In stylish comfort they ambled through courses while Letitia filled in all sorts of feminine details for her aunt and sister, then she turned to interrogate him on his meeting with Roscoe, showing equal interest in Roscoe’s decor and style as in the words exchanged. Nevertheless…
“So he’s still definite about wanting to buy the company?”
He nodded. “He insisted I present him as Randall’s chosen buyer in exchange for his information.”
“Well”—she waved the spoon she was using to demolish a delicate crème anglaise—“as it seems I can’t visit him in Dolphin Square, he’ll have to come to me. I’m sure Mrs. Swithin and Trowbridge will be only too happy to sell, so there’s no reason we can’t settle the business of the Orient Trading Company as soon as may be.”
When she turned limpid eyes on him, Christian inwardly sighed. “I’ll contact him and make arrangements for him to call on you—perhaps here might be best. Late at night.”
She waved. “Whatever you think best.”
Just as long as she had her way and divested herself of her share in the company. As he strongly suspected she would want to do so before any wedding, he nodded. “I’ll send a message to Roscoe in the morning.”
Eventually, replete and happy, they returned to the drawing room. Noticing the piano in one corner, Hermione sat herself before it. “I haven’t been practicing much of late. I suppose I should if I’m to make my come-out next year.” She proceeded to entertain them with a sonata.
Relaxed on the sofa beside Letitia, Christian smiled all the more. This was how his evenings would henceforth be, with Agnes sitting by the hearth, he and Letitia comfortably ensconced, and music floating through the room. Simple family pleasures, something he’d known and taken for granted as a child and youth, but had missed throughout his adult life.
With Letitia, he would have those family pleasures again.
With her, he would have the life he’d always dreamed of.
An hour later, after the tea trolley had come and gone, Agnes rose, collected a sleepily content Hermione, then bade Letitia and Christian a good-night.
Letitia smiled and nodded, then realized where they were. “Oh. I’ll—”
“No need to disturb yourself.” A gleam of mischief in her old eyes, Agnes gathered her shawl. “We’re staying here. Dearne and I thought it more appropriate—no need to live in that man’s house any longer. We know our way upstairs.” She fluttered her fingers at them as she turned to the door. “We’ll see you in the morning, my dears.”
Letitia stared after her, and at Hermione, who, with a smug smile and a wave, followed Agnes out of the door. “They’re staying here,” she repeated. Turning, she stared at Christian.
He smiled, even more smugly content than Hermione. “Your Esme is upstairs—I gather she’s been furiously busy hanging all your gowns in the marchioness’s apartments. I suggested, however, that she needn’t wait up for you tonight.”
He studied her eyes, then leaned closer, gently framed her face with one hand. Lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. “Welcome to my house. Welcome to my home. I hope you’ll make it yours.”
Tears—tears of a happiness she’d never thought to feel—filled her eyes. The same emotion swelled in her chest, filled her heart to overflowing. She raised her hand and laid it over his, felt the gentle strength, savored it. “Nothing would make me happier, my lord.”
He smiled, slowly, the gray of his eyes peaceful and calm, then he kissed her again—a longer kiss, one that stirred the flames between them to life.
When he eventually drew back, they were both breathing more rapidly. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She rose as he did. “Indeed. No need to shock Percival. At least not yet.”
Christian glanced at her as he led her to the door. “Actually, quite aside from any shock, I suspect he’d be thrilled. He and the rest of the staff have been waiting for over a decade to serve you, you know.”
But they did go up the wide stairs, to the marquess’s suite, to his bedroom. To his bed.
There, under the soft radiance of a waxing moon, they celebrated all they now had, all they’d reclaimed. All the heat and passion—all the life.
All the indefinable gifts love had to offer, even love itself they claimed anew.
With hands, lips, mouths, with every inch of their bodies, every particle of their souls.
