The Edge of Desire (22 page)

She’d always been passionate, but this was passion on a different plane, a deeper desire, a stronger yearning.

Her hands spread on his back, she held him to her, shifted beneath him as she kissed him back—only to be overwhelmed by the kiss he returned, only to fall back and let him surge in and fill her mouth. Let him take it, mimicking the way he would take her body soon…

They’d held off as long as they could; she suddenly knew it—sensed he did, too. With his thighs, he spread hers wider, settled between; she felt the blunt head of his erection at her entrance.

She expected him to simply thrust in and fill her. Instead, he broke from the kiss.

His breathing as ragged as hers, he reached around, caught her hands, one in each of his, and dragged them up, anchoring them in the pillows above her head, locking them there in one hand.

Their gazes met. Across the few inches of heated shadows between them, their eyes locked, held.

With his free hand he reached down, gripped her hip, tilted her hips beneath him.

And entered her.

Slowly. His eyes on hers, holding her, his weight pinning her beneath him, he pressed into her body relentless inch by inch…so slowly she felt every second of his possession. Every tiny nuance as he penetrated her, stretching her sheath, filling her.

Completing her.

He didn’t stop until he’d filled her to the hilt.

His eyes still on hers, he drew back—slowly, totally controlled—held back for an instant, then surged slowly in again.

The friction was intense.

The sensations filled her mind.

She closed her eyes, arched beneath him.

He continued to fill her, to command her body and her, to swamp her senses with pleasure and delight until her fingertips burned.

Until her body was afire beneath his—and his burned, too.

Not with their usual flashfire, but with something more powerful. More intense, more all-consuming.

It surged from deep within them—finally wrenched all control from him.

In those last moments they were together again, helpless again, at the mercy of what, together, they’d evoked.

Something stronger, more wondrous, more earth-shatteringly glorious.

It racked them, wrecked them, broke them with its glory. Flung them into that never-ending void.

Drained them.

They floated back to earth in each other’s arms. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d led him to her room, to her bed. Since she’d given herself into his arms.

Only knew, beyond thought, beyond doubt, that she belonged there.

As satiation dragged her down, her only thought was a wish that their future might be.

Her only reservation was a fear—that she wouldn’t, despite all, find the courage to trust him with her heart again.

Christian stirred sometime in the long watches of the night. Dawn was not yet here, but he knew he had to leave. Agnes notwithstanding, he couldn’t push the woman in whose arms he lay, whose body lay curled around his.

He felt her closeness to his bones, simply lay and savored it for long moments. Her hair was a tumbled mass flung over his chest, the weight of the soft silky veil a subtle benediction.

She’d always been flagrantly, blatantly, possessive—in the past. Since he’d returned…although from the first of their recent encounters she’d been as fiery as his memories had painted her, not until tonight had she relaxed and accepted him to the point of once again sleeping wrapped around him.

Claiming him as hers even in sleep.

His lips relaxed. He was, if not totally satisfied—he wouldn’t be that until she was his wife—content enough with what he’d achieved.

Out of protective habit, his gaze focused on their surroundings, scanned the room—and his content faded, re
placed by a powerful wish that they were somewhere else.

In some other bed.

Preferably in his bed at Allardyce House.

Anywhere but in the bed Randall had bought for her.

Had bought for the bride he’d bought.

M
r. Meecham arrived in South Audley Street at eleven o’clock the next morning. Letitia had elected to receive him in the drawing room, reasoning, Christian suspected, that the greater formality would provide a better stage for the occasion.

When Meecham was shown in, she was seated on the chaise, gowned in her most severe bombazine, flanked by Agnes, equally austere in a dark slate gray gown.

From his position behind the chaise at Letitia’s shoulder, Christian watched as, having been announced by Mellon, Meecham, a short, rotund individual dressed somberly in his best black, bowed low, then came forward with a tripping gait.

