“Lord Archer, Mr. Hamilton.” She began the introductions, but not a moment later both men had indicated that they had already met.
“In other, somewhat more trying circumstances,” Hamilton explained to her, with what could only be called an importuning glance at Archer.
“Which are best forgotten,” Archer returned smoothly. He gestured toward Meredith. “As for my acquaintance with Lady Woolcott ...”
“Also best forgotten,” Meredith said, taking Hamilton’s arm. “We are the slightest of acquaintances, actually. Through marriage.”
Hamilton began to ask more about their acquaintance. Meredith must have stiffened, and Hamilton paused before completing his query. “Should we continue our way through the crush, Mr. Hamilton?” Meredith interrupted. “I do believe that Lord Lyttleton had several questions he wished to discuss with me.”
“And small wonder,” Hamilton proclaimed. “You have set them all agog with interest.”
Archer’s jaw hardened at the familiar tone with which she addressed the man clinging to her side like a limpet. “I should not wish you to delay on my account, Lady Woolcott, but”—he turned to Hamilton—“we have some family matters to discuss, if you would excuse us, Mr. Hamilton?”
“I do believe this can wait, Lord Archer.” Arrogant and foolhardy man. Meredith’s eyes narrowed with displeasure, attempting to shut out his presence, admittedly overwhelming in a sea of spindly-legged scholars and pretentious sages. If only she did not wish to be alone with him, she fumed inwardly, agonizingly aware of the blue of his eyes so at odds with the spare planes of his face.
Perhaps a good fight was exactly what she needed, and the opportunity to remind Archer of his promise to her. Blood pounded in her ears. She was both exhilarated and relieved that she had delivered her paper with a modicum of success, despite the constrained response of the audience, due to her gender and the intractable belief that women had no place in the halls of higher learning. And now to have Archer interfere with what should have been a triumph for her ...
Hamilton cleared his throat. “Lady Woolcott is in great demand this evening. And I, too, should like to take the opportunity to learn more about her exciting endeavors. My questions are endless.”
Meredith’s expression softened, and she lightly pressed Hamilton’s hand. “You flatter me unduly.” Her escort smiled back warmly and squeezed her hand in return. Archer’s jaw clenched. “Mr. Hamilton has invited me to Cambridge.” Her eyes sparkled while Hamilton almost absently retained her hand in a light clasp.
“Is that so?” Archer asked, his tone grimmer than expected.
Hamilton chuckled and replied that he was entirely at Meredith’s disposal. “But for now I believe we should take ourselves off to find Lyttleton lest he, or anyone else for that matter, accuse me of monopolizing your company. And taking advantage of your graciousness.” He adjusted his spectacles, pulling her infinitesimally closer to him at the same time.
“You are hardly taking advantage. However, I will concede that perhaps we should attend to Lyttleton.” She tipped her head to look over the knots of people in the hall, deliberately ignoring Archer. Yet she was all too aware of his eyes boring into her. He shouldn’t be so compelling and she shouldn’t allow that magnetism to influence her as it did. She knew the feeling uncoiling within her and she didn’t want any part of it.
Several men drifted over to their tight circle. For the next half hour, Meredith tried to follow the conversation while struggling with her growing unease. Beauchamps, his jowls trembling, needled her about the final comments in her lecture while Lyttleton, having found them at last, proffered an interesting interpretation of one of the stela. Her lips dry and her shoulders aching from the strain, she vaguely listened while Grenville articulated a hypothesis with enervating detail. All the while her mind was simply churning to find a way to escape them all.
Yawning discreetly behind her hand, she was aware of Hamilton at her side and his hesitant offer, whispered in her ear, to escort her home. Her pulse leapt as Archer cast her a sharp glance. She grimaced back at him.
A moment later, Sir Staunton claimed her hand and bent over it with a flourish. Meredith greeted him and several other men as they filtered by her, refusing to surrender to exhaustion when all she could really feel was the hollow and insistent ache of desire. Archer stood back watching, but when she swayed on her feet, he shoved both hands in the pockets of his trousers and said, “I’ve waited long enough, Lady Woolcott.” The low growl of his voice cut right through her, vibrating inside her chest.
