The Edge of Desire

by Stephanie Laurens

In the dark, in his arms, it was easy to ignore the risk.

  To ignore her underlying, perhaps irrational fear.

  To simply love him.

  Turning her head, she gently kissed his chest, then snuggled her head on his shoulder and let her dreams take her.

  Sated, replete, so deeply satisfied on so many levels he couldn’t raise a thought, Christian held her close, closed his eyes—felt an emotion, familiar and strong, well and pour though him.

  More intense than ever before. More certain.

  Feeling her body stretched out along his, feminine curves pressed to his chest, her long legs tangled with his, her skin soft and flushed beneath his hands, he felt his lips curve as he surrendered to sleep.

  Christian stirred her as dawn approached. Faint pearly light washed into his room, gliding ephemeral fingers over the bed as within it she cried out as passion crested and broke, and a long glorious wave of satiation washed through her.

  Through them.

  Holding the moment, and him, close, she wrapped herself in its warmth and, with a smile on her lips, sank back into slumber.

  “Letitia?”

  She sensed him shaking her, but refused to respond.

  “I know I said I’d see you in the morning”—his voice was a gravelly rumble in her ear—“but I hadn’t envisaged it would be quite so early.”

  She felt moved to complain. “Why is it so damned early?”

  “Because you have a decision to make.”

  “Oh?” She felt him shift in the bed so he was lying back against the pillows, his arms crossed behind his head. She considered, decided she had to know. “What decision would that be?”

  “About what you want to do.” She felt his gaze on her face, then he went on, “Whether you want to make my staff very happy, or slip back to South Audley Street before anyone sees.”

  She groaned. She’d known there’d be a price for sleeping in his bed, but the bother of having to get up, dressed, and out before the tweenies were about hadn’t registered. “Damn!”

  Wrestling aside the covers, she glanced at the window, and groaned again. She was torn, but…

  He chuckled, then sat up, throwing off the covers. “Come on—I’ll walk you home.”

  He helped her lace up her gown, then led her silently down the stairs and out of the front door—just in time; they could hear the maids’ voices approaching from behind the green baize door as they slipped outside. He drew the front door closed, then took her arm, wound it with his, and they set off to walk the short distance to…the house where she was staying.

  That’s how she’d always thought of Randall’s house; it had never been hers.

  She glanced at Christian, strolling beside her. When he’d joined her in his bed last night, the very first thing she’d done was run her hands over him, confirming he wasn’t in any way hurt. Even half asleep, some part of her mind had been on full alert on that score, ready to take charge if it had proved necessary. Scanning his face in the pale morning light—devoid of even the faintest hint of a bruise, as was the hand—his right—that lay over hers on his sleeve, she concluded that his meeting with Gallagher had passed civilly enough.

  Looking ahead, she asked, “So what did you learn from your excursion last night?”

  Christian told her, seeing no reason to hold anything back. Unsurprisingly, she asked about Roscoe; he related what he knew of the man; he’d run into him a few times in his professional capacity in his early years of working for Dalziel.

  “So,” Letitia said, as they neared Randall’s house, “I take it our next move is to go and see this Roscoe person and find out what he knows.”

  “Indeed.” Christian halted before the steps. “I’ll go and see him as soon as we can arrange a meeting.”

  “I’ll come, too.” Letitia halted beside him.

  As she faced him, he took in the determined light in her eyes, the stubborn set of her chin. Inwardly sighed. “Unfortunately, in the same way you couldn’t go with me to speak with Gallagher, you can’t come with me when I visit Roscoe.”

  She narrowed her eyes on his. “Nonsense. Gallagher’s an underworld czar—a known criminal—but you told me yourself Roscoe’s another Randall.”

  “I meant in terms of his business interests. Otherwise, Roscoe’s nothing like Randall. He’s ten times—a hundred times—more dangerous.”