Features arranged in a patronizingly compassionate expression, Meecham halted a yard away, bowed again, and declaimed, “If you would permit me, my lady, to convey our most sincere condolences on the passing of your late husband.” Without waiting for any acknowledgment, Meecham continued, “Mr. Randall—”

“Was murdered.”

The blunt statement—and the tone in which Letitia uttered it—threw Meecham entirely off his stride.

He all but goggled at her. “Ah…yes. So I was given to understand.”

“Indeed. That being so, I’m sure you can understand that we wish to hear the details of my late husband’s will with
out delay.” Imperiously she waved Meecham to a straight-backed chair positioned for the purpose a few yards before the chaise, a small table beside it. “If you would sit, perhaps we might proceed.”

Her tone was so cold, Christian was surprised Meecham didn’t shiver. With one last glance at her, then at Christian, who met it blandly, he crossed to the chair and sat down. Pulling his briefcase into his lap, he opened it and drew out a thin sheaf. He regarded it, then with appropriate gravity laid it on the small table. “The last will and testament of Mr. George Martin Randall.”

He glanced at Letitia. “As you are the sole principal beneficiary, my lady, we may proceed without further ado.”

The words had barely left Meecham’s lips when a heavy knock fell on the door.

Letitia shifted her gaze to the door.
Not
Mellon was her first thought; no butler knocked like that. Before she could decide whether to bid whoever it was to enter, the door opened—and Barton walked in.

Halting, he nodded to her, then to Christian. “If you’ll pardon the intrusion, my lady, I humbly request to be present when the will of the late Mr. Randall is read. It’s imperative we—the authorities—know what’s what with the inheritance.”

Letitia narrowed her eyes on the runner. “Humbly request” her left foot. She was about to remind him he was forbidden the house when Christian’s hand closed on her shoulder.

She turned her head and looked up at him. He leaned down, head bent to whisper, “He’ll be able to get the details when the will is lodged with the courts—probably later today. Letting him stay and listen now isn’t going to change anything, but it might mean he mellows and becomes less intrusive, less of a bother to you.”

A powerful consideration. She raised her brows fleetingly, then, smoothing her expression into one of haughty indifference, she turned back to Barton. “You may stay.” She
pointed to a straight-backed chair against the wall. “Provided you sit there and keep silent.”

Barton frowned, but accepted with good enough grace.

Once he’d sat rather gingerly on the chair, Letitia looked again at Meecham. “You may proceed.”

Meecham had recognized Barton, presumably from his partners’ description; his expression suggested he’d anticipated an ugly scene and was relieved to have been spared. He’d fished a pair of pince-nez from his waistcoat pocket; perching them on his nose, he held up the will, and read.

Once he got past the verbose preamble, matters became more interesting. Letitia saw Barton pull a notebook from his pocket, open it, lick his pencil, and start scribbling. Glancing back, she saw Christian, too, had pulled a small black book from his pocket; he and Barton took notes as Meecham detailed Randall’s estate, all of which had been left to her.

Meecham paused after that section, casting his eye back over the list he’d just read. Randall’s property had been described not in value but in kind—the house in South Audley Street, his investments in the funds, in various other bonds, and a third share in the Orient Trading Company, which had as its address another legal firm on Chancery Lane. “A very tidy fortune,” Meecham opined.

Letitia glanced up and back at Christian. He quietly said, “Montague will be able to tell us more.”

Meecham cleared his throat, drawing all attention back to him. He fixed his gaze on Letitia. “That’s what will come to you, my lady, plus any and all residuals after the following bequests.”

Letitia had to force herself not to lean forward. Barton, she noted, didn’t seem interested in the bequests; frowningly studying what he’d written, he’d stopped taking notes.

“The first bequest,” Meecham intoned, “is to a Mr. Trowbridge, of Cheyne Walk in Chelsea—‘the Glockstein clock that resides in the study, in recognition of our long friendship.’ The second bequest, also in recognition of long
friendship, is of the Stuart crystal pen and inkwell set, also from the study, to a Mr. Swithin, of Curzon Street, London.” Meecham paused, then went on, “Those are the only two bequests beyond the household. The other bequests…”

While Meecham worked his way through the usual long list of small bequests to household staff—Mellon, the two footmen, Randall’s long-serving cook among them—Letitia turned and looked inquiringly at Christian.

