He swallowed, released her, lowered his hands. Eased back a step. His gaze locked with hers, his mind was a swirling jumble of unfinished-unfinishable-thoughts. All he’d known as fact, the framework underpinning his smoldering anger, had been ripped away, his perceptions turned literally upside down. He didn’t know how to defend himself-didn’t see how he could.

He took another step back.

Fury lit her eyes and she came after him. She jabbed a finger into his chest. “I had a right to your support and consideration, even then. You gave me neither.” Her voice grew in volume and dramatic force. “You hadn’t even seen fit to speak to my father, so I couldn’t appeal to him, or to yours, for help. Couldn’t suggest that there might be another way out rather than by me marrying Randall.”

He flung his hands out to his sides. “You know why I didn’t speak-we discussed it. I might have been killed, and you were so young-you would have been tied to me, mourning me.” He held her gaze. “Christ, I would have given a king’s ransom for you-you know that.”

“Indeed? Much good did that do me.” Eyes glittering, she advanced and he gave ground. “Where were you, Christian? Where were you when I needed you?”

Raising one hand, she halted. “No, wait-don’t tell me. I believe I know.” Her eyes blazed. “‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.’ Isn’t that the motto you swear by? Isn’t that what you chose to do, all those years ago?”

He stopped backing away. “It wasn’t like that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, yes it was. You chose to go and play not just soldiers but spies, to get even closer to the enemy. You left behind your friends-you left me behind-for that. For the thrill.”

She held his gaze. “You needn’t think to deny it. I know you rather well, if you recall. We aren’t so very different-you just hide all your passion behind an imperturbable mask while I let mine show. You lusted after excitement-that’s what drew us together in the first place-so when a certain gentleman crooked his finger and offered you the chance, you grabbed it-and went. For twelve years.”

“I wasn’t doing nothing all those years.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure you weren’t.” She started to pace; he was forcefully reminded of a cat lashing its tail. “I’m quite sure you were indulging your craving for excitement to the hilt. But you didn’t want me to know about that. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me about your new if temporary life. Instead, you left me here, alone, unclaimed, unspoken for, to weather whatever storms fate sent my way. As it happened, fate sent Randall.”

He dragged in a huge breath, ran a hand through his hair. His chest felt as if it had been put through a mangle. He looked into her expressive face, saw all she’d held back, all she’d felt for so long-finally saw what had built the wall he’d sensed between them-and didn’t know how to breach it, how to reach her.

Only knew he had to.

Her lashes lowered, screening her eyes. She, too, drew in a breath, and held it. He sensed her drawing back, reining her temper in, realized that-the Vaux love of drama notwithstanding-she wasn’t going to, didn’t want to, lose it. Not now, not with him.

That seemed strange. Here, surely, was a grand stage-a grand passion tailormade for her to indulge in to the very top of her bent. A matter in which she was totally in the right, and he totally in the wrong.

But rather than rail at him, she turned away. Which only made him feel even more desperate. Head rising, she walked back to her dressing table. “One thing.” Her voice was cool, clear; she didn’t glance back at him. “I will not be blamed for doing what had to be done-not by you, not by anyone.”

Reaching her dressing stool, she stepped around it and sat. With dreadful calm, she reached up to unpin her hair. “Close the door behind you.”

He looked at her, for long minutes studied her, then he walked slowly forward until he stood directly behind her. He searched the face in the mirror-a face he knew better than his own, one that had inhabited his dreams for so many years he’d lost count.

A face that now was shuttered against him.

He hadn’t realized she could do that. He was certain, would have sworn that before-before he’d left her twelve years ago-she’d never be able to hide any of her vibrant emotions from him.

But the years between-the years with Randall-had taught her how to veil her inner self, to hide her feelings-to shield her heart.

The heart that once had been his, unreservedly.

“I’m sorry.”

The words fell from him, direct from his heart.

Her eyes sparked anew. She looked up, in the mirror met his gaze. “Sorry?” Temper, disgust, and disbelief mingled in her tone; her eyes were burning disks of fury. “Sorry for all the years I lay beside that man? Sorry for all the nights I had to put up with his rutting?” Her voice changed. “Do you want to hear that he was a dreadful clod of a lover? Because he was. You at twenty-three knew far more than he ever learned.”

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to defend himself against the accusation in her eyes. He held her gaze, forced himself to, and hoped she could see how much he hurt, how much her words had cut him, how much he now bled, for her.

She seemed to. She drew another careful breath, again drew back from her dangerous edge. She refocused on her reflection; her face stony again, she reached up and pulled another pin from her hair. For a moment he wasn’t sure she was going to say anything more. He was floundering, trying to find some verbal way forward, when she drew in an unsteady breath and in a voice devoid of emotion stated, “You left me. You made my bed for me, and I was the one who had to lie in it-with Randall.”

He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. They’d always-in the past-been open with each other. “Can you forgive me?”

Again she didn’t immediately answer, but continued pulling pins from her hair. Then he sensed rather than heard her sigh. “If you want the truth, I honestly don’t know.”

He heard, knew that was the truth-and it terrified him. Sent a sheet of ice-cold fear cascading through him.

To have her within his grasp and lose her again…he knew, in that instant, that he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t live with that.

