The Edge of Desire (32 page)

“You didn’t have a choice. I know that now.”

He kept his gaze locked with hers. She searched his eyes, his expression, considered what she saw. Then she quietly said, “Your head knows that. But does your heart?”

The question hung between them.

She did, indeed, know him very well.

He looked inward, found, sensed, the lingering threads of his years-old anger—yet as he looked deeper, as he searched for the truth with which to answer her, he felt those threads wither and crumble. Blow away.

What he saw, what he found…

Between them now only the truth would do.

He felt his lips curve in self-deprecating cynicism; he’d been a fool to imagine his heart had ever been, or could ever be, otherwise.

“My heart?” He refocused on her eyes, held her gaze steadily. “My heart only ever had one thought, one want. One need. Despite all, in spite of all.” He felt as if he were sinking into the golden depths of her eyes. Let go. “All my heart has ever wanted is you.”

The moment stretched, then he asked, “What of yours?”

“Mine?” Her gaze remained unwavering while she de
bated whether to answer. Eventually she said, “I put my heart aside a long time ago. I locked it in a casket and buried the key.”

Her meaning was clear. She’d protected her heart in the only way she could.

And she wasn’t yet ready to trust him with it again.

He didn’t try to argue. Instead he merely nodded and settled his head once more on her breast. Waited until her fingers returned to stroke his hair before murmuring, “Then I’ll have to find the key.”

Tie her up fast.

Fast as in quickly, fast as in tightly. Both applied.

She might be stubborn, but he was stubborner. He was in her bed, in her arms. He had her with him again, and he wasn’t going to let her go.

T
he next day, Sunday, Christian escorted Letitia, Agnes, and Hermione to church—raising untold eyebrows and causing Letitia to send him increasingly narrow-eyed looks.

But as they walked the short distance back along South Audley Street, she saw his curricle waiting, with his chestnuts between the shafts.

Strolling beside her, he leaned nearer and murmured, “I thought you might enjoy a drive to Richmond.”

She glanced at him, met his eyes, then looked ahead. “I suppose that will keep me from wearing a track in the carpet.”

So they parted from Agnes and Hermione, and he handed her up.

The drive to Richmond was refreshing, oddly peaceful. The day was fine, but a brisk breeze blew beneath the trees, enough of a deterrent to keep many away; the broad swaths of lawn were, if not deserted, then at least not crowded.

Her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, they walked, and talked of events long past. By unspoken agreement they avoided the subject highest in her mind—their plans for tomorrow, and what they might find.

The wind whipped the ribbons of her black bonnet across his chest. In her black gown, with her alabaster skin so pale against the contrast of her dark red hair, she looked even more slender, even more femininely fragile than usual.

She wasn’t fragile, at least not physically, yet the hint of vulnerability the black emphasized—that he saw when, while thinking of him she glanced at him—wasn’t something she’d possessed long ago.

Now that he recognized it for what it was, his heart constricted and his chest felt tight every time he glimpsed it.

Time, he hoped, would help him eradicate it.

After a brisk ramble under the trees, they repaired to the nearby Star and Garter for lunch. He encouraged her to tell him all she knew of recent ton scandals; the time passed swiftly and easily.

Leaving the hotel, they took one look at the deepening gray of the sky and headed for the curricle. The drive back was uneventful, but instead of taking her to South Audley Street, he drove to Grosvenor Square instead.

Pulling up outside Allardyce House, he tossed the reins to his groom, who came running to the horses’ heads, then he stepped down to the pavement, turned and helped Letitia alight.

In response to her questioning look, he waved to the house. “We can have afternoon tea here. I’ve a pile of correspondence I need to look through.”

Because he’d been spending all his time with her. Letitia inclined her head and consented to be led inside.

Christian’s butler, Percival, recognized her. His face lit in a most unbutlerish way. He recovered and bowed low. “My lady. Welcome to Allardyce House.” He straightened. “If I may take your bonnet…”

“Yes, of course.” Letitia undid the ribbons, lifted the poke bonnet with its demiveil free of her hair, and laid it in Percival’s waiting hands.

“We’ll have tea in my study, Percival.” Christian took her arm and steered her down a corridor leading from the front hall.

“Indeed, my lord. At once.”

She hadn’t seen his study before; it had previously been his father’s domain. She found herself curious; she didn’t
lack for distraction while he sat behind the large desk and steadily worked through a stack of letters.

Tea arrived. She poured, sipped, and sampled the scones that had arrived with the pot. They were delicious. As Christian had his head down, tea cup in one hand, she finished three scones, then took pity and called his attention to the last one.