He wouldn’t let her go and for some reason the thought rankled. That she should be so weak around the man. “Ah, yes,” she said. “I had almost forgotten about you, Lord Archer.”
“So it would appear,” he said, the words close to a threat. She flicked her gaze over him and his eyes met hers. Meredith removed her arm from Hamilton’s and stepped from the circle. “Judging by your tone, it cannot wait any longer.”
“No, it can’t.”
Hamilton’s open mouth gaped like a fish’s, before he attempted to splutter a question.
“Then if you would excuse us, Mr. Hamilton,” she said.
“Gentlemen,” she added for the benefit of Staunton and Lyttleton. Surprising even herself, she brazenly placed a hand on Archer’s arm, her knees nearly buckling as a wave of desire racked her. It didn’t matter that she was still angry. She found herself wishing to be alone with him in a way that did not bode well. “We shan’t be long.”
She smiled over her shoulder, allowing Archer to lead her from the hall. “So good of you to be acquiescent for a change,” he ground out. “It only took an hour.” All around them the salon and its occupants seemed to recede into the background. Nothing else existed except the heightened emotion between them, a heady mix of fury, desire and pent-up frustration.
Meredith slid her hand over the tense muscles of his arm, tugging him toward the center of the room, a part of her wishing to delay the moment alone with him. “I truly should not make myself scarce.”
“I think I’d rather have you join me for a brandy.” He tucked her hand decisively into the crook of his arm and led her toward one of the rooms off the hall.
“To discuss this family matter,” she said with a raised brow. As they pushed past the throngs of debating men that had spilled into the ballroom, she found herself led into one of the alcoves that opened off it. The door closed behind them decisively.
It was empty, save for two brocade-covered benches and an enormous canvas by Boucher depicting Diana after the hunt. The flesh-toned scene was overtly sensual and Meredith backed away until her bustle hit the back of one of the divans. “The refreshment salon is the other way,” she said tartly. “I don’t see a drinks table anywhere nearby.”
“You’ve found me out,” he said, cupping her chin with his hand. His thumb swept over her cheek. His touch was a shock, but a welcome one. Meredith rallied the remnants of her anger.
“I asked you to leave me alone.”
He gave a dismissive snort. “You owe me, Lady Woolcott, lest you forget.” He pressed closer, so large he seemed to fill the small space. “I should have never let you go, but forced you to listen to reason.”
For the first time since they’d met, he was angry. She wanted to push him away, but somehow her body refused to obey, her senses filled with the scent and heat of him. It was like a thirst. She was parched, drinking him in. “You are ridiculously high-handed. And we had agreed to leave what happened in Rashid behind us. And yet here you are this evening, in the audience, asking your ridiculous questions.”
“You were magnificent, by the way.” He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Brave, bold and brilliant.”
Her skirts began to rise on one side of the bench as he bunched them up with a hand, making short work of the bustle, irritatingly familiar with the working of feminine garments. “You believe that I will be swayed by simple flattery, Archer. You could not be more wrong.” She said th
e words but knew she was lost, felled by how much she wanted him to touch her, by how much she’d missed him in the weeks since Egypt.
His hand slid up her stockinged thigh. “I should also have added beautiful.”
Talk between them was useless. She was lost. His other hand strayed up her hips, palm hot on her flesh, burning through the thin silk of her chemise. How had he managed her petticoats? She looked over his shoulder at Diana lounging nakedly and in total abandonment in the woods, feeling her own face flushed with pure desire. It didn’t matter that she was close to hating him. “Can we at least attempt a conversation? After which I will reiterate that you are to leave me alone.” She trembled, having lost any shred of rationality, terrified of what might happen, that she might acquiesce. More than acquiesce.
