The Edge of Desire (Bastion Club 7)

Felt everything in him respond.

She reacted to him as she always had, if anything even more intensely—just as he was affected by her. He hadn’t expected either to be so, had assumed she’d loved Randall with all her considerable heart and soul, and that her attraction to him and his to her would consequently have faded, if not died.

Not so.

As he strode briskly down South Audley Street, his more vengeful side—the side her betrayal and marriage to Randall had brought into being—sneered. Contemptuously reminded him how he’d felt when Barton had so distressed her with Justin’s coat, how helpless he’d been to suppress the primitive response to protect and defend her—one that, at that intensity, only made sense if he loved her. If, in his heart of hearts, he still, despite all, saw her as his.

His to protect, even if she was no longer his to possess.

His position, he cynically admitted, was pathetic.

Inwardly frowning, he neared Randall’s house, a block south of Grosvenor Square—and saw, to his considerable surprise, every window ablaze with light, much as if a ball were taking place. Mystified, he went up the steps and rapped sharply on the black crepe-draped door.

Mellon looked flustered when he opened it; leaving his cane with the man, Christian strolled into the drawing room—and discovered the reason why.

The large room was packed with women. Ladies. A swift survey informed him they were all Vaux—those of the main line together with innumerable connections.

The Vaux were one of the very oldest ton families. They were all but legendary, one of those families everyone knew of and kept track of, a recognized cornerstone of society. Christian noted a few males among the crowd, all more senior than he, but the company was predominantly female—and all were talking.

Luckily in whispers and the soft tones considered appropriate to a house in mourning; he could hear himself think. Because of the crowd, many of whom were standing, and being Vaux were of the tall, commanding type of female, he was only seen by those in the groups nearest him. And while those ladies stopped talking long enough to take due note of him, to bob curtsies or nod as appropriate to his rank, they quickly returned to their hushed conversations.

Randall might not have been a Vaux, but he’d married one of their leading lights. His death therefore was of considerable note to the wider family, something to be acknowledged by attendance at this gathering, not a wake for the departed but a show of support for the bereaved.

Locating Letitia on a chaise by the hearth, Christian made his way toward her. Cleaving a path through the crowd, most of whom knew him, wasn’t easy; charm to the fore, he progressed by slow stages.

Which gave him time to study his target.

Seated between her paternal aunts—Lady Amarantha Ffyfe, Countess of Ffyfe, and Lady Constance Bickerdale, Viscountess Manningham—Letitia presided over the assembly with a calm, composed air.

Her expression clearly stated she knew this gathering had to be, and she was perfectly ready to host it and play her part…

Except she didn’t look bereft.

She hadn’t earlier, either, but he’d put that down to her concern for Justin, something that, in her, might be strong enough to override grief. Temporarily. But as he neared the chaise, he could see no evidence that she’d shed so much as a single tear for Randall.

In another female, he might suspect repressed grief, some emotional blockage that kept the woman in question in a state of emotional denial, barring all expression and the release of grieving. But the Vaux lived for emotion. The only way they knew to survive was firmly in the here and now, immersed in the immediate moment and unashamedly giving their emotions full rein.

Witness Letitia’s storm of the afternoon. That’s what happened with Vaux. They were, as one, single-minded when in the grip of their latest flight.

Letitia’s current flight should have been grief, but there was no sign, not even a hint, of that emotion when she raised her eyes to his face, giving him her hand as he bowed before her.

Her clear-eyed composure unsettled him; to gain time to regroup, he turned to acknowledge her aunts.

Lady Constance arched a brow at him. “Letitia mentioned she’d appealed to you over finding Justin. Not that the Continent might not be the best place for the boy, all things considered, but it would be nice to know where he’s gone.”

“Nonsense!” Lady Amarantha waved that aside. “He should come back and face his trial. It’s not as if anyone would convict him.”

Christian blinked; he looked to Letitia for guidance.

She promptly stood. “If you’ll excuse me, aunts, I must speak with Dearne.”

“Of course, dear,” Lady Constance said. “But later we must talk about the funeral.”

Promising to return and give that subject its due, Letitia grasped his arm and steered him toward a corner of the room; while others stopped them to express their condolences, to which she replied with her prevailing calm, they reached their destination in good time. Astonishingly, not one of those who spoke with her seemed at all perturbed by her lack of outward grief.

Turning to stand beside her and look out over the room, he bit his tongue against the urge to ask, baldly, whether she’d loved Randall. The question plagued him, yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

He’d always assumed she’d been head-over-ears in love with the man; that was the only circumstance he could imagine that might have been strong enough to make her turn aside from the promises they’d exchanged. Her promise to him that she would wait until he returned from the wars, that she would be no other man’s—that she loved him.