He nodded, spoke quietly. “At last we’ve some names—some people we can ask.”

“Perhaps they’re away, and so missed his funeral.”

“We’ll see.” With his head, Christian directed her attention back to Meecham, who was summing up.

“So the bulk of the estate passes to Mr. Randall’s relict—Lady Letitia Randall—outright, no covenants and no restrictions bar the customary one.” Meecham looked at Letitia and colored faintly. “That is to say, if you were to bear Mr. Randall a child after his death, then the estate is held in trust—”

“You need not concern yourself with that eventuality.”

Letitia’s tone—colder and more final than any grave—gave Meecham pause, but then he gathered his courage and with an attempt at delicacy suggested, “Your pardon, my lady, but it
is
possible—”

“No, Mr. Meecham. No child of Randall’s is possible, at least not by me. My late husband and I have not been…close for some years.”

Meecham’s color deepened to an unbecoming purple. “Yes, well.” He fell to shuffling his papers. “If that’s the case, then the estate passes to you unreservedly.”

“Very well.” After a moment Letitia asked, “Is there anything more?”

Meecham assured her there was not; he went on to outline his role in registering the will with the courts.

Christian let the words roll past him; his mind had snagged on Letitia’s “some years.” He didn’t doubt she was speaking the literal truth, even possibly understating it;
“some years” explained a number of things—her short fuse when he pulled her into his arms, for one.

For a woman of her passions, “some years” must have seemed a lifetime. Just as it had for him over the years he’d been celibate, expecting to return to her.

He wasn’t sure if it was the notion of tit for tat—that she’d been as deprived as he—or the more fundamental realization that Randall and she hadn’t been intimate for years that so buoyed him.

Regardless, when Meecham rose, bowed, and took his leave, he was feeling distinctly mellow.

Barton rose as Meecham turned for the door. “Just one thing I wanted to check with you, Mr. Meecham.”

Meecham halted. “Yes?”

“This estate of Mr. Randall’s—it’s quite a fortune if I understood correctly?”

“I don’t know the precise value—you’d need to consult a financial expert for that—but I would venture to say that taken together the properties and funds I listed would amount to quite a considerable sum.”

“And,” Barton pressed, “all that considerable sum passes to Lady Randall here?”

“Yes, that’s right. Hers to do with as she pleases.”

Barton thanked Meecham and let him go. He made a note in his book, then, closing it, turned to Letitia, still seated in state on the chaise. “A considerable sum makes a very good motive for murder, I’ve always found.”

Letitia didn’t shift a muscle; her voice dripped icicles as she said, “You can’t seriously be suggesting I murdered Randall.”

“No—but I would suggest you’re very fond of your brother, and if he’d needed money, then killing Randall would, through you, serve him just as well.”

A long silence ensued. Christian considered stepping around the chaise to get between Barton and Letitia, but then she spoke, her voice dreadful in its calmness, “I believe you know your way to the door.”

Barton hesitated; Christian prayed he had enough nous not to further prod her. Then Barton bowed stiffly and turned away.

Just as he reached the door, Letitia spoke again, and there could be no doubt whatever of her feelings. “Incidentally, Barton, should you enter this house again without a warrant, rest assured I’ll have the watch summoned and see you thrown out on your ear.”

Barton had paused in the doorway. A moment ticked past, then he continued on without looking back.

Christian rounded the chaise. He reached for Letitia’s hand; as the door clicked shut, he drew her to her feet. “At last we have two specific names to pursue—although I don’t know either. Do you know Trowbridge or Swithin?”

She had to think to answer—had to put aside her rising temper to do so; it took her a moment of blinking up at him before she succeeded, and frowned. “No, I don’t—at least not in the sense of having any real acquaintance. I know nothing of Swithin—I’ve never heard of him—but I’ve heard of Trowbridge.”

