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.
Saw the exasperation that swam through the gray orbs.
Christian didn’t bother to hide his frustration. He needed answers-answers he was well aware she wouldn’t want to give.
And she was stubborn, and intractable, and ungovernable, and generally uncontrollable. He’d tried to set the scene so she’d be at least a little off-balance. Instead she’d already evened the scales. “I had a surgeon I know examine Randall’s body. What he found showed that, contrary to all assumptions, Randall was killed by a single, relatively weak blow to the back of the head.”
“The back?” She saw the implications in a blink. “So…the person who was in the other armchair, sharing a drink with him.”
“That’s my interpretation. Others might have a different view.”
She frowned. “What different view?”
“That you killed Randall, and that later Justin delivered the blows to Randall’s face in order to conceal your involvement.”
She paled. “I didn’t kill Randall.”
He nodded. “I know. But Justin thought you did. At the very least he believed you might have.” He trapped her eyes. “Let’s assume Justin came upon Randall already dead. Dead of a relatively weak blow to the back of the skull from the poker conveniently nearby, a blow a tallish woman-you, for example-could easily have struck. We know Justin had heard you and Randall arguing-violently as usual. When he came upon Randall dead, he instantly jumped to the conclusion that you’d killed him-and set about covering up what he thought was your deed.”
She was frowning more definitely now, following his argument, not, he noticed, protesting his reasoning.
The hope grew that, in her need to find her brother, she would answer the myriad questions crowding his brain.
He moved closer, so he was standing before her, a little to the side so he wasn’t directly confronting her; he’d try persuasion first. “Why did Justin believe you had killed Randall?”
She glanced at him, puzzled, met his eyes-but her puzzlement wasn’t over Justin’s reason, but that he’d done what he had. She saw him searching, and refocused-recalled his question, and put up her shields. She looked away. “I have no idea.”
He looked down. The rug beneath their feet wasn’t anywhere near the quality of the one in her parlor. “Letitia.” He tried to keep his tone even, patient. “It’s patently obvious that the rift between you and Randall went far deeper than his views on Hermione’s future.”
“And that, my lord, is none of your business.”
Her tart accents had him looking up-directly into hard hazel eyes.
“If Justin was so misguided as to believe I might have-in a fit of Vaux temper, no less-killed Randall-and yes, I accept that it appears he did just that-then presumably he had some reason. When you find him, you might try asking him-not that I imagine he’ll share details of my private life, not with you.”
He felt his lips thin, felt control and success slipping from him. “Letitia-”
“Don’t you ‘Letitia’ me.” Her eyes narrowed to shards. She faced him directly. “You have no right to demand to know details of my marriage. You gave away that right years ago.”
No, he hadn’t. She’d taken that right away from him. He felt his face set, clamped down on his temper. “That’s not how I recall it.”
She opened her eyes wide. “It isn’t? How do you recall it, then?”
The flagrant challenge hit him like a gauntlet in the face. “Like this.” He caught her arms, yanked her to him and crushed her lips with his.
She resisted-tried to hold firm, passive, against him-for all of two heartbeats.
Then the fire that, apparently, never stopped smoldering between them leapt to life. Hungry and greedy, eager for more, heightened and strengthened by the previous night’s encounter.
Wanting more.
To his immense relief, she did. She made no secret of her desires, let them rise to meet his freely, slid deeper into his arms, pressed against him, and invited.