In harmony, attuned, they scaled the peak; gasping, clinging, they loved wildly and let go, celebrating the beginning of a new life, celebrating the fact they were both still alive, that with the past behind them, buried and gone, they would, now, at last, have a chance to live their dreams of long ago.
Love drove them, racked them, enfolded them in its grace.
When, at the last, as they lay slumped, long limbs tangled in the jumbled billows of his bed, the warmth of satiation heavy in their veins, their hearts slowly slowing, as their new reality closed around them Christian shifted his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “This is where we were always supposed to be.”
Letitia didn’t answer, but he felt her lips curve against his chest.
Felt her fingers gently riffling through his hair.
Smelled her elusive scent, of jasmine heavy in the night, wreath about him.
And knew they’d finally secured their dreams.
“Mr. Roscoe, my lord. My lady.”
Letitia rose from the chaise in the smaller drawing room of Allardyce House, Christian beside her. Her gaze fixed on the doorway as Percival stepped back; she would own to considerable curiosity over Neville Roscoe. Quite aside from the fact that she expected to divest herself of the troublesome business of the Orient Trading Company, everything Christian had told her of the mysterious Roscoe had only whetted her appetite.
Four days had passed since Swithin had tried to push her to her death; somewhat to her surprise, her fear-filled memories had all but immediately been overlaid by feelings of relief, and then happiness.
Christian had been responsible for both.
He’d also contacted Roscoe. She in turn had visited the house in Cheyne Walk, to tell Trowbridge and Honeywell all that had transpired, and to get from Trowbridge his written agreement to sell his share of the company if and when she did.
She’d also sent one of Christian’s grooms into Surrey with a letter for Mrs. Swithin confirming the business of the Orient Trading Company and the desirability of a sale, and the consequent need for a written agreement. She had received by reply the requested agreement, along with a declaration from Swithin’s solicitor, who had, most fortuitously, been in Surrey dealing with Swithin’s affairs.
So all was in readiness to effect the sale.
Roscoe appeared; he literally darkened the doorway. With his close-cropped dark hair, dark clothes, and cynical, dark blue eyes, he looked the epitome of a dangerous character. With an inclination of his head, he moved past Percival and approached them; he walked with the same, arrogant, faintly menacing stride Dalziel employed. Not so much an intentional affectation as an expression of what, underneath the sophisticated glamour, they really were.
As he neared, she saw that Roscoe was as tall as Christian, but not quite as large, as heavy, his build more rangy, but in no way less lethal for that.
Christian extended his hand.
Roscoe quirked a brow—apparently at being accorded the courtesy—but gripped and shook nonetheless. “Good evening.”
It was after ten o’clock.
Christian inclined his head. “Thank you for coming.” He turned to her. “Allow me to present Lady Letitia.” He left out the Randall, she was quite sure deliberately.
Letitia gave Roscoe her hand, smiled as she looked into his face…and barely felt his fingers close about hers.
Barely heard his proper, “Lady Randall,” barely registered the rumble of his deep voice or his perfectly executed bow.
She knew, looking into his eyes, that she’d met him before—long ago, when they’d been in their tee
ns.
She let her smile widen, and sensed his wariness grow. “I believe we’ve met before, Mr. Roscoe, although I can’t at the moment recall where. But then I expect you would rather I didn’t recall at all, so perhaps”—retrieving her hand from his suddenly slack grasp, she waved to the armchair opposite the chaise—“we should get down to business before I do.”
Roscoe cast Christian a look, then moved to comply.
Still smiling delightedly, Letitia sat and promptly took charge of the negotiations.
Much to Roscoe’s disquiet.
Realizing that the threat of her knowledge of his identity, plus the inherent difficulty a man like Roscoe faced in negotiating business with a female of Letitia’s class, played heavily into her hands—and that she was supremely well-qualified to capitalize on the fact—Christian sat back and left her to it.
She did well, extracting both a higher price and more favorable payment terms than Roscoe had expected to have to concede; that much was clear from the irritation that briefly shone in his dark eyes.
