Letitia smiled and nodded, then realized where they were. “Oh. I’ll-”

“No need to disturb yourself.” A gleam of mischief in her old eyes, Agnes gathered her shawl. “We’re staying here. Dearne and I thought it more appropriate-no need to live in that man’s house any longer. We know our way upstairs.” She fluttered her fingers at them as she turned to the door. “We’ll see you in the morning, my dears.”

Letitia stared after her, and at Hermione, who, with a smug smile and a wave, followed Agnes out of the door. “They’re staying here,” she repeated. Turning, she stared at Christian.

He smiled, even more smugly content than Hermione. “Your Esme is upstairs-I gather she’s been furiously busy hanging all your gowns in the marchioness’s apartments. I suggested, however, that she needn’t wait up for you tonight.”

He studied her eyes, then leaned closer, gently framed her face with one hand. Lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. “Welcome to my house. Welcome to my home. I hope you’ll make it yours.”

Tears-tears of a happiness she’d never thought to feel-filled her eyes. The same emotion swelled in her chest, filled her heart to overflowing. She raised her hand and laid it over his, felt the gentle strength, savored it. “Nothing would make me happier, my lord.”

He smiled, slowly, the gray of his eyes peaceful and calm, then he kissed her again-a longer kiss, one that stirred the flames between them to life.

When he eventually drew back, they were both breathing more rapidly. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She rose as he did. “Indeed. No need to shock Percival. At least not yet.”

Christian glanced at her as he led her to the door. “Actually, quite aside from any shock, I suspect he’d be thrilled. He and the rest of the staff have been waiting for over a decade to serve you, you know.”

But they did go up the wide stairs, to the marquess’s suite, to his bedroom. To his bed.

There, under the soft radiance of a waxing moon, they celebrated all they now had, all they’d reclaimed. All the heat and passion-all the life.

All the indefinable gifts love had to offer, even love itself they claimed anew.

With hands, lips, mouths, with every inch of their bodies, every particle of their souls.

In harmony, attuned, they scaled the peak; gasping, clinging, they loved wildly and let go, celebrating the beginning of a new life, celebrating the fact they were both still alive, that with the past behind them, buried and gone, they would, now, at last, have a chance to live their dreams of long ago.

Love drove them, racked them, enfolded them in its grace.

When, at the last, as they lay slumped, long limbs tangled in the jumbled billows of his bed, the warmth of satiation heavy in their veins, their hearts slowly slowing, as their new reality closed around them Christian shifted his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “This is where we were always supposed to be.”

Letitia didn’t answer, but he felt her lips curve against his chest.

Felt her fingers gently riffling through his hair.

Smelled her elusive scent, of jasmine heavy in the night, wreath about him.

And knew they’d finally secured their dreams.

“Mr. Roscoe, my lord. My lady.”

Letitia rose from the chaise in the smaller drawing room of Allardyce House, Christian beside her. Her gaze fixed on the doorway as Percival stepped back; she would own to considerable curiosity over Neville Roscoe. Quite aside from the fact that she expected to divest herself of the troublesome business of the Orient Trading Company, everything Christian had told her of the mysterious Roscoe had only whetted her appetite.

Four days had passed since Swithin had tried to push her to her death; somewhat to her surprise, her fear-filled memories had all but immediately been overlaid by feelings of relief, and then happiness.

Christian had been responsible for both.

He’d also contacted Roscoe. She in turn had visited the house in Cheyne Walk, to tell Trowbridge and Honeywell all that had transpired, and to get from Trowbridge his written agreement to sell his share of the company if and when she did.

She’d also sent one of Christian’s grooms into Surrey with a letter for Mrs. Swithin confirming the business of the Orient Trading Company and the desirability of a sale, and the consequent need for a written agreement. She had received by reply the requested agreement, along with a declaration from Swithin’s solicitor, who had, most fortuitously, been in Surrey dealing with Swithin’s affairs.

So all was in readiness to effect the sale.

Roscoe appeared; he literally darkened the doorway. With his close-cropped dark hair, dark clothes, and cynical, dark blue eyes, he looked the epitome of a dangerous character. With an inclination of his head, he moved past Percival and approached them; he walked with the same, arrogant, faintly menacing stride Dalziel employed. Not so much an intentional affectation as an expression of what, underneath the sophisticated glamour, they really were.

As he neared, she saw that Roscoe was as tall as Christian, but not quite as large, as heavy, his build more rangy, but in no way less lethal for that.