By the time she finished her second cup of tea, he’d polished off the scone and finished with his correspondence.

He rose. “Come—we’ll walk back to the house.”

Not her house or “Randall’s house.” She’d noted he rarely uttered Randall’s name if he could avoid it, most especially in relation to her.

In the front hall, she reclaimed her bonnet. While securing it, she glanced at Percival, saw he was regarding her with a smile. “Please tell the cook that the scones were superb.”

Percival’s smile widened as he bowed. “Indeed, my lady. She’ll be thrilled to hear you enjoyed them.”

She suppressed the impulse to arch one brow. Had Christian said something to his staff? She glanced at his face, as arrogantly austere as ever, and doubted it.

They walked briskly to South Audley Street through the fading day.

Reaching the front steps, she paused—and glared across the street. “He’s
still
there!”

Christian grasped her elbow and turned her up the steps. “I warned you he’d be dogged.”

“But it’s Sunday!” On principle she glowered at Mellon when he opened the door.

Christian followed her in. And stayed.

For dinner, then through a long game of loo with Hermione and Agnes. When at last they were packing up the board and counters, he glanced at Letitia, and was satisfied. She might have thought about their appointment at the banks tomorrow, but at least she hadn’t had time to obsess. Like her, he couldn’t imagine anything good lying beneath the cloak of Randall’s secrecy, yet regardless, they had to lift it off and look.

She was, for the moment, relaxed and at peace. Over the last days, while he’d been intent on distracting her, he’d also been consciously wooing her—for the first time. Before, when they’d first known each other, he hadn’t had to exert himself; their mutual attraction had drawn them inexorably together, without any extra effort from him.

Now, however, while he might be sharing her bed, that mutual attraction wouldn’t serve to convince her he truly wanted more from her. He hoped the past day had opened her eyes, at least a little, that she’d seen he wanted to share not just a bed but a life, with all the simple pleasures that entailed.

The following morning, they were at the doors of the Piccadilly branch of Rothchild’s Bank when it opened at ten o’clock. Christian requested to see the manager; they were shown into an oak-paneled office almost immediately.

Letitia sat back, from behind her veil watched as Christian shamelessly used his rank and title to bend the manager, a Mr. Hambury, to his will.

She wasn’t at all surprised that Hambury bent very quickly.

“Indeed, my lord! Of course—I’ll instruct the teller to…er, look your way and nod when the deposit in question is made.”

“While the deposit is in progress would be best.”

Letitia gave thanks for her veil; it hid her amusement. Christian’s drawl was outrageous, his arrogant pose as he lounged in the chair beside hers the epitome of the powerful, bored aristocrat.

She couldn’t complain; the ploy gained them what they wanted.

On returning to the main chamber of the bank and taking up positions along one wall from where they could keep the two tellers in full view, they saw Hambury exit his office by another door and move among the clerks. He spoke first to one teller, then the other—in both cases the
tellers looked across at them, then back at Hambury and nodded.

A harassed looking underclerk came hurrying out with a chair for her. He set it down, bowing low; she smiled, murmured her thanks, and sat.

Two minutes later Hambury, who’d disappeared into the depths of the bank, came out again and headed their way, another older clerk with a visor shading his eyes following at his heels.

Frowning slightly, Hambury bowed. “Ah…Mr. Wilkes here, our head teller, has some information which might prove useful.”

Unlike his master, Wilkes seemed much less obsequious, although he bobbed his head respectfully.

He addressed himself to Christian. “That deposit Mr. Hambury says you’re waiting for, my lord. The large one. It always comes in just after one o’clock.” He tipped his head back toward the nether regions from which he’d emerged. “I’m back there, counting the money as it comes in, and with a sum like that, the clerks always bring it straight to me. That’s how I know—the party who pays that sum in will be here at one o’clock, give or take ten minutes.”

Letitia sat transfixed.
One o’clock?

“Thank you, Wilkes.” Christian’s voice came from above her. “It was good of you to spare us the wait.”

Letitia felt his fingers close about her elbow; inwardly moaning, she surrendered and got to her feet.

Christian nodded to Hambury and Wilkes. “Gentlemen. We’ll be back before one o’clock.”

Letitia waited until they’d gained the pavement to give voice to her impatience. Christian let her grumble as, her hand anchored on his sleeve, he led her along. When she finally wound down and disgruntledly asked, “What the devil are we to do until one o’clock?” he hailed a hackney.

He took her to the museum.

