Not that anyone could conceivably view standing in an ill-lit salon sipping weak orgeat and listening to others, most of whom were twice her age, dwell on the shortcomings of their adult children as at all entertaining.

Which was no doubt why her mind found it much easier to dwell on what Christian had revealed. He’d explained that in the murky world of which gaming hells formed a part, the sale of a valuable set of properties like the company’s had the potential to stir all sorts of reactions, any of which might turn violent. Bidders who sensed they might not win and owners of similar establishments were only some of the possible reactees; Christian had hinted that there were other even more shadowy souls within London’s underworld who might be moved to take an interest.

The notion of being involved with such persons held absolutely no allure. She was nearly twenty-nine; she’d left unthinking wildness behind her long ago.

Smiling as Lady Washthorne concluded a story about her niece, she wondered how soon she could leave.

“Letitia.”

Just the sound of Christian’s deep voice sent relief washing through her. She turned to face him and gave him her hand. “My lord. What brings you here?”

He raised her hand; eyes locked with hers, he brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers. “You.” He smiled. Instead of releasing her hand, he set it on his sleeve.

The others in the group were delighted to welcome him. He shook hands, exchanged greetings, then, after a few minutes had elapsed, excused them both and drew her out of the circle.

He glanced down at her. “How’s your temper?”

“Holding up. Just.” She looked around the room. “You know everyone here, do you not?”

“All by name, most by sight, but a potted recent history of the more notable wouldn’t go astray.”

“I see. In that case, you’ll want to know that Lady Framlingham…”

Christian steered her around the room in a slow, ambling circuit. A few reckless souls were brave enough to stop them to exchange greetings, but as it was plain they were deep in converse, most simply smiled, nodded, and let them pass by.

Letitia frowned at a gentleman-an aging dandy-across the room. “Did you hear about Findlay-Robinson?”

“What about him?” Christian inwardly smiled as she told him the tale of the faded beau’s obsession with one of the more flighty young ladies recently out.

“It will never do, of course, but no one has the heart to tell him.”

As they promenaded, she filled his ears with a detailed, colorful, accurate, and often acerbic account of the company and their private lives, their personal foibles. She entertained him while imparting information that, now he was appearing in society again, he needed. While she was frequently cynical, she was never malicious, instead exhibiting an understanding of their world that was both remarkably mature and remarkably well-grounded.

Demonstrating on yet another level why she was the perfect wife for him, and always had been.

Not that he needed reminding, let alone convincing.

Deciding they’d both been present long enough to be deemed as having done their respective duties, he turned her toward their hostess. “Come-I’ll take you home.”

Letitia inclined her head and let him.

Let him take her back to South Audley Street, let him take her upstairs, let him take her to her bed.

Let him take her.

Or, as the case proved, let him let her take him.

It was a distinction she appreciated, yet it was only much later, when she lay in his arms in the rumpled jumble of her bed and listened to his breathing deepen, listened to his heart slow as he slipped into slumber, that she realized.

She didn’t need to wake him to ask if he’d done it on purpose; she knew him-of course he had. He’d set the stage, played the part, and she-without thinking, without the slightest warning flicker in her mind-had slipped into the opposing role.

That of his wife.

If her unthinking acceptance hadn’t rattled her so much, she would have woken him just to upbraid him.

Damn man! She hadn’t seen that coming, not at all.

There was nothing to be done, not now she lay wrapped in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest, still far too physically wrung out to even contemplate moving.

No point in trying to move, either; even in sleep he’d hold her where she was. Over his heart.

All of which led her to contemplate instead the unexpected turn her life had taken. Randall was gone-as Christian had said, removed by fate from her side. And he was there instead, holding her through the night as Randall never had-as she’d never allowed Randall to do, which in itself told the story.

She was besotted with Christian, always had been, and nothing on that front had changed.

And now he wanted to marry her.

She knew he meant it, that this time he intended to stubbornly press his suit until she agreed, but the more cautious and wary, afraid-of-being-hurt-again side of her insisted she had to know why.

