The Edge of Desire

by Stephanie Laurens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Leaving her to entertain his guest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Her eyes flashed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Could no longer be certain he truly wanted her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “So what is the point?”

  “The point is—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Letitia nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

  Her frown deepened. “Mellon must know something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “So I’ll go to ground.”

  Christian nodded. “The question is: Where?”

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

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

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

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

  They all fell silent, thinking.

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

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

  Letitia pulled a face. Justin grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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