Which was definitely better than concentrating on him.
Watching him stroll, ineffably graceful, across the room toward her-allowing herself to-had been a mistake. All that harnessed power condensed into one male-a male no one with functioning eyes would rate as anything less than dangerous-was a phenomenon guaranteed to distract any living, breathing woman. Her most of all. Yet today she needed to reach past the glamour and deal with the man.
His expression was rarely informative, so did little to soften the hard angles of his face, the edged cheekbones, the long planes of his cheeks, the austere set of his features-large gray eyes set under a broad brow, straight brown brows, surprisingly thick lashes, thin chiseled lips, and the strong prow of his nose. His squared chin bore witness to the stubbornness he usually hid beneath a cloak of easy charm.
To him, charm and grace had always come easily, something she, being a Vaux and therefore attuned to all the nuances of appearance, had always appreciated.
Still did; if anything, the effect he had on her, on her senses, was more pronounced than she recalled. She knew very well just how deeply she still loved him, but she’d forgotten what it felt like, forgotten all the physical manifestations that came with that soul-deep connection.
She hadn’t been this close to him for twelve long years. Her decision to keep her distance when he’d reappeared among the ton had clearly been wise; even with a good six feet separating them, she could feel her rib cage tightening, enough to affect her breathing.
Enough to make her feel just a touch giddy. To have her nerves stretching in telltale anticipation.
An anticipation that would never be fulfilled.
Not now.
Not after she’d married Randall.
His gray gaze had shifted from her; now it returned, focused and intent. “Why did the authorities fix on Justin? Was he there?”
Relief glimmered; that he was asking questions boded well. “Apparently he called on Randall last night. Randall’s stupid butler, who thoroughly disapproves of all Vaux, Justin in particular, was only too happy to point his finger. But you know as well as I do that, all appearances to the contrary, Justin would never kill anyone.”
Christian caught her eye, read therein both her temper and her worry. Her anxiety. “You don’t believe he would. I might not believe he would. That doesn’t mean he didn’t.”
Baiting a Vaux was a dangerous pastime, but this time she didn’t bite back.
Which told him how deeply worried she was.
And despite the histrionics that were her Vaux heritage-the family weren’t known as “the vile-tempered Vaux” without cause-she wasn’t a female who worried unduly.
Which explained why she was there, appealing to him.
To the man she knew him to be.
One who had never been able to refuse her anything. Not even his heart.
She’d held his gaze steadily. Now she simply asked, in her low, raspy-seductive-voice, “Will you help?”
He looked into her eyes, and realized she didn’t, in fact, know how he would answer. Didn’t know how deeply in thrall to her he still was. Which meant…
He arched a brow. “How much is my help worth to you?”
She blinked, then searched his face, his eyes; hers narrowed. After a pregnant pause during which she assessed and considered his true meaning, she replied, “You know perfectly well I’ll do anything-
Absolute decision, total commitment, rang in her tone.
He inclined his head. “Very well.”
He heard himself urbanely agree; he hadn’t known he would, certainly hadn’t thought what he might ask of her in return. Wasn’t even sure of his motives in pressing such a bargain on her, but “anything” gave him a wide field.
Revenge of a sort for all the years of hurt might yet be his.
At the thought, he stirred, whether in discomfort or anticipation not even he could say. “Tell me what happened-the sequence of events leading to Randall’s death as you know it.”
Letitia hesitated, then gathered the black reticule that had sat throughout in her lap. “Come to the house.” Rising, she reached up and flipped down her veil. “It’ll be easier to explain there.”
She’d thought it would be easier-having places and things to point out to distract him-but having him by her side again kept her nerves in a state of perpetual reactiveness. Ready to respond to any touch, however slight, to luxuriate in the steady warmth that radiated from his large body, luring her closer.
Gritting mental teeth, she pointed to the spot on the study floor of the house in South Audley Street where she’d been informed her late husband had lain. “You can see the bloodstain.”
The spot in question lay between the fireplace and the large desk.
She wasn’t particularly squeamish, but the sight of the reddish-brown stain had her gorge rising. No matter what she’d felt for Randall, no man should die as he had, brutally bashed to death with the poker from his own fireplace.
Christian shifted closer, looking down at the stain. “Which way was he facing-toward the fire or the desk?”
He felt like a flame down one side of her body. She frowned. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. And they wouldn’t let me in here to see-they said it was too…gory.”
She raised her head, fought to concentrate on what they were discussing-struggled not to close her eyes and let her other senses stretch. She’d forgotten how tall he was, how large-forgotten he was one of the few men in the ton who towered over her, who could make her feel enclosed, shielded…protected. That wasn’t why she’d turned to him, but at that moment she could not but be grateful for his size, his nearness, for the reminder of virile life in the presence of stark death.
“They’ve taken away the poker.” Drawing in a tight breath, she turned and waved at the table by one of the armchairs flanking the hearth. “And they’ve cleared the table-there were two glasses on it, so I’ve been told. Brandy in both.”
“Tell me what you know. When last did you see him?”
The question gave her something to focus on. “Last night. I went to dinner at the Martindales’, then on to a soiree at Cumberland House. I returned rather late. Randall had stayed in-he sometimes did when he had business to attend to. He waylaid me in the hall and asked me in here. He wanted to discuss…” She paused, then continued, knowing her voice, hardening, would give away her temper. “…a family matter.”
She and Randall had been married for eight years, but there’d been no children. With any luck, Christian would imagine that had been the subject of their discussion, the subject she’d so delicately refrained from mentioning.
His gaze on her face, Christian knew-just knew-that she was hoping to lead him up some garden path. Declining to follow, he made a mental note to return to the subject of her late night discussion with her husband at some later point. For now…“Discussion?” With a Vaux involved, “discussion” could encompass verbal warfare.
“We had a row.” Face darkening, she continued, “I don’t know how long it went for, but I eventually swept out”-a gesture indicated the force of her sweeping, something Christian could imagine with ease-“and left him here.”
“So you argued. Loudly.”
She nodded.
He let his gaze travel the room, then looked back at her. “No broken vases? Ornaments flung about?”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts, haughtily lifted her chin. “It wasn’t that sort of argument.”
A cold argument, then, one without heat or passion. For her, with her husband, that struck him as odd.
He looked away, again scanning the room. In reality looking away from her so he wouldn’t focus on her breasts. Breasts he knew-or had, at one time, known well. Hauling his mind from salacious images from the past-all the more potent for being memory rather than imagination-took more effort than he cared to contemplate. He shifted. “So you left Randall here, hale and whole, and then what? What next did you know of this?”
“Nothing at all until my dresser came rushing in this morning to tell me about the body.” She turned away from the bloodstain.
He moved with her, alongside her, as she glided to the window overlooking the street; she halted before it.