His warm breath teased the sensitive skin behind her ear, stirring her hair, a hand slipping between her thighs. Her spirits were unnaturally high, she told herself, the result of the evening, her lecture. Much like the night in Rashid, she was not herself, vulnerable in a way she would not ordinarily allow herself to be. “I am not myself,” she uttered on a released breath.
“You are absolutely yourself,” he said, “and this just proves it.” He ran a finger over the inside of her thigh, the thin muslin of her drawers the only barrier. Her hips rocked in response and she desperately wished to reach down, free him from his trousers, and let him take her here, upon the divan. Her palm slid down his chest against the crisp cotton of his shirt, seemingly of its own will, and suddenly he was pulling away, hand out from under her skirts, tugging the narrow skirt down, over her petticoats, to cover her.
“What are you doing?” Her words shamed her. She wanted him so badly she shook from the force of her need and yet he stood, two inches away from her, as calm and collected as a rector at Sunday service.
“I need you to listen to me.”
“You have a peculiar way of making yourself heard.”
“It seems as though it is the only way to get your attention.”
And then it struck her. He was simply taking advantage of her neediness, her wretched vulnerability. The spinster who would lap up any crumb that was thrown her way. “You insufferable, arrogant bastard.” She shoved at his chest until he stepped back, growing even more enraged that he permitted her to do so. Bigger, stronger and certainly more physically adept, Archer believed that he had her cornered. “Keep your hands and your caresses to yourself. I told you, I neither need your help nor do I trust you.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Meredith.”
“How dare you! I know exactly what I’m doing. I have been taking care of myself and Rowena and Julia for almost twenty years.” Mortified, she felt her eyes fill with unshed tears. “And then you come along and begin interfering with my life, the moment I have a semblance of freedom. I asked you to leave me alone and what happens? One of the most important evenings of my life and whom do I see in the audience? Lord Archer, who doesn’t give a fig about anything more than his next exploit, who last cracked open a book or visited a museum or library when he was in the schoolroom.
Desperately trying to keep a handle on her thoughts, she tamped down her disappointment. Archer’s strategem—and it was a strategem—had left her in a state of acute distress. The ache of unfulfilled desire pulsed through her. She felt trapped in this small room as he stood rigidly across from her, his jaw clenched so tight that she expected to hear bone shatter.
Chin raised, she stared back at him appraisingly, refusing to give ground. He took one step closer, a booted foot pushing between her own. Then another step that forced her back against the cushions of the divan. His lips covered hers before she could think; her feet tangled among her skirts and the divan’s curved wooden legs. The room, no bigger than an alcove really, left her nowhere to go. Archer leaned in, his hands dropping to either side of her waist, deepening the kiss. His tongue stroked enticingly, pushing her toward surrender. Humiliation battled with desire.
Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, he raised his head, leaning back while his body still held her captive. He was not even breathing heavily, whereas each exhalation shuddered out of her.
She pushed her arms between them so that her hands rested on his chest. “I never want to see you again. I cannot make my wishes any clearer.”
“Impossible.” His mouth was right by her ear, his breath burning her skin. His hands tightened, palms pressing into her ribs.
“Let me go.” She thrust her hands out, pushing past him, hoping to leave him behind forever. She stormed back into the main hall, pausing just outside the salon. Smoothing back her hair, she straightened her skirts and adjusted her jacket. Damn him! Why was Archer pursuing her this way? How dare he storm into her world when it had just righted itself? She had been given a reprieve, but the freedom to live her life as she chose, without the punishing anxiety that had stalked her for close to twenty years was all too short-lived.
She pushed an errant pin into her hair, welcoming the pain. The problem was that she’d kissed him back, and for the moment, it was all she could think about. Annoyed with herself, she moved with what she hoped was an elegant pace into the salon, glancing about, taking in the dwindling numbers. All she wanted was to go home, settle in front of the fireplace and review her triumphant evening, lest she forget. She had delivered a paper on the Rosetta stone at Burlington House.
Muffled steps by the salon door made her stiffen. Hector Hamilton hovered on the threshold, his concerned expression slackening into relief.
