“Why is that? Justin, after all, is his master’s brother-in-law.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I have no idea.” She turned to face Christian. “We need to clear Justin of suspicion as soon as possible. The rumors will be rife by tomorrow.”
He met her gaze. “I’ll start searching in earnest tomorrow, but unless he’s merely gone to visit friends, or is staying somewhere reasonably obvious and hasn’t in fact deliberately gone to ground, then flushing him out isn’t going to be easy.”
She frowned. “I’ve racked my brains, but I have no clue where he’s gone. He didn’t mention leaving town.”
After a pause, Christian asked, “Why is it that no one seems to expect you to be wailing and tearing your clothes?”
“I’m a Vaux-I wouldn’t tear my clothes.”
“Possibly not, but you should be wailing.”
She met his eyes briefly. “Sorry, no wailing tonight. Nor any crying, either-it does terrible things to my complexion.”
He looked at her, simply looked. While she felt the weight of compulsion in his gaze, she had no intention of explaining why she wasn’t grieving for Randall. Especially not to him. Such an explanation would inexorably lead to further questions, ones she had even less interest in answering.
Their past was past. The promise of it dead and buried. Gone.
Stolen from her.
By Randall, and him.
Which was the reason she was making not the smallest pretense of grief or sorrow. Her agreement with Randall had ended on his death; she was free, now, to behave as she felt. Her only surprise was that, as Christian had remarked, none of her extended family seemed at all shocked by her lack of feeling; she’d thought she had done better at pretending to love Randall over the years.
She surveyed the room. “I wonder how long they’ll stay?”
About another hour was the answer. She wasn’t entirely surprised that Christian, denied the explanations he wanted, remained by her side, his charm disguising his determination.
When she’d squeezed fingers and touched cheeks with the last of the ladies and thanked them for their concern, she turned to him, met his gaze and arched a brow. “Well?”
He glanced around the now empty room, large and peculiarly lifeless; although it was furnished in expensive style, as she’d informed him, it wasn’t a room she favored. His gaze returned to her; he waved to the door. “Let’s go to the library.”
The library, she assumed, because it wasn’t her domain. She acquiesced with a nod, gracefully turned and graciously led the way.
All too aware that he prowled in her wake. The image of a stalking lion popped into her head. With his fairish brown hair, combined with his loose-limbed grace and the power inherent in his large body, the analogy was peculiarly apt.
But when they reached the library, he seemed somewhat at a loss. She sat in one of the armchairs by the hearth and watched him prowl the room, idly inspecting titles as he worked his way closer.
When he finally arrived before her, he stood frowning down at her. “I checked at the obvious clubs-Justin’s not staying at any of them. I’ll make the same rounds tomorrow and see if I can find anyone who’s sighted him.”
Christian paused, wishing he could simply ask her outright about her marriage. The trouble with interrogating her was that she rarely if ever lied; instead, as she’d demonstrated earlier, if she didn’t want to answer a question, she simply wouldn’t. Even if he could bring himself to browbeat her by enacting some dramatic scene, being a Vaux, she’d only trump whatever efforts he made.
Catching her gaze, holding it, he stated, “It would help-greatly-if you simply told me everything you know that might affect this situation.”
And not only over the issue of Randall’s death.
She merely raised her brows at him in that coolly superior way female leaders of the haut ton had perfected. “I have nothing to add to what I told you earlier.”
He had no intention of being so easily dismissed. “What was the subject of your argument with Randall-the one last night?”
She hesitated, clearly debating if that was a piece of information she could offer as a sop. She decided it was. “It concerned Hermione. Randall had hatched a nonsensical scheme to marry her off to the Duke of Northumberland.”
“Northumberland? He must be in his dotage.”
“He is, but that was of no concern to Randall. He wanted the connection to a dukedom. Being connected to an earldom-” She broke off.
When she didn’t continue, he dryly supplied, “Wasn’t enough?”
A faint flush touched her pale cheeks-anger, not embarrassment. “Indeed.”
“And the argument?”
Her gaze strayed to the empty hearth. “He’d been trying to convince me to support the notion over the last few weeks. Last night he pressed me to take Hermione on a visit to Northumberland’s estate. I refused.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “You argued with him for more than twenty minutes.”
Gaze still on the fireplace, she shrugged. “He put his case in detail, but of course I would never agree to such a thing.”
Her tone suggested that Randall was a fool to think she would…in the circumstances.
He’d hoped her abstraction would have her answering before she’d thought, giving him some insight into her increasingly curious marriage. Instead, she slowly turned her head and looked at him. Steadily. Then simply said, “I would never countenance Hermione being used in such a way.”
Every answer he wrung from her only raised more questions-such as why Randall hadn’t understood that. Christian held her gaze, and felt his own temper stir. She wanted him to clear Justin of suspicion, but would offer only limited information.
For whatever reason, she was determined to tell him nothing of her marriage.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, that was the most urgent point he wanted to know.
He took one slow step closer, then leaned down, clamping one hand on each of the chair’s arms, caging her. Bringing his face much closer to hers, looming over her.
His nerves flickered; the scent of jasmine-the scent she’d always worn-teased his senses.
She didn’t press back, retreat, didn’t react in any fearful way to the blatant intimidation. Belatedly he remembered she’d always found his size-that he was significantly taller, heavier, and larger than she, and therefore capable of physically dominating her-exciting.
A lick of desire slid down his spine. He studied her eyes; at such close quarters in the dimly lit room they gleamed like beaten gold, shadowed and mysterious, giving nothing away. But her breathing had quickened. Her lips, when he glanced at them, had parted.
“If you recall”-his voice had lowered to a gravelly purr; slowly he brought his gaze back to her eyes-“I’ve yet to set a price for assisting you in finding Justin.”
The air between them all but crackled. Her lids lowered, but then she forced them up and locked her eyes on his. “Finding him, and clearing his name.”
Her words were breathless. His lips quirked. “Indeed. But finding him comes first.” He let his gaze drop to her lips. While he considered how to phrase his demand.
He wondered how her lips would taste now…
Wondered what he should ask-what she might give…
As if following his thoughts, she slowly stiffened, steel infusing her. He was jerked to full awareness when her lips firmed.
He glanced up at her eyes-and found them blazing.
“Just find Justin, and I’ll pay whatever price you care to name.”
The words rang with outright challenge. Raising her hands, she pushed against his shoulders-hard enough to make him straighten and step back.
