Stephanie Laurens - The Edge of Desire

“Oh?” Settling the shawl, she faced him. “Where, then?”

At Allardyce House was the answer, not that he told her. If she could keep Dalziel’s secret, he could keep one of his own. He put her in his curricle and drove the short distance to Grosvenor Square, where one of his grooms was waiting to lead the tired horses to the mews.

Handing Letitia down, ignoring her quizzical look, he led her up the steps to the front door. It swung open just before they reached it. Percival stood beaming in the doorway.

“Welcome, my lady.” He bowed low-too low for an earl’s daughter, but just right for a marchioness.

Letitia, always alive to social nuance, sent Christian a look, but smiled graciously on Percival and greeted him with her customary collected air.

As Christian led her on, she leaned close and whispered, “What have you done?”

He smiled. “I haven’t said anything, I swear.”

It was simply that Percival and the rest of his staff could read between his lines.

He led her into the drawing room where Agnes and Hermione were waiting. After he’d answered several questions for Agnes over his mother’s collection of Sevres figurines, they adjourned to the dining room, where his staff outdid themselves in presenting an elegant but cozy family meal.

Christian sat at the head of the table, with Letitia on his right and Agnes and Hermione on his left, and couldn’t stop smiling. This was what his house needed-females, and family.

In stylish comfort they ambled through courses while Letitia filled in all sorts of feminine details for her aunt and sister, then she turned to interrogate him on his meeting with Roscoe, showing equal interest in Roscoe’s decor and style as in the words exchanged. Nevertheless…

“So he’s still definite about wanting to buy the company?”

He nodded. “He insisted I present him as Randall’s chosen buyer in exchange for his information.”

“Well”-she waved the spoon she was using to demolish a delicate crème anglaise -“as it seems I can’t visit him in Dolphin Square, he’ll have to come to me. I’m sure Mrs. Swithin and Trowbridge will be only too happy to sell, so there’s no reason we can’t settle the business of the Orient Trading Company as soon as may be.”

When she turned limpid eyes on him, Christian inwardly sighed. “I’ll contact him and make arrangements for him to call on you-perhaps here might be best. Late at night.”

She waved. “Whatever you think best.”

Just as long as she had her way and divested herself of her share in the company. As he strongly suspected she would want to do so before any wedding, he nodded. “I’ll send a message to Roscoe in the morning.”

Eventually, replete and happy, they returned to the drawing room. Noticing the piano in one corner, Hermione sat herself before it. “I haven’t been practicing much of late. I suppose I should if I’m to make my come-out next year.” She proceeded to entertain them with a sonata.

Relaxed on the sofa beside Letitia, Christian smiled all the more. This was how his evenings would henceforth be, with Agnes sitting by the hearth, he and Letitia comfortably ensconced, and music floating through the room. Simple family pleasures, something he’d known and taken for granted as a child and youth, but had missed throughout his adult life.

With Letitia, he would have those family pleasures again.

With her, he would have the life he’d always dreamed of.

An hour later, after the tea trolley had come and gone, Agnes rose, collected a sleepily content Hermione, then bade Letitia and Christian a good-night.

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.