Beyond Seduction (Bastion Club 6)

Charles and the others had misinterpreted his earlier comment. He hadn’t suggested that him falling in love would not be straightforward—he’d stated that for him, finding the perfect wife was not destined to be straightforward. As it wasn’t, for one very simple reason.

Whoever said falling in love was straightforward?

In that, he could prove Charles wrong. For him, falling in love had been the easiest, most straightforward and natural thing in the world. As he recalled. What, in his case, made matters anything but straightforward was the difficulty he faced in marrying the lady in question.

Not least because she was already wed.

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back against the chair. A parade of memories flickered past his mind’s eye—all the things that had happened, all the things he couldn’t change.

In the distance, he heard the front doorbell peal; one part of his mind tracked Gasthorpe’s footsteps as he went to answer the door…but then the past dragged him back, wrapped him in soft arms and the wreathing scent of jasmine.

He was recalled to the present by a tap on the door, followed by Gasthorpe.

Christian opened his eyes.

The majordomo closed the door, then faced him. “A lady has called, my lord, asking to see you. She gave no name, but offered this note.”

Christian beckoned. As Gasthorpe neared, he idly wondered who in all the ton wished to converse with him, and about what—and how any lady had known to run him to earth there. His staff in Grosvenor Square knew better than to reveal his whereabouts, not to just anyone. He lifted the folded parchment from Gasthorpe’s silver salver.

The sight of the script rocked him.

For a moment, he simply stared, then reaction rushed through him, jerking him free of all lethargy with a resounding mental slap.

His fingers shifted, fingertips tracing his name, not the one from long ago but the title he’d since acquired.

Even before he unfolded the note, the scent of jasmine reached him.

No figment of imagination or memory.

He fumbled, nearly dropped the note. His fingertips burned.

Drawing in a deep breath, slowing his movements, steadying them and himself, he smoothed out the note.

He read the few lines within.

Then he leaned back in the chair, his gaze rising, fixing unseeing on the hearth.

He didn’t know what he felt; emotions careened through him, a jumble of reactions impossible to dissect. He breathed deeply, pulling air past the constriction in his chest; gradually a cool tension, an inward steeling, flowed through him.

Fate moved in inscrutable, damnably mysterious ways.

Gasthorpe cleared his throat. “My lord?”

Christian heard himself say over the pounding in his chest, “I’ll join the lady in a moment, Gasthorpe. Tell her to wait.”