But he took it well.
When, all the details thrashed out and agreed upon, the written agreements from Trowbridge and Mrs. Swithin tendered and accepted, they all rose and Roscoe shook Letitia’s hand, there was a reluctantly admiring glint in his eyes. “I’ll have my man of business draw up the contract in conjunction with…” Roscoe cocked a brow at Christian. “…Montague?”
Christian nodded. “He’s under instruction to take over the management of Lady Letitia’s affairs.”
Roscoe’s lips quirked. “Naturally.” He looked at Letitia, hesitated, then said, “I understand felicitations are in order.” He bowed, inherently graceful. “Please accept mine.”
Letitia glowed. “Thank you.”
Straightening, Roscoe met her eyes. “And don’t try too hard to remember our previous meeting.”
She waved airily. “I doubt I’ll have time, what with all else that’s going on.”
“Good.” With that dry comment, Roscoe turned to Christian; this time he spontaneously held out his hand. “Dearne.”
Christian gripped his hand, entirely content with how the meeting had gone. “Come—I’ll walk you out.”
Roscoe bowed again to Letitia, then fell into step beside Christian as he headed for the door. While Christian opened it, Roscoe glanced back—at Letitia settling on the chaise to await Christian’s return.
Then he turned and went through the door.
As they passed down the corridors and into the front hall, Christian was aware of Roscoe glancing about—not so much taking note as breathing in the ambience. “Do you ever think you’ll return to”—he gestured about them—“tonnish life?”
Roscoe didn’t immediately reply. When they reached the front door, he turned and faced Christian. “Much as I might envy you the life you now have, I long ago realized it wasn’t in the cards for me.”
There was a finality in his tone that closed the subject.
Roscoe accepted his cane from Percival, then, when that worthy opened the door, nodded to Christian and went out into the night.
Christian watched him go, saw him disappear into the gloom before Percival shut the door. He stared unseeing at the panels for a minute more, then recalling all that awaited him in the smaller drawing room, he smiled, turned, and strolled back to embrace it.
And her. The love of his life and, God willing, the mother of his children.
Letitia’s second marriage was in no way the travesty her first had been. Consequently, their wedding was every bit as massive, noisy, and full of life as Christian had foreseen.
He didn’t mind in the least. Looking around the huge ballroom of Nunchance Priory, noting the sheer exuberance that held sway, he gave thanks that he and Letitia had won through to this, that the years and fate hadn’t bound them, chained them, to lesser existences.
To an existence apart.
He glanced at her, radiant and so vitally vibrant beside him, her dark hair gleaming, the Allardyce diamonds glittering about her throat and depending from her ears, the simple gold band he’d placed on her finger mere hours ago the only ornament she wore on her slim digits. Her long, slender frame was encased in silk the color of the palest pink rose; the scent of jasmine rose from her alabaster skin.
There was, however, an incipient frown in her eyes, a slight line between her brows.
Before he could ask, she volunteered, “That wretch Dalziel isn’t here.”
“He’s never attended any of our weddings. Didn’t the other ladies tell you?”
“They did, but given the timing, his absence today is, in my opinion, taking the whole thing simply too far.”
He hesitated, then asked, “What thing?”
She looked at him, then shook her head. “Never mind. You’ll learn all about it soon enough—any day, as it happens.”
Any day?
Christian knew well enough that he would get no more from her. Jack Warnefleet had confirmed that his wife, Lady Clarice, also knew exactly who Dalziel was. The others, including Jack Hendon, who like the rest of them had become obsessed with learning Dalziel’s true identity, had grumbled and admitted they now believed all their wives knew the truth—and none of them would say. Regardless of the persuasion, the interrogation tactics employed.
That they’d worked so closely with the man for the past decade and more yet still didn’t know his identity irked. Yet it appeared that all the ladies of the ton had colluded in keeping Dalziel’s secret.