  Her lips thinned; her eyes couldn’t get any narrower…then her expression cleared and she smiled. Too sweetly. “If Roscoe’s as clever and as canny as you say”—turning, she started up the steps—“then he’s not going to tell you the details of a business agreement he struck with Randall.”

  Halting on the top step, she plied the knocker, then faced him as he joined her. She smiled again, this time more assured. “Roscoe won’t divulge those details to anyone but me—the one who, businesswise, now stands in Randall’s shoes.”

  She waited a heartbeat—no doubt to allow him to grasp the incontestability of her reasoning—then briskly said, “I’ve an at-home I must attend, then a luncheon. I assume we’re all to meet later at the club?”

  When, after a moment’s hesitation, his face expressionless, he nodded curtly, she informed him, “I’ll join you there.”

  With a regal inclination of her head, she moved forward as Mellon opened the door.

  Raising a hand in mute farewell, Christian turned and walked down the steps. Gaining the pavement, he paused, then set off, striding back to his house.

  While she was spending her day swanning around the ton, he would spend at least a part of his arranging to ensure she didn’t accompany him to see Neville Roscoe.

  She would understand once she’d thought it through; she knew him—understood men like him. She couldn’t possibly expect to spend the night in his bed, to acknowledge him—them—at least that far, and then expect him to take her, to stand back and allow her, to do something so reckless as to visit Neville Roscoe.

  Letitia arrived at the Bastion Club a minute before Dalziel—two minutes before Justin slipped in via the back lane. She frowned at her brother as he sank into a chair in the library, but he merely smiled back.

  She inwardly sniffed, and gave her attention to Christian as, for Dalziel’s and Justin’s benefit, he recounted what he’d learned from Gallagher.

  “Roscoe.” Dalziel shook his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but our list of suspects already includes Trowbridge, Swithin, fourteen hell managers, countless possible disgruntled staff, business rivals—and to that we must now add all those who might have very good reasons to stop the deal with Roscoe going ahead. As that last crew include many who would consider murder an acceptable deterrent in such circumstances, we can’t discount them.”

  “Actually,” Christian said, “Gallagher thought that last scenario unlikely. It seems everyone in that group is resigned to Roscoe growing more powerful. And as he keeps very much to himself and takes care not to impinge on their turf, then their motivation for not wanting to exchange Roscoe-plus-Randall for just Roscoe is hard to see.”

  He paused, then added, “From my own observations, if Randall’s chosen buyer was Roscoe, then I’m inclined to think Gallagher is right—the others will back away and let him have that bone.”

  Dalziel looked steadily at Christian for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s your area of expertise—if you think it unlikely, then by all means let’s erase them from our list. Even then, the list is too long, and we’ve made precious little headway in defining which of the available suspects we should pursue. Apropos of that, I’ll go with you to see Roscoe. I’ve heard about the man for years, but we’ve never met. See if you can set the meeting for tomorrow morning. I’ve other appointments, but for that I’ll make time.”

  Christian nodded. He glanced at Letitia.

  Before he could lay his tongue to adequate words with which to broach the subject, Dalziel did.

  Like Christian, he’d looked at Letitia, but then his dark gaze moved on to Justin. “We’ll take Just
in with us as Letitia’s representative.” His gaze returned to Letitia. “I doubt Roscoe will talk openly about any deal without some assurance, albeit by proxy, from you.”

  “No.” Letitia all but visibly bristled; the air about her seemed to sharpen and crackle. “There’s no reason for Justin to risk exposure. I’ll accompany you.”

  Dalziel’s dark gaze didn’t waver. “You can’t meet with Roscoe.”

  A bald statement of what all the males in the room knew to be absolute fact.

  She heard, not just the words but the nuance, that in no circumstances would they take her with them, would they allow her to go.

  She drew in a quick breath and looked at Christian. The question—the plea—in her eyes was plain to see.

  He read it—for one instant considered—but it simply could not be. He shook his head. “You can’t accompany us.”

  Her eyes flared—not just with anger but with hurt, too, and something else he couldn’t define.