“I have been looking everywhere for you, Lady Woolcott.” He came to stand beside her. “You disappeared with Lord Archer for quite some time—I was anxious.”
“Lady Woolcott was safe with me.” Archer was steps behind her, his gaze locked on Hamilton as the two of them stared each other down. Hamilton looked away first. Meredith let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Go away, Archer. Just go away, she mouthed silently.
Without acknowledging Archer, she said to Hamilton, “I believe I am ready to return home. It has been a rather long, albeit gratifying, evening.”
“And I am most eager to escort you, if I might be so permitted.”
“Not necessary, Hamilton.”
Meredith glared over her shoulder at Archer, overriding his objection. “I would much appreciate your finding my wrap, Mr. Hamilton.” The snow of the previous week had given way to a warm spell.
Hamilton blinked twice before casting about for a passing footman. She had made up her mind. She would leave at once, without Archer.
“If you don’t believe what I have to say, I have something to show you,” Archer said. “Something that may make a difference to you.”
She looked over her shoulder and met his gaze briefly, before swallowing hard. It seemed as though ten pairs of eyes watched them expectantly. Her pulse raced and she repressed the urge to flee. Nothing he could show her would make a difference. She did not say the words, her expression telling him everything he needed to know. Her hands clenched into fists, the raised ridges on her forearms were scalding, and she thrust them into her skirts. Archer reached for her, but then obviously thought better of it, letting his arm fall back to his side.
Cavendish appeared alongside Hamilton. Pasting a smile on her face, Meredith accepted his praise with a nod of her head, even though she knew that the man disapproved heartily of her and her interests. His commendation somehow managed to belittle her at the same time. Hamilton hovered behind Cavendish, her wrap draped over his arm. Meredith allowed him to drop the cashmere over her shoulders.
When she looked up, Archer was already ahead of her, calling for his coat. Meredith watched him leave, anger and desire nearly choking her.
“Shall we?” Hamilton asked tentatively. Meredith nodded, welcoming the assault of the damp London air as the wide doors of Burlington House yawned open. Attuned to her mood, Hamilton followed her silently down the wide staircase and onto the arcade, his arm raised to call a hanso
m cab. Then he seemed to change his mind. “Perhaps a brisk stroll might be in order? You seem to be in need of some air.”
Leaving the arcade, they walked toward Old Bond Street, now shrouded in a yellow fog. Meredith felt the urge to agree with Hamilton, a wave of heat coating her cheeks. “Wonderful idea. Walk with me?” she asked, moving a little faster ahead of him, the rain-slick cobblestones not hindering their progress. A clattering racket startled her, but it was only a carriage pulling away from the entrance of Burlington House.
“Why, of course.”
Taking longer strides, she kept ahead of him, dreading the questions that were sure to follow. He could not have helped noticing the tension emanating from Archer. He would wonder at the source of it. A family matter. Despairing of herself, she could still feel the hollow ache. Desire denied, simple as that. It did not matter that Archer knew exactly where to touch her, how to touch her. He was obviously an experienced lover. She gripped the edge of her reticule.
A tall man in a cap appeared out of a mews, and Meredith tensed unconsciously, waiting for him to pass. After he did, she looked back over her shoulder until he was well away.
“Something that may make a difference to you.” The words echoed in her head as Hamilton fell in step beside her. She’d hoped never to see Archer again, at least that was what she believed when she was not beset with this madness. She had believed herself to be free from the ties that had bound her for too long. Archer’s presence threatened her freedom with his repeated insistence that she was somehow in danger. From Faron.
“The fresh air does one good at times.” Hamilton gave a rueful laugh and suddenly the night did not seem quite so gray or the rain so cold. Carriages lined Stratford Street, the horses standing wearily in the damp. “We shall make the best of it, although the rain’s not ceasing. I could dash back to Burlington House and arrange for a hansom. Or use my umbrella.” Hamilton peered down the street. “We may find ourselves out of luck if we go much farther.”
The Deepest Sin Page 13