They wandered around the exhibits, but there was noth
ing there to catch her eye—or his, for that matter. He was wondering how on earth to keep her occupied for the next two hours when she said, “Tell me about your life as a spy.”

He felt his brows rise, but…“What do you want to know?”

She made an all-encompassing gesture. “Start at the beginning. I recently learned that Dalziel recruited you to his little band. When was that?”

“Within a month or two of me joining the Guards. He had his pick of the Guards, from any regiment.”

She was frowning, looking down as she walked beside him. “But you didn’t immediately go to France.”

“No. Because I spoke so many languages, at first he had me go in and out of various countries, getting a sense of the lie of the land, and laying down a background as the wealthy bastard of an ex–French nobleman engaged in trade. Later, when I went over and stayed, I was stationed in Lyon. It was the hub for the manufacture of machinery and heavy equipment—such as artillery. Even if it wasn’t made there, most of the components came from there. So…”

To his surprise, the words flowed easily. She listened, nodded, and asked questions—questions rooted in her knowledge of him and therefore easy to answer, even if sometimes both her questions and his answers surprised him.

Only when he looked up and found they’d wandered all the way back to the museum’s door, and the clock above it declared the time to be nearly noon, did he realize just how much he’d talked—and how much he’d revealed.

More than he had to any other living soul, Dalziel included.

He glanced at Letitia; she was still frowning over his last answer—an explanation of how Napoleon’s reign had affected the people of Lyon. That she’d even thought to ask it, that he’d answered without reserve, telling her about the resistance and the heartbreak of lost comrades who hadn’t even been British…

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Beneath the blatantly sexual attraction that had always flared between them ran another, deeper bond. One of shared background, of common understanding born of the fact they hailed from the same, very narrow social stratum. They shared the same sensitivities, looked on the world from much the same perspective, held to the same tenets of honor, loyalty, and courage. And stubborn determination, that never-accept-failure arrogance that permeated their class.

Looking at her, her brow furrowed as she digested all he’d said, all he’d revealed of himself along with the facts, all he could think of, all his mind could see, was the rightness of having her as his wife—of seeing her in his houses, surrounded by their children.

It was a vision that stole his breath.

It was a vision his never-accept-failure arrogance would never let him surrender….

And she wouldn’t expect him to.

He suddenly knew how St. Paul had felt on the road to Damascus. He wanted to convince her that he truly wanted her as his wife; if he did feel that way, she would expect him to pursue that goal, and her, relentlessly. Stubbornly and doggedly.

She looked up at him, saw the smile on his face, frowned. “What?”

He let his smile widen. “Just…this.”

With one hand, he tipped up her chin and brought his lips down on hers.

A quick, swift kiss—in the middle of the foyer of the museum in full view of any who might be passing.

He drew back before she could react.

Stunned, she stared up at him. “What was that for?” Then glancing left and right, and realizing they were now the center of attention for a number of other museum patrons, she swore beneath her breath, grabbed his arm and tried to tug him to the door.

He consented to move, a satisfied smile on his lips. “That,” he informed her as he held the main door back for her, then followed her through, “was just to confirm that when it comes to you, to my plans for you, I fully intend to succeed.”

She looked at him, then snorted. “Naturally.”

They had a quick bite to eat at a nearby pastry shop and were back at the bank at a quarter to one. Taking up their previous positions by the wall, they watched the steady stream of customers approach the grilles before the two tellers.

The bank’s customers were a mix of well-to-do gentry and prosperous merchants, with one or two less prosperous among them.

At just after one o’clock a striking woman—tall but not young, well dressed but not, to Letitia’s discerning eye, expensively enough for the ton—walked into the bank, a lumbering giant at her heels.

The giant was plainly a guard; the way he hovered by the woman, constantly scanning the surrounds even inside the bank, underscored his role. The woman seemed largely oblivious to the stares the giant drew; head high, she waited in line for one of the tellers, then advanced to the counter, drew a large canvas bag from inside the even larger tapestry bag she carried, placed it on the counter and pushed it toward the teller.

Who, as he reached for the bag, glanced at Christian and all but imperceptibly nodded.

Letitia felt her eyes grow wide. She glanced up at Christian.

He took her arm and drew her to her feet. Lowering his head, he murmured, “There’s only one door. Let’s wait outside.”

Letitia cast another glance at the couple at the counter, then let him lead her out.

On the pavement, she shook her head. “Surely Randall didn’t keep a
circus
?”

His hand still wrapped about her elbow, Christian steered her a little way along the street. “I don’t think that’s it.”

She looked up at him. “What, then?”