“It’s lunchtime. Let’s go into the dining room and put together what we know, so this afternoon, when we meet the others at the club, we’ll have a concise report.”

Frown easing, she nodded, her mind having switched, as he’d intended, to a topic that held more interest than railing over Barton. “Yes. All right.” She glanced at Agnes. “Aunt, are you ready to eat?”

Agnes nodded. “An excellent idea.” Her gaze was on Christian. He stepped around Letitia and helped Agnes up.

Nodding her thanks, Agnes shook out her gray skirts, then headed for the door. “You’re very good, Dearne.”

Christian hid his smile and offered Letitia his arm. Already engrossed in assembling all she knew of Trowbridge, she absentmindedly placed her hand on his sleeve and let him steer her to the door.

In mid-afternoon Christian escorted Letitia down the steps of Randall’s house and into a hackney. Ordering the jarvey to drive them to the park, he climbed in, shut the door, and sat beside her.

He watched, but as the hackney drove off, Barton made no move to quit his position opposite the house. As the hackney turned the corner, Christian saw him settling back against the area railings, arms folded, his gaze locked on Randall’s door.

“He’s staying there?” Letitia asked.

“It looks like it. Nevertheless, we won’t take any chances.” He glanced at her. “A short walk will do us good.”

They left the hackney at the corner of Hyde Park, then crossed the street and ambled a short way down Grosvenor Place. They’d passed Grosvenor Crescent when Christian halted, scanning the street behind them. “No sign. He didn’t follow us.”

“Good.” Letitia set off at a brisker pace. “It’s this way, isn’t it?”

They reached the club shortly before three o’clock. Admitted by Gasthorpe, who confirmed he was housing a visitor, they went up to the library, Letitia all but taking the stairs two at a time.

There, they found Justin, at his ease, sharing a tale with Tristan. Both rose as Letitia swept in.

Her gaze raked her brother. She nodded. “Good. You managed to get yourself here without breaking your neck.”

Justin grinned. “Good afternoon, sister dear.” He leaned down to buss her cheek.

Christian offered his hand. “How was the drive down?”

“Utterly uneventful,” Justin replied, with all a Vaux’s contempt for such a happenstance. “It’s bad enough in daylight—at night it’s dead boring.”

Sinking into a chair, Letitia rolled her eyes.

The men had barely reclaimed their seats when a knock sounded on the front door. A minute later Dalziel entered.

His gaze swept the room, locating, and remaining on, Justin’s face.

Justin’s eyes went wide—he clearly recognized Dalziel—Royce Whoever-he-was—even though there had to be a good ten years between them. Justin slowly got to his feet. “Ah…you must be Dalziel.” He held out a hand.

With a nod of approval, Dalziel grasped it. “You’ll be staying with me, out of sight. I’ll come for you later tonight—no need to take any chances whatever, given the authorities’ current bent.”

“I should thank you—”

Dalziel silenced him with an upraised hand. “Time enough for that later. For now”—he surveyed their small company—“what have we learned?”

“Randall’s will was read this morning,” Letitia stated. “Dearne has the details.”

Extracting his notebook, Christian ran through both Randall’s estate and the bequests. The latter, unsurprisingly, became the focus of discussion.

Tristan in particular pounced on the names. “Trowbridge and Swithin—those are the only two gentlemen I turned up who anyone even suggested might know Randall as more than a nodding acquaintance.” He glanced at Christian. “I covered virtually every male haunt of tonnish gentlemen—at least those where we go to meet with friends. Many knew Randall by sight, yet none admitted to friendship, nor did I find anyone who could name any of his friends. Trowbridge and Swithin were mentioned solely as gentlemen my sources had seen Randall talking to on more than one occasion. That was the sum of it—interesting that they weren’t known as his friends, yet he names them as longtime friends in his will.”

“Indeed.” Christian frowned. “Especially as it seems he has met them in recent times, and all live more or less in London, Swithin within a few blocks.”

“Was the will recent?” Dalziel asked.