The Edge of Desire

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, replaced 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.

Chapter 11

Mr. 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 without 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.”