“Which is frankly amazing,” Tony later remarked, when Christian, having left Letitia chatting with her cousins, joined the other club members. “There are so many inveterate gossips, you’d swear at least one would be unable to resist whispering his name, but no. On that one subject, total silence reigns.”
The others all grumped, and sipped their wine. They’d gathered just like this at each successive wedding, to toast the man fallen and fix their sights on the next one to go. This time, however, there were no more club members left unwed; consequently their thoughts turned to their ex-commander, who had become an all but formally declared ex-officio member.
But Dalziel wasn’t there to prod.
Justin detached himself from the throng, charmingly disengaging from two young ladies who would happily have continued to monopolize his time—and sought refuge with them. Christian cocked a brow at him.
He grimaced. “I’m seriously contemplating becoming a recluse.”
Deverell grunted. “Won’t do you any good. The more determined will still hunt you down.”
Justin didn’t look thrilled.
“You know who Dalziel is,” Christian murmured. “I don’t suppose, given all is now over and done, that you’d like to share the information?”
Justin hesitated.
They all held their breaths.
Then he shook his head. “I can’t.” He met Christian’s gaze. “The punishment is too dire. But anyway, you’ll know soon enough.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” Jack Warnefleet complained. “‘Soon enough.’ When is ‘soon enough’ going to be?”
Justin frowned at him. “Well, obviously, any day now.”
“It’s not obvious to us,” Charles replied, his tone threatening all manner of violence.
Justin looked at him, then at the others. “It is obvious. You’ll learn who he is when he resigns his commission and returns to civilian life. And by all accounts that’s any day now.”
That gave them all something to think about. Leaving them to it, Justin slipped away. There was something he needed to do.
He knew the corridors like the back of his hand; avoiding the guests—so many of them female—flitting about, he made his way into the other wing, to the library.
In the wake of Swithin’s babbling revelations, Justin had visited Trowbridge, who had confirmed that the huge investment loss incurred by the earl eight years before, leading to Letitia’s marriage to Randall, had indeed been arranged by Randall, the schem
e itself engineered by Swithin.
There was no proof to be had, or ever likely to be found, yet the simple knowledge had cured the malaise that had for years eaten at Justin’s heart.
He entered the library on silent feet. As he’d expected, his father was there, seated in his favorite armchair, a book open on his lap.
The earl had dutifully walked Letitia down the aisle, given her away, then attended the wedding breakfast and made a short speech—surprising everyone by being no more than mildly blunt. Then he’d disappeared.
Justin quietly walked to the chair opposite the earl’s. Halting beside it, he looked down on his sire. “It wasn’t your fault.”
The earl grunted; he didn’t look up. “I know. I just couldn’t prove it. And you…you and Letitia both seemed so ready to believe I’d risk such a lot—your lives, in effect.” One long finger marking his place, the earl lifted his gaze, staring across the room. “But I didn’t. I never would have.”
“No,” Justin said. “We know that now.”
The earl finally looked up, through shrewd hazel eyes scanned his son’s features, then he nodded. “Good.”
With that, he returned to his book.
Justin looked down on his sire’s white head, then his lips curved in a slow smile.
Surveying the nearby shelves, he crossed to one, pulled out a book, glanced inside it.
Then returning to the armchair opposite his father’s, he sat, opened the book on his knee, and started to read.
Back in the ballroom, Letitia swept up to Christian’s side where he stood with his fellow Bastion Club members. They were toasting the last man to fall into wedlock—Christian; she linked her arm with his, smiled graciously, and allowed them to toast her as well.
Christian looked down at her. “One point you can clarify—Dalziel, Royce Whoever-he-is, isn’t married, is he?”
She looked at him, then at them all, eagerly waiting on her answer; she clearly debated whether that information could be shared, then said, “No. He’s not.”
“But,” Charles put in, “he’s the sort of gentleman who has to marry, isn’t he? If he’s a marquess, then that follows as night follows day.”
The Edge of Desire Page 42