His face was pale, his nostrils pinched. As he drew near, his eyes reminded her of thunderheads, roiling and dangerous.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me
why
you married Randall?”

The words were uttered with such vehement force, a lesser woman would have quailed.

Unimpressed, she swung her legs around so she was facing him, and arched her brows. “And what good would that have done? Now, so long after the fact?” She realized the implication, and calmly continued, “From which question I take it you found Justin. Where is he?”

Halting before her, he glared down at her. “In the lodge in the park.”

She frowned. “Damn! I’d completely forgotten it existed. I thought it was derelict—Justin’s the only one of us who’s ever had any interest in it. Of course, over recent years he’s spent much more time here than I have. I’ve hardly—”

“
Don’t
change the subject.”

She looked up into his face. “I thought Justin was the subject. Or is that the object? Of our search, that is. Now we’ve found him—”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her up so they were face-to-face. “Why, why,
why?
Damn it,
why
didn’t you send for me?
Why in all Hades did you marry that bounder instead?”
His roar all but echoed through the room. “Why didn’t you give me a
chance
to fight for you—for us?”

She looked into the turbulent tumult of his gaze, saw his hurt fury, the accusation, sensed his rage through his grip on her arms.

Felt all the old rancor she’d suppressed for years rise up and swamp her.

She lifted her chin, perfectly evenly replied, “Why didn’t I tell you?” She widened her eyes at him. “But I did. At least, I tried. I wrote to you—sent for you.
Begged you for help
. My letters were returned unopened. They didn’t know of you at the Guards.”

Her last words sent a chill through Christian, effectively dousing his ire. He searched her eyes. Realizing how hard he was gripping her arms, he eased his hold. Simultaneously he ransacked his memories, confirming that all those years ago…he never had told her what he’d actually been doing on the Continent. Never told her that while he was a major in the Guards, he hadn’t been serving with any of the regiments.

“Justin even went to Horse Guards and asked.” Her voice remained studiously uninflected. “They admitted you’d once been a serving officer, but they said you were off their books and they didn’t know where you were.”

He looked into her eyes, melded gold and green, and sensed her banked fury. His mind was reeling, his mouth dry; he moistened his lips. “I—”

“So there I was.” She spoke over him, clinging to that same, terribly even tone, as if she weren’t speaking of an event that had critically, cataclysmically, affected her.
“If I agreed to marry Randall and pretended it was a love match, I could save my family from certain ruin. If I didn’t agree…”

She met his gaze, her own hard and unforgiving. “You tell me—what choice did I have? My lover, my sweetheart, my closest friend, who I
thought
loved me, had deserted me. Vanished from the face of the earth. Deliberately. We contacted your people—even they didn’t know how to reach you.”

Only his father’s solicitor had known whom to contact, and she hadn’t known about him. Because he hadn’t told her. He’d blithely assumed he’d be able to write to her, but once he was in deep cover in central France, it simply hadn’t been possible.

Her lips curved in a bitter, brittle smile. “So please don’t suggest that I betrayed you. I know that’s what you’ve thought all these years. Well you can wallow in self-pity as long as you choose, but don’t—please don’t—ever expect me to indulge you. I didn’t betray you.” Head rising, smile fading, she sucked in a tight breath. “If anyone was betrayed, it was
me
.”

He swallowed, released her, lowered his hands. Eased back a step. His gaze locked with hers, his mind was a swirling jumble of unfinished—unfinishable—thoughts. All he’d known as fact, the framework underpinning his smoldering anger, had been ripped away, his perceptions turned literally upside down. He didn’t know how to defend himself—didn’t see how he could.

He took another step back.

Fury lit her eyes and she came after him. She jabbed a finger into his chest. “I had a
right
to your support and consideration, even then. You gave me
neither
.” Her voice grew in volume and dramatic force. “You hadn’t even seen fit to speak to my father, so I couldn’t appeal to him, or to yours, for help. Couldn’t suggest that there might be another way out rather than by me marrying Randall.”

He flung his hands out to his sides. “You
know
why I
didn’t speak—we discussed it. I might have been killed, and you were so young—you would have been tied to me, mourning me.” He held her gaze. “Christ, I would have given a king’s ransom for you—you know that.”

“Indeed? Much good did that do me.” Eyes glittering, she advanced and he gave ground. “Where
were
you, Christian? Where were you when I needed you?”

Raising one hand, she halted. “No, wait—don’t tell me. I believe I know.” Her eyes blazed. “‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.’ Isn’t that the motto you swear by? Isn’t that what you
chose
to do, all those years ago?”

He stopped backing away. “It wasn’t like that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, yes it was. You chose to go and play not just soldiers but spies, to get even closer to the enemy. You left behind your friends—you left
me
behind—for that. For the
thrill
.”

She held his gaze. “You needn’t think to deny it. I know you rather well, if you recall. We aren’t so very different—you just hide all your passion behind an imperturbable mask while I let mine show. You
lusted
after excitement—that’s what drew us together in the first place—so when a certain gentleman crooked his finger and offered you the chance, you grabbed it—and went. For twelve years.”

“I wasn’t doing nothing all those years.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure you weren’t.” She started to pace; he was forcefully reminded of a cat lashing its tail. “I’m quite sure you were indulging your craving for excitement to the hilt. But you didn’t want me to know about that. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me about your new if temporary life. Instead, you left me here, alone, unclaimed, unspoken for, to weather whatever storms fate sent my way. As it happened, fate sent Randall.”

He dragged in a huge breath, ran a hand through his hair. His chest felt as if it had been put through a mangle. He looked into her expressive face, saw all she’d held back, all she’d felt for so long—finally saw what had built the wall
he’d sensed between them—and didn’t know how to breach it, how to reach her.