Had to know what was truly in his heart before she could decide whether marrying him now, after their years of separation, was the right, safe, and sensible thing to do.

It wasn’t being his wife she questioned; she’d always wanted the position, knew it fitted her like a glove and that everyone-simply everyone-agreed. That was not the issue. What she wasn’t sure of, what was holding her back, was a sense of not having looked hard enough. Of not yet having gained sufficient assurances to justify taking the risk of loving him again.

Of giving him, as she had long ago, her heart and soul, unconditionally.

Last time she’d done that naïvely, without a second thought-without any idea whatever of the dangers-and when she’d needed him by her side to protect her heart, he hadn’t been there. So her heart had been broken and, as she’d told him, she’d put the pieces away, locked them away and buried the key. That was the only way she’d been able to survive, to distance herself from the pain.

She still remembered the pain.

Given that, now he was back, now he was there once again in her arms, before she dug up the key, unlocked the casket, took out her heart, put it back together and handed it to him again, she had to be sure.

Absolutely, beyond all doubt sure that her heart would now be safe with him.

Once bitten, twice shy; in her case the old adage rang true. Regardless, she was going to have to make up her mind, and soon.

With him so intent on pressing his suit, in the next few weeks she would have to decide if what he was offering-all she would gain-was worth facing, accepting, and taking that risk again-this time with full knowledge of the pain she would endure if she agreed and her decision proved wrong.

She lay in his arms, cocooned in his strength, listened to the muffled thud of his heart-and knew in her heart that she was where she belonged.

If only there existed some guarantee.

Or at the very least some sign…

She was on the cusp of sleep when clarity shone, a beam sharpened by the prism of her waning conscious.

She knew she loved him-that wasn’t, never had been, a part of her dilemma.

The resolution to her dilemma lay in the opposing direction.

She had yet to be convinced that he loved her.

Loved her as she loved him, with her heart, her soul-with everything in her.

She was a Vaux-love was, for her, a grand, burning passion. She needed proof that he loved her in the same way-to the depths of his conqueror’s soul-before she again surrendered her heart and gave it into his keeping.

Sleep rolled over her and dragged her down, but the essence of that moment of clarity remained, lodged very firmly in her brain.

Chapter 16

Christian considered it one of life’s great ironies that he couldn’t take Randall’s place as Letitia’s husband until he’d uncovered the man’s murderer.

He could be her lover-her only lover-but he couldn’t press her to accept his suit until she was free of the tangled web of Randall’s life. Not because there was any social stricture preventing her from accepting him, but because-he knew her-she wouldn’t.

Until they succeeded in divesting her of any association with gaming hells, and freed Justin from all suspicion of Randall’s murder by exposing the real culprit, his chances of getting her to agree to a wedding were slim to none.

As he tooled his curricle along the embankment, he hoped that interviewing Trowbridge would advance his cause.

Letitia usually found the river distracting, but not today. When Christian checked his pair and turned into Cheyne Walk, she scanned the houses, then pointed. “That’s it.”

A short gravel drive led to a set of white-porticoed steps; Christian drew his horses to a halt before them. Leaving the reins with his groom, he descended and rounded the carriage. Handing her down, he arched a brow at her. “Do you think, this time, that I might lead the questioning?”

He was asking in all sincerity. She wrinkled her nose at him. “As interrogation is more your forte than mine, yes, all right. You can do the talking.”

She’d already lectured herself on the wisdom of keeping her twin objectives-to rid herself of the gambling hells and clear Justin of suspicion by finding Randall’s killer-firmly in the forefront of her mind, to not let herself be distracted by either Christian’s agenda or her own sometimes overly dramatic nature. She’d reminded herself that no matter how insistent the compulsion to dwell on Christian and the possibilities he’d placed before her, and on the ultimate question of whether he truly loved her as she loved him, nothing could be decided until her twin objectives had been met and the detritus of her marriage to Randall cleared away.