The Edge of Desire

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He should make her wait.

Thoughts and wild conjecture roiling in his head, Christian Michael Allardyce, 6th Marquess of Dearne, slowly descended the stairs of the Bastion Club. He’d been nursing a brandy and his despondency in the library when Gasthorpe, the club’s majordomo, had appeared with a note.

A note summoning him to face his past.

That past awaited him in the front parlor, the room he and the club’s other six owners-all ex-members of one of the more secret and select arms of His Majesty’s services who had established the club as their bolt hole against the importuning ladies of the ton-had stipulated as the only room in which ladies were to be permitted. In the months since the club’s opening, that rule had, incident by incident, fallen by the wayside, but Gasthorpe had rightly shown this particular lady into the formal front parlor.

He really should make her wait.

She’d said she would, twelve years ago, but then another had come along, and while he’d been buried deep in Napoleon’s Europe, she’d lightly thrown aside her promise to him, and fallen in love with and married a Mr. George Randall.

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