His emotional reason had nothing to do with Randall’s murder, but everything to do with his marriage.
“He’s
“He said he’d wait in the front parlor.” Mellon all but sniffed. “Quite at home he seemed.”
Letitia felt her temper stir. “I daresay.” Turning back to the dressing table, she set down her brush. She held her own gaze in the mirror for an instant, then said, “Tell him I’ll see him in the library. Show him in there, and shut the doors to the front parlor.”
In the mirror she watched as Mellon, his lips pinched in disapproval, bowed and withdrew.
Her lips quirked; ironic that in this she agreed with Mellon. If he could have told her how to avoid Christian Allardyce, now Marquess of Dearne-a nobleman accustomed to getting what he wanted and ensuring he always did-she would happily fall in with any plan.
But she knew how futile running from a large and powerful predator was; he would only pursue her all the more intently. And from past experience she knew that if pushed, he could, and would, act with a supreme disregard for convention every bit the equal of her own.
They were who they were; society’s rules only applied if and when they chose.
As the door closed behind Mellon, her dresser, Esme, engaged in laying out her nightclothes on the bed, straightened. “Do you want me to go down with you, my lady? It is late, and you being so recently widowed and all.”
Letitia glanced at her and smiled fondly. Esme, whom she’d brought with her on her marriage, tall, lanky, and rather severe, but an excellent dresser, was the only servant in the household she trusted. “Thank you, but no.”
Whatever Christian had in mind, she had a strong notion she would need privacy to deal with him. “Lord Dearne probably has more questions.”
She could imagine he would have. When they’d parted the previous night, her temper had been on edge, hard and bright, sharpened by disappointment that he’d actually followed through on his plan to use her vow to give anything in return for Justin’s safety to try to hurt her. To in some small measure pay her back for what he thought she’d done. To make her want him again, and then perhaps deny her.
Regardless of what his plan had been, she’d refashioned it in a way that had resulted in an interlude she could accept. What had been between them was still there; she hadn’t been entirely surprised that that was so.
As for the power of it…that had been both a surprise and a delight.
She’d slept better last night than she had for twelve years. Not since the night she’d seen him off to the wars.
And the sight of him afterward, the way he’d just lain there-as if sensually flabbergasted-had gone a long way toward salving any slight she might have felt. All in all, last night had gone far more her way than his.
Which almost certainly explained why he was waiting downstairs in the library.
Not the front parlor; she was far to fly to the nuances of place to let him use the lingering echoes of last night to distract her.
He’d stood by her side at the funeral that afternoon, but in public, on such a somber occasion, they’d exchanged only the barest greetings. He’d been nothing but unfailingly supportive; she’d leant on his arm, and been grateful he’d been there.
By now, however, he’d be champing at the bit, wanting to know everything. Ready to demand she tell him all that she was well aware he didn’t know-all she still had no intention of telling him.
Years ago he’d made his decision-and by that made his bed and hers, and made them separate. Now he’d come back from the life he’d chosen, but if he thought, with Randall conveniently dead, she’d blithely open her heart to him again, he would learn he was mistaken.
Pride was one of the few comforts left to her, pride that regardless of her wishes, she’d done the right thing.
She wasn’t about to let him take her pride from her. Wasn’t about to explain to him what his long ago decision had wrought. Wasn’t about to-ever-let him know what that decision had cost her.
How many heartbroken days and nights.
How many lonely years.
The sudden swell of emotion snapped her back to the here and now, to her reflection in the mirror.
She studied her eyes, then deciding she’d made him wait long enough, she considered her hair, debating whether to wind it up into a quick knot. She was otherwise fully dressed, gowned, hooked and laced.
Her hair down, a silky, shining, shifting veil, would distract him more than it would her. He’d seen it down before, usually rippling over her nakedness.
She smiled approvingly and rose.
She glanced at Esme. “Don’t wait up for me. Dealing with his lordship might take some time.”
Unhurriedly, she left the room and headed for the stairs. A vivid memory of when they’d first met swam across her mind. As she started down, she recalled, and felt her lips curve.
She’d been barely sixteen. He’d been twenty-two. They’d met at a local fair; they’d seen each other over the bric-a-brac stall. Their eyes had met-and that had been that.
He’d been atrociously handsome, even then. The sight of him in his guardsman’s uniform had literally made lesser women swoon. While she’d never done anything so maudlin, seeing him standing tall and proud, the wind ruffling his light brown hair, she’d certainly understood her weaker sisters’ affliction.
For her, however, looking hadn’t been enough.
It hadn’t been enough for him either.
In rapid succession they’d become acquaintances, then friends, then sweethearts. He wasn’t always in the country; he was often called away. But every time he returned, their connection only seemed stronger, more definite, something that linked them each to the other and grew with every passing day, regardless of whether they were together or not.
Needless to say, they’d spent every moment they could together.
But they hadn’t become lovers until nearly a year later, when he’d come home and then come north to tell her that his upcoming assignment would see him on the Continent for some considerable time. That he was going into danger had been implicit; she hadn’t needed to be told.
It had been she who’d grasped the moment, who had pulled him down into the hay in the old barn and insisted he educate her in the ways of passion.
Not that he’d fought all that hard, but she’d been well aware that she couldn’t leave it to him to initiate any intimate link. Men like he had certain lines they wouldn’t cross, and seducing her-even though he’d intended eventually to marry her-had been one of those lines. While she was usually a stickler for honor, in that instance she hadn’t seen the point.
Even now, after all the lonely years of nursing a broken heart, she still couldn’t find it in her to regret those passionate moments, those long interludes over one glorious summer when she’d given him not just her heart-that had already been his-but her body and her soul.
The memories still burned bright; for long moments they held her.
Then she blinked, and realized she’d halted outside the library door.
Drawing in a deep breath-girding her loins-she reached for the doorknob.
Only to have the door swing open.
Christian stood there, frowning down at her. “I presume you’re intending to join me at some point?”
She struggled to keep her lips straight. He would have heard her footsteps approach, then stop outside the door.
Thankfully, he didn’t know what had held her immobile.
With the faintest lift of her brows-she could do arrogant every bit as well as he-she glided past him into the room. And saw the book open on the table beside one of the armchairs by the hearth-instantly appreciated the scene he’d set, that he’d expected her to walk into-he calmly reading while waiting for her.
Memories of them in flagrante delicto had ruined his preparation.
The Fates, she decided, were on her side tonight.
Halting before the fire, she turned to face him. “You have more questions, I assume?” Chin high, she locked her eyes on his.
