reason, or control, not once a certain point was reached, a point she’d already passed. There were a few distractions that would work, but although one—the most effective—occurred to him, given their public location, it wasn’t a viable option.
When he handed her into the carriage and then sat beside her, he could sense the storm building within her, increasingly potent for being suppressed.
She waited until they’d started rolling to release it. “I can’t imagine why everyone—simply everyone —is being so willfully obtuse! Can’t they see…”
She ranted and raved, calling into question the mental acuity of a sizable portion of the ton, ruthlessly strippingbare their foibles, exposing all, the shallowness and jealousy, to a relentlessly clinical verbal dissection.
Much of what she said was correct. She was a highly intelligent observer of her world, and her memory for minor details of people’s lives was remarkable in its depth and clarity. He sat back and listened, knowing she needed nothing more than the occasional monosyllable from him.
The journey to South Audley Street wasn’t long enough for her to run down. As the carriage slowed, then halted before her—Randall’s—door, she cut off her tirade, hauled in a huge breath and held it. Let him hand her down and escort her up the steps and into the house without a word.
He followed her into the front parlor.
She halted, half turned and cast a rapier glance back, not at him but at Mellon. Randall’s butler plainly recognized the signs of an impending explosion; he’d paled and remained hovering in the hall, making no attempt to come closer.
“You may retire.” She spoke quietly, slowly, each word bitten off. “I require nothing more from you tonight.”
Under her gaze—one promising all manner of dramatic retribution should he remain an instant longer—Mellon paled even more, bowed and scurried away, his alacrity testifying to prior experience of such unvoiced threats.
The instant he disappeared, Letitia made a hissing sound; swinging around, she stalked back to the door, slammed it shut, then turned to Christian. “Did you see ? Outside? That ghastly weasel of a runner is across the road, still keeping watch.”
Raising a hand, she ripped off her veil, along with the comb anchoring it. She flung it on a chair. “I’d like to strangle Mellon”—she curled her hands as if fastening them about the butler’s neck—“for visiting this whole nightmare upon us. Then again, he has the intellect of a flea. Presumably he can’t help being a dolt. Regardless, I don’t know where the authorities’ brains are—how they can countenance…”
She paced, ranted and raved. Hands were flung freely,skirts were kicked out of her way, fingers were wagged and stabbed for emphasis.
Christian stood in the center of the parlor and watched the show. As always, he was the rock, unaffected by the storm, while she was the lashing waves, the fury and tempest. She circled him, all fire and brimstone, lightning and raw emotion. He waited, knowing she’d talk herself to a standstill, or at least to a point where her mind reasserted control and she refocused on the here and now.
He had time to study their surroundings. This was her room—the difference between it and the rest of the house, at least all the other reception rooms, was pronounced. This was Vaux territory, her domain, richly and sumptuously furnished, a feast for the senses. Two sofas faced each other across the fireplace; matching sofa tables across the back of each held large crystal vases filled with flowers. Other tables and two armchairs were arranged about the room. The candelabra and most ornaments were of gleaming silver. Silks and satins were the primary fabrics, the colors jeweled-toned blues and greens touched with gold—vivid and dramatic hues to create the perfect setting for a vivid and dramatic lady. The effect was of unabashed sensual luxury.
Yet her presence was
When he handed her into the carriage and then sat beside her, he could sense the storm building within her, increasingly potent for being suppressed.
She waited until they’d started rolling to release it. “I can’t imagine why everyone—simply everyone —is being so willfully obtuse! Can’t they see…”
She ranted and raved, calling into question the mental acuity of a sizable portion of the ton, ruthlessly strippingbare their foibles, exposing all, the shallowness and jealousy, to a relentlessly clinical verbal dissection.
Much of what she said was correct. She was a highly intelligent observer of her world, and her memory for minor details of people’s lives was remarkable in its depth and clarity. He sat back and listened, knowing she needed nothing more than the occasional monosyllable from him.
The journey to South Audley Street wasn’t long enough for her to run down. As the carriage slowed, then halted before her—Randall’s—door, she cut off her tirade, hauled in a huge breath and held it. Let him hand her down and escort her up the steps and into the house without a word.
He followed her into the front parlor.
She halted, half turned and cast a rapier glance back, not at him but at Mellon. Randall’s butler plainly recognized the signs of an impending explosion; he’d paled and remained hovering in the hall, making no attempt to come closer.
“You may retire.” She spoke quietly, slowly, each word bitten off. “I require nothing more from you tonight.”
Under her gaze—one promising all manner of dramatic retribution should he remain an instant longer—Mellon paled even more, bowed and scurried away, his alacrity testifying to prior experience of such unvoiced threats.
The instant he disappeared, Letitia made a hissing sound; swinging around, she stalked back to the door, slammed it shut, then turned to Christian. “Did you see ? Outside? That ghastly weasel of a runner is across the road, still keeping watch.”
Raising a hand, she ripped off her veil, along with the comb anchoring it. She flung it on a chair. “I’d like to strangle Mellon”—she curled her hands as if fastening them about the butler’s neck—“for visiting this whole nightmare upon us. Then again, he has the intellect of a flea. Presumably he can’t help being a dolt. Regardless, I don’t know where the authorities’ brains are—how they can countenance…”
She paced, ranted and raved. Hands were flung freely,skirts were kicked out of her way, fingers were wagged and stabbed for emphasis.
Christian stood in the center of the parlor and watched the show. As always, he was the rock, unaffected by the storm, while she was the lashing waves, the fury and tempest. She circled him, all fire and brimstone, lightning and raw emotion. He waited, knowing she’d talk herself to a standstill, or at least to a point where her mind reasserted control and she refocused on the here and now.
He had time to study their surroundings. This was her room—the difference between it and the rest of the house, at least all the other reception rooms, was pronounced. This was Vaux territory, her domain, richly and sumptuously furnished, a feast for the senses. Two sofas faced each other across the fireplace; matching sofa tables across the back of each held large crystal vases filled with flowers. Other tables and two armchairs were arranged about the room. The candelabra and most ornaments were of gleaming silver. Silks and satins were the primary fabrics, the colors jeweled-toned blues and greens touched with gold—vivid and dramatic hues to create the perfect setting for a vivid and dramatic lady. The effect was of unabashed sensual luxury.
Yet her presence was
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