  Before he could look deeper, she lowered her lids. An uncomfortable, heavily charged moment ensued; more familiar with her than the others, both he and Justin knew her emotions had erupted—that that was what was roiling through the air, rippling across everyone’s nerves, the projection of her temper.

  The herald of an almighty explosion.

  Justin uncrossed his legs and sat up—slowly. Christian looked at him; they exchanged a glance, but before either could react—could even think of how to—she reined the unruly passions in.

  Not completely, but enough to let them all realize they’d been holding their breaths.

  Before anyone could say or do anything, she seized her reticule and—without looking at any of them—inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your plans.”

  She stood, swinging around so fast none of them caught sight of her face. Leaving them scrambling to their feet, head high she swept to the door, opened it and went through.

  They heard her heels clattering—quickly—down the stairs, then the front door opened—and shut.

  Feeling horribly awkward, and out of their depth, the five men stared at the open library door, then Justin sighed, walked forward and shut it.

  The sound of the latch released them from the spell; they glanced at each other, then Dalziel looked at Christian and grimaced apologetically. “I take it I metaphorically stepped on her toes.”

  Justin shook his head. “By the reaction, I’d say it was the ones with bunions.”

  Christian drew in a breath; his chest felt tight, as if he were the cause of her distress. He caught Justin’s eye. “Just how”—he waved at the door—“upset is she?”

  Justin grimaced and waggled his head from side to side. “She might throw a Vaux tantrum, she might be truly angry—or she might be in a rage. The last you never want to see, and unless I miss my guess, she was on the brink of that, but drew back from wreaking havoc on us—and while I thank God she did, I’ve never seen her do that. I didn’t know she could.”

  Justin frowned; he met Christian’s eyes. “What worries me is that I’m not sure, if she is in a rage, that she’ll even be able to see straight.”

  Christian felt an icy hand clutch his heart. “I’ll go after her.” He turned to the door. “I’ll arrange the meeting with Roscoe and send word.” Hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Dalziel. “Where will you be?”

  “For my sins, at the office. If I’m to accompany you tomorrow, I’ll be there until late.”

  Christian nodded and went out, closing the door behind him. Going down the stairs, he saw Gasthorpe hovering, uncharacteristically uncertain, by the front door. Without preamble he asked, “Which way did she go?”

  “Toward Mayfair, my lord. On foot. I would have summoned a hackney, but she’d already…”

  Stormed off. “That’s quite all right, Gasthorpe. I’ll see she gets home.”

  Gasthorpe hurried to open the front door; Christian went out, went quickly down the steps, strode down the path, turned right into Montrose Place, then lengthened his stride.

  He caught up to her just beyond the corner of Green Park. Head still high, reticule clutched in both hands, she was striding along—entirely forgetting her customary glide. He doubted she was paying any attention to her surroundings; people walking in the opposite direction took care to get out of her way.

  Knowing well enough not to try to take her arm, he fell into step alongside her. He glanced at her face; her expression was far too stony for his liking.

  She knew he was there, but she gave no sign.

  Eventually, he asked, his tone the epitome of mild, “Why are you so set on seeing Roscoe?”

  That was, apparently, the right question to ask to break the hold she was keeping on her temper.

  She stopped walking, rounded on him; eyes blazing, she locked them on his. “It’s not Roscoe, you dolt! I couldn’t care less if I never set eyes on the man in my entire life!”

  He searched her eyes, a frown in his; he was now entirely at sea.

  She saw, and flung up her hands. “It’s you, you fool!” She thumped him on the chest with her reticule. “I don’t—can’t…”

  He recalled—belatedly—her agitation over him seeing Gallagher.

  She drew in a shuddering breath. Eyes still locked on his, she spoke through clenched teeth; although she didn’t actually stamp her feet, she managed to convey that impression. “I can’t handle not knowing what’s happening to you. Knowing you’re going into danger—and on my account. Knowing you like it, that you find it exciting—that you might do God knows what if the mood strikes you!”