Christian extended his hand.

Roscoe quirked a brow-apparently at being accorded the courtesy-but gripped and shook nonetheless. “Good evening.”

It was after ten o’clock.

Christian inclined his head. “Thank you for coming.” He turned to her. “Allow me to present Lady Letitia.” He left out the Randall, she was quite sure deliberately.

Letitia gave Roscoe her hand, smiled as she looked into his face…and barely felt his fingers close about hers.

Barely heard his proper, “Lady Randall,” barely registered the rumble of his deep voice or his perfectly executed bow.

She knew, looking into his eyes, that she’d met him before-long ago, when they’d been in their teens.

She let her smile widen, and sensed his wariness grow. “I believe we’ve met before, Mr. Roscoe, although I can’t at the moment recall where. But then I expect you would rather I didn’t recall at all, so perhaps”-retrieving her hand from his suddenly slack grasp, she waved to the armchair opposite the chaise-“we should get down to business before I do.”

Roscoe cast Christian a look, then moved to comply.

Still smiling delightedly, Letitia sat and promptly took charge of the negotiations.

Much to Roscoe’s disquiet.

Realizing that the threat of her knowledge of his identity, plus the inherent difficulty a man like Roscoe faced in negotiating business with a female of Letitia’s class, played heavily into her hands-and that she was supremely well-qualified to capitalize on the fact-Christian sat back and left her to it.

She did well, extracting both a higher price and more favorable payment terms than Roscoe had expected to have to concede; that much was clear from the irritation that briefly shone in his dark eyes.

But he took it well.

When, all the details thrashed out and agreed upon, the written agreements from Trowbridge and Mrs. Swithin tendered and accepted, they all rose and Roscoe shook Letitia’s hand, there was a reluctantly admiring glint in his eyes. “I’ll have my man of business draw up the contract in conjunction with…” Roscoe cocked a brow at Christian. “…Montague?”

Christian nodded. “He’s under instruction to take over the management of Lady Letitia’s affairs.”

Roscoe’s lips quirked. “Naturally.” He looked at Letitia, hesitated, then said, “I understand felicitations are in order.” He bowed, inherently graceful. “Please accept mine.”

Letitia glowed. “Thank you.”

Straightening, Roscoe met her eyes. “And don’t try too hard to remember our previous meeting.”

She waved airily. “I doubt I’ll have time, what with all else that’s going on.”

“Good.” With that dry comment, Roscoe turned to Christian; this time he spontaneously held out his hand. “Dearne.”

Christian gripped his hand, entirely content with how the meeting had gone. “Come-I’ll walk you out.”

Roscoe bowed again to Letitia, then fell into step beside Christian as he headed for the door. While Christian opened it, Roscoe glanced back-at Letitia settling on the chaise to await Christian’s return.

Then he turned and went through the door.

As they passed down the corridors and into the front hall, Christian was aware of Roscoe glancing about-not so much taking note as breathing in the ambience. “Do you ever think you’ll return to”-he gestured about them-“tonnish life?”

Roscoe didn’t immediately reply. When they reached the front door, he turned and faced Christian. “Much as I might envy you the life you now have, I long ago realized it wasn’t in the cards for me.”

There was a finality in his tone that closed the subject.

Roscoe accepted his cane from Percival, then, when that worthy opened the door, nodded to Christian and went out into the night.

Christian watched him go, saw him disappear into the gloom before Percival shut the door. He stared unseeing at the panels for a minute more, then recalling all that awaited him in the smaller drawing room, he smiled, turned, and strolled back to embrace it.

And her. The love of his life and, God willing, the mother of his children.

Letitia’s second marriage was in no way the travesty her first had been. Consequently, their wedding was every bit as massive, noisy, and full of life as Christian had foreseen.

He didn’t mind in the least. Looking around the huge ballroom of Nunchance Priory, noting the sheer exuberance that held sway, he gave thanks that he and Letitia had won through to this, that the years and fate hadn’t bound them, chained them, to lesser existences.

To an existence apart.

He glanced at her, radiant and so vitally vibrant beside him, her dark hair gleaming, the Allardyce diamonds glittering about her throat and depending from her ears, the simple gold band he’d placed on her finger mere hours ago the only ornament she wore on her slim digits. Her long, slender frame was encased in silk the color of the palest pink rose; the scent of jasmine rose from her alabaster skin.