Stephanie Laurens - The Edge of Desire

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.

If she hadn’t loved Randall, why had she married him?

Why had she broken her promises to him?

Confusion wasn’t the half of what he felt.

In contrast, she clearly felt none. Surveying the company, she softly snorted. “They may be here because they’re family, but the truth is Randall’s murder is likely to be the juiciest scandal of the season. I can’t imagine what might trump it, especially with the rumor of Justin being involved.”

He frowned. “Has that got out?”

“Oh, yes.” Contrary to her lack of grief, there was no doubt of her anger. “Quite a few mentioned it in their greetings-they’d heard about it, including that Justin has disappeared- fled, as they’re putting it-long before they crossed this threshold.”

Christian looked down the room-at Mellon, hovering just inside the doorway.

“Indeed.” Letitia had followed his gaze. “I have absolutely no doubt Randall’s senior lackey is who we have to thank for that. He’s always hated Justin-hated, not just disliked.”

“Why is that? Justin, after all, is his master’s brother-in-law.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I have no idea.” She turned to face Christian. “We need to clear Justin of suspicion as soon as possible. The rumors will be rife by tomorrow.”

He met her gaze. “I’ll start searching in earnest tomorrow, but unless he’s merely gone to visit friends, or is staying somewhere reasonably obvious and hasn’t in fact deliberately gone to ground, then flushing him out isn’t going to be easy.”

She frowned. “I’ve racked my brains, but I have no clue where he’s gone. He didn’t mention leaving town.”

After a pause, Christian asked, “Why is it that no one seems to expect you to be wailing and tearing your clothes?”

“I’m a Vaux-I wouldn’t tear my clothes.”

“Possibly not, but you should be wailing.”

She met his eyes briefly. “Sorry, no wailing tonight. Nor any crying, either-it does terrible things to my complexion.”

He looked at her, simply looked. While she felt the weight of compulsion in his gaze, she had no intention of explaining why she wasn’t grieving for Randall. Especially not to him. Such an explanation would inexorably lead to further questions, ones she had even less interest in answering.

Their past was past. The promise of it dead and buried. Gone.

Stolen from her.

By Randall, and him.

Which was the reason she was making not the smallest pretense of grief or sorrow. Her agreement with Randall had ended on his death; she was free, now, to behave as she felt. Her only surprise was that, as Christian had remarked, none of her extended family seemed at all shocked by her lack of feeling; she’d thought she had done better at pretending to love Randall over the years.

She surveyed the room. “I wonder how long they’ll stay?”

About another hour was the answer. She wasn’t entirely surprised that Christian, denied the explanations he wanted, remained by her side, his charm disguising his determination.

When she’d squeezed fingers and touched cheeks with the last of the ladies and thanked them for their concern, she turned to him, met his gaze and arched a brow. “Well?”

He glanced around the now empty room, large and peculiarly lifeless; although it was furnished in expensive style, as she’d informed him, it wasn’t a room she favored. His gaze returned to her; he waved to the door. “Let’s go to the library.”

The library, she assumed, because it wasn’t her domain. She acquiesced with a nod, gracefully turned and graciously led the way.

All too aware that he prowled in her wake. The image of a stalking lion popped into her head. With his fairish brown hair, combined with his loose-limbed grace and the power inherent in his large body, the analogy was peculiarly apt.

But when they reached the library, he seemed somewhat at a loss. She sat in one of the armchairs by the hearth and watched him prowl the room, idly inspecting titles as he worked his way closer.

When he finally arrived before her, he stood frowning down at her. “I checked at the obvious clubs-Justin’s not staying at any of them. I’ll make the same rounds tomorrow and see if I can find anyone who’s sighted him.”

Christian paused, wishing he could simply ask her outright about her marriage. The trouble with interrogating her was that she rarely if ever lied; instead, as she’d demonstrated earlier, if she didn’t want to answer a question, she simply wouldn’t. Even if he could bring himself to browbeat her by enacting some dramatic scene, being a Vaux, she’d only trump whatever efforts he made.

Catching her gaze, holding it, he stated, “It would help-greatly-if you simply told me everything you know that might affect this situation.” Including how you felt about Randall . “I’m clearly missing vital pieces of the story.”

And not only over the issue of Randall’s death.

She merely raised her brows at him in that coolly superior way female leaders of the haut ton had perfected. “I have nothing to add to what I told you earlier.”

He had no intention of being so easily dismissed. “What was the subject of your argument with Randall-the one last night?”

She hesitated, clearly debating if that was a piece of information she could offer as a sop. She decided it was. “It concerned Hermione. Randall had hatched a nonsensical scheme to marry her off to the Duke of Northumberland.”

“Northumberland? He must be in his dotage.”

“He is, but that was of no concern to Randall. He wanted the connection to a dukedom. Being connected to an earldom-” She broke off.

When she didn’t continue, he dryly supplied, “Wasn’t enough?”

A faint flush touched her pale cheeks-anger, not embarrassment. “Indeed.”

“And the argument?”

Her gaze strayed to the empty hearth. “He’d been trying to convince me to support the notion over the last few weeks. Last night he pressed me to take Hermione on a visit to Northumberland’s estate. I refused.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “You argued with him for more than twenty minutes.”

Gaze still on the fireplace, she shrugged. “He put his case in detail, but of course I would never agree to such a thing.”

Her tone suggested that Randall was a fool to think she would…in the circumstances. What circumstances? Gritting his teeth, he quietly asked, “Why ‘of course’?”

He’d hoped her abstraction would have her answering before she’d thought, giving him some insight into her increasingly curious marriage. Instead, she slowly turned her head and looked at him. Steadily. Then simply said, “I would never countenance Hermione being used in such a way.”