  Waving her hands, she continued to rail at him—in the middle of Piccadilly in the middle of the afternoon, with total disregard for the interested—nay, fascinated—onlookers.

  He stood there and let her, while understanding slowly seeped into his brain.

  “Didn’t you notice the damned track I wore in your rug last night? I’m a Vaux, for heaven’s sake—I can’t not know!”

  He suddenly—in another road-to-Damascus revelation—saw the light. Just in time to stop himself from pointing out that he’d spent the past twelve years behind enemy lines doing supremely dangerous things. That wasn’t, he now realized, her point.

  He suddenly realized, fully and completely, just what that was.

  He would have beamed delightedly had he not also comprehended how strung up she was, how brittlely tense.

  Finally comprehended that that was a measure of how much he now meant to her.

  He trapped her gaze. “About Roscoe.”

  She blinked, her tirade momentarily derailed.

  Moving slowly, holding her gaze, he gently took her arm. “There is no physical danger of any sort involved in meeting with him.”

  She frowned, but let him turn her and guide her onto the path behind her, one leading into Green Park. “So I can go?”

  He steered her on, under the leafy trees. “Let me explain. While going to see Gallagher was dangerous, that danger stemmed from the area in which he lives, not from him. He might be an underworld czar, but he’s not about to attack anyone, at least not directly.” He glanced at her; she was looking ahead, as yet unmollified, but at least she was listening. “Regardless, even if Gallagher had lived in Chelsea, you still couldn’t have gone to meet him because of the risk of someone seeing you and speaking of it, ultimately resulting in a serious scandal. That—the threat to your reputation—was the reason, all physical danger aside, that you couldn’t go with me to meet Gallagher.

  “The reason you can’t go to the meeting with Roscoe is the same—if anything, even more so. If you were seen entering or leaving his house, regardless of the circumstances, your reputation would be shredded irretrievably.” That caused her frown—the quality of it—to change. His eyes on her face, what he could see of it, he strolled slowly on. “Roscoe lives in Pimlico, in well-to-do affluence. If Gallagher was unlikely to pose a physical threat, Roscoe is even less likely—that would be total
ly and comprehensively uncharacteristic. Roscoe would think it beneath him to resort to violence of any sort.”

  He drew breath, then quietly said, “So you don’t need to worry about me when I go to see him.”

  She didn’t say anything, simply kept walking by his side. Then she glanced at him, quickly read his eyes, then once more looked ahead. And sighed—tightly, but a little of her dangerous tension slipped away. “I know it’s irrational—you don’t have to tell me, I know. I didn’t feel this way—well, not so strongly—before, when you went away to war, but now…” She gestured helplessly. “I can’t help how I feel. And what I feel—and when I feel….”

  “It affects you strongly.” Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers. “I know. I understand.” She wouldn’t feel so powerfully unless she loved him even more powerfully.

  He knew those feeling irrational fears couldn’t simply stop. And in her case, before, his “going into danger” had indeed been the prelude to something disastrous happening in her life; small wonder that she reacted badly to any such situation now.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll go to see Roscoe with Dalziel and Justin in the morning, then I’ll come back—directly back—and tell you what happens, what he says, what we learn—what the status is regarding the sale of the company.”

  The telltale tension that had kept her ramrod stiff beside him ebbed step by step. Eventually she glanced at him, met his eyes. “You promise you’ll come directly back?”

  He smiled slightly, turned her around and started them back toward Piccadilly. “Word of an Allardyce.”

  She nodded and looked ahead. “Good.” After a moment she added, “I’ll be waiting.”

  But that was for the morrow. That night they met at his aunt Cordelia’s house, first in her drawing room, then later they sat side by side at her long table while a highly select company dined.

  It was primarily a political gathering, a renewal of contacts before the autumn session got under way; discussions ranged widely. Now he was Dearne, and fixed once more at home, Christian knew he would need to take a more active interest. Somewhat to his surprise, he discovered Letitia was more than qualified to advise him.