That he had to, somehow, find a way to recapture lost dreams-his, and hers.

She pulled out the last pin and her hair tumbled down, falling across her shoulders in a dark mahogany wave. The sight held him; he watched as she picked up a brush and applied it to the silky locks.

A minute ticked by, then he turned away. He knew, beyond doubt or question, that if he left her now, backed away from her revelations, he would never win her back. Stopping by a chair, he shrugged out of his coat, set it over the chair’s back, then unbuttoned his waistcoat, then set his fingers to his cravat.

Wielding her brush, she glanced at him, frowned, opened her mouth…after a moment she shut it again. She studied him for a moment more, then rose and, brush in hand, walked to the window. Slowly brushing, she stood looking out at the night.

He unraveled his cravat, dispensed with it and his waistcoat, then sat on the chair to pull off his boots. Setting them aside, he rose, yanked his shirt from his waistband, loosened the collar. He glanced at her, then, unlacing his cuffs, crossed silently to her.

Halting behind her, close, he waited while she finished brushing out one long tress, then slid the brush from her fingers and placed it on the chest of drawers beside the window.

She said nothing, did nothing.

He reached for her, wrapped her in his arms and simply held her. Waited, his cheek against her sleek head, until at last she relaxed, until she leaned back against him. He tightened his hold, swore on his heart, on his soul, that he would never again let her go.

Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her temple. Murmured, “I have one last question. When you came asking for my help, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you mention what’s been standing like a six-foot-thick wall between us?”

He wasn’t sure she’d give him an answer; he couldn’t demand one. Her hands resting over his at her waist, she continued to look out into the night.

Then she lifted one shoulder. “Pride, I suppose. That was all that was left to me.”

He tried to keep them back, but the words came out anyway. “Was it really so easy to hate me?” He used the term in the full knowledge that she never did anything by half.

Her chin rose. “It’s become a habit.”

“Break it.” Not demand, not command. A suggestion.

“Why?”

The response he’d expected. He turned her to him, into his arms. Looked into her eyes. “Because of this.”

He bent his head and kissed her-and knew he would have only this one chance. One night to give her reasons to try again. One night to make her believe in him again.

One night to find some hope that she would trust him again. Sometime.

That sometime she would be, again, as she had been long ago.

His.

Unquestionably. Incontrovertibly. Irrevocably.

He knew well enough not to try to overwhelm her, but kissed her gently, waited for her response before coaxing her into more. She kissed him back, tentatively at first, as if she hadn’t yet made up her mind to allow him into her bed-even though they both knew she had.

Although he hadn’t seen them, he tasted tears on her lips. On her tongue when he parted her lips and surged inside. He gathered her closer and deepened the kiss, let her feel all she did to him, and all he did to her.

Let her sense how much she meant to him.

No screens. No veils. No reservations.

The time for those was past.

She was, as always, liquid fire in his arms, but this time the fire was contained. The flames licked, tantalizing, tempting, but the fire was banked, controlled. She didn’t burn and sear him, didn’t try to set him afire as she usually did, didn’t fight for supremacy-for the reins-but held back, hung back, and left it to him to stoke their blaze.

So he let their passions rise, but slowly, tiny step by step, so there was no raging inferno to sweep them both away. So that they stepped hand in hand into desire, then let desire unfurl into full-blown passion.

Let passion escalate degree by degree…until it blossomed into need.

Letitia let him persuade her. For once let him lead her down the familiar path rather than rush ahead, so that for once he had to coax, rather than restrain.

She let him kiss her until her senses were reeling, let him fill her mouth and make her yearn.

Let him seduce her.

Not because she’d forgiven him.

Not because she’d made any decision about him, but because she felt she was owed this.

That for all the long years-the lonely, deadening years-that for all her long ago heartbreak, she deserved recompense-a recognition of the sacrifice she’d had forced on her, by circumstance and him, all those years ago.

So she gave him her mouth and let him claim her, surrendered her body and let him caress her-let him trace her curves, with his too-knowing fingers circle, tweak, press, knead, until she grew breathless, restless and needy.

Let him make love to her.

Let him strip away her gown, her petticoats; with a sigh, she felt her chemise drift away. Felt the coolness of the night air on her skin-a long-ago pleasure she’d all but forgotten-the sensation heightened, gently at first, later excruciatingly, by the heated touch of his hands, followed by the hot brand of his mouth on her throat, traveling slowly on to her breasts, then later still laying a fiery path over her stomach to ultimately taste the soft flesh between her thighs.

Gasping, senses reeling, her skin flushed and damp, she let him, on his knees, hold her before him, his hard hands gripping her bottom, supporting her while, his soft hair tangling with her curls, he worshipped her with his lips, his mouth, his tongue, let him use his expertise to ensnare her completely, then let him drive her up, up and over the shining peak.

Glory broke like the sun over her; heat and pleasure fragmented, washing through her veins as molten delight.

Her legs buckled. She gasped; helpless, she gripped his shoulders. Shuddered as, her senses returning, she grew acutely aware of passion’s lash as at her core he supped, licked. Savored.

She didn’t have strength left to stop him, to do more than gasp as he spun the pleasure out. Eyes closed, she let her head loll back, and with a soft moan let delight sweep through her.

Let the intimacy of his possession sink into her.