Only knew he had to.

Her lashes lowered, screening her eyes. She, too, drew in a breath, and held it. He sensed her drawing back, reining her temper in, realized that—the Vaux love of drama notwithstanding—she wasn’t going to, didn’t want to, lose it. Not now, not with him.

That seemed strange. Here, surely, was a grand stage—a grand passion tailormade for her to indulge in to the very top of her bent. A matter in which she was totally in the right, and he totally in the wrong.

But rather than rail at him, she turned away. Which only made him feel even more desperate. Head rising, she walked back to her dressing table. “One thing.” Her voice was cool, clear; she didn’t glance back at him. “I will not be blamed for doing what had to be done—not by you, not by anyone.”

Reaching her dressing stool, she stepped around it and sat. With dreadful calm, she reached up to unpin her hair. “Close the door behind you.”

He looked at her, for long minutes studied her, then he walked slowly forward until he stood directly behind her. He searched the face in the mirror—a face he knew better than his own, one that had inhabited his dreams for so many years he’d lost count.

A face that now was shuttered against him.

He hadn’t realized she could do that. He was certain, would have sworn that before—before he’d left her twelve years ago—she’d never be able to hide any of her vibrant emotions from him.

But the years between—the years with Randall—had taught her how to veil her inner self, to hide her feelings—to shield her heart.

The heart that once had been his, unreservedly.

“I’m sorry.”

The words fell from him, direct from his heart.

Her eyes sparked anew. She looked up, in the mirror met his gaze.
“Sorry?”
Temper, disgust, and disbelief mingled in her tone; her eyes were burning disks of fury. “Sorry for all the years I lay beside that man? Sorry for all the nights I had to put up with his rutting?” Her voice changed. “Do you want to hear that he was a dreadful clod of a lover? Because he was. You at twenty-three knew far more than he ever learned.”

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to defend himself against the accusation in her eyes. He held her gaze, forced himself to, and hoped she could see how much he hurt, how much her words had cut him, how much he now bled, for her.

She seemed to. She drew another careful breath, again drew back from her dangerous edge. She refocused on her reflection; her face stony again, she reached up and pulled another pin from her hair. For a moment he wasn’t sure she was going to say anything more. He was floundering, trying to find some verbal way forward, when she drew in an unsteady breath and in a voice devoid of emotion stated, “You left me. You made my bed for me, and I was the one who had to lie in it—with Randall.”

He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. They’d always—in the past—been open with each other. “Can you forgive me?”

Again she didn’t immediately answer, but continued pulling pins from her hair. Then he sensed rather than heard her sigh. “If you want the truth, I honestly don’t know.”

He heard, knew that
was
the truth—and it terrified him. Sent a sheet of ice-cold fear cascading through him.

To have her within his grasp and lose her again…he knew, in that instant, that he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t live with that.

That he had to, somehow, find a way to recapture lost dreams—his, and hers.

She pulled out the last pin and her hair tumbled down, falling across her shoulders in a dark mahogany wave. The
sight held him; he watched as she picked up a brush and applied it to the silky locks.

A minute ticked by, then he turned away. He knew, beyond doubt or question, that if he left her now, backed away from her revelations, he would never win her back. Stopping by a chair, he shrugged out of his coat, set it over the chair’s back, then unbuttoned his waistcoat, then set his fingers to his cravat.

Wielding her brush, she glanced at him, frowned, opened her mouth…after a moment she shut it again. She studied him for a moment more, then rose and, brush in hand, walked to the window. Slowly brushing, she stood looking out at the night.

He unraveled his cravat, dispensed with it and his waistcoat, then sat on the chair to pull off his boots. Setting them aside, he rose, yanked his shirt from his waistband, loosened the collar. He glanced at her, then, unlacing his cuffs, crossed silently to her.

Halting behind her, close, he waited while she finished brushing out one long tress, then slid the brush from her fingers and placed it on the chest of drawers beside the window.

She said nothing, did nothing.

He reached for her, wrapped her in his arms and simply held her. Waited, his cheek against her sleek head, until at last she relaxed, until she leaned back against him. He tightened his hold, swore on his heart, on his soul, that he would never again let her go.

Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her temple. Murmured, “I have one last question. When you came asking for my help, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you mention what’s been standing like a six-foot-thick wall between us?”

He wasn’t sure she’d give him an answer; he couldn’t demand one. Her hands resting over his at her waist, she continued to look out into the night.

Then she lifted one shoulder. “Pride, I suppose. That was all that was left to me.”

He tried to keep them back, but the words came out anyway. “Was it really so easy to hate me?” He used the term in the full knowledge that she never did anything by half.

Her chin rose. “It’s become a habit.”

“Break it.” Not demand, not command. A suggestion.

“Why?”

The response he’d expected. He turned her to him, into his arms. Looked into her eyes. “Because of this.”

He bent his head and kissed her—and knew he would have only this one chance. One night to give her reasons to try again. One night to make her believe in him again.

One night to find some hope that she would trust him again. Sometime.

That sometime she would be, again, as she had been long ago.

His.

Unquestionably. Incontrovertibly. Irrevocably.

He knew well enough not to try to overwhelm her, but kissed her gently, waited for her response before coaxing her into more. She kissed him back, tentatively at first, as if she hadn’t yet made up her mind to allow him into her bed—even though they both knew she had.

Although he hadn’t seen them, he tasted tears on her lips. On her tongue when he parted her lips and surged inside. He gathered her closer and deepened the kiss, let her feel all she did to him, and all he did to her.

Let her sense how much she meant to him.

No screens. No veils. No reservations.

The time for those was past.