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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 interrogatingher 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.”
    Every answer he wrung from her only raised more questions—such as why Randall hadn’t understood that. Christian held her gaze, and felt his own temper stir. She wanted him to clear Justin of suspicion, but would offer only limited information.
    For whatever reason, she was determined to tell him nothing of her marriage.
    And suddenly, unexpectedly, that was the most urgent point he wanted to know.
    He took one slow step closer, then leaned down, clamping one hand on each of the chair’s arms, caging her. Bringing his face much closer to hers, looming over her.
    His nerves flickered; the scent of jasmine—the scent she’d always worn—teased his senses.
    She didn’t press back, retreat, didn’t react in any fearful way to the blatant intimidation. Belatedly he remembered she’d always found his size—that he was significantly taller, heavier, and larger than she, and therefore capable of physically dominating her—exciting.
    A lick of desire slid down his spine. He studied her eyes; at such close quarters in the dimly