by LENOX, KIM
She was an ethereal thing of beauty in a world painted in shades of gray. The street, the buildings and the sky—everything seemed dreary in comparison. She had been so destroyed at learning of Catherine Eddowes’s murder, he wanted to keep her smiling.
He wanted her to remember their time together like this.
Elena watched as he backed toward the door, a smile slowly spreading across his handsome lips. “Coming?”
He turned on the heel of his gleaming, pointed boot and pushed through the door, holding it until she followed him inside. The shop was shadowy and crammed to the ceiling with all manner of goods, such as candles corded into twelve-count bundles, and bulk foodstuffs. The haze and scent of incense hovered on the air.
A hulking man with a shining, bald pate and twinkling eyes sat in the far corner, surrounded shoulder-high by crates of all sizes. The tattooed head of a green and red dragon peered around his neck. At least four cats perched around him, each a different size and color.
He called congenially, “Hello? May I help you?”
Archer glanced toward Elena, and back to the storekeeper.
“I’m a man in search of a tattoo.”
Moments later, Archer sat beside an enormous lamp, a huge ginger cat curling round his trouser ankle. On the wall behind him were tacked various regimental insignias, likely guides for the inking of British officers and soldiers. The tattooist emerged from a dark curtain at the back of the store. He had donned a pristine white tunic, and brought with him a bundle of bamboo-handled tools and a small pot of ink.
“What sort of design would you like? A dragon? A ship?” He chuckled. “A woman?”
“Miss Whitney, I think you should have the honor of deciding.”
“Really?” Elena hovered several feet away, shocked Archer had even agreed. “Don’t tease, because I won’t decline.”
“Tell the gentleman what mark I shall have on my skin.” He grimaced. “Forever.”
“One like mine, I think.” She pushed down the cuff of her glove and showed the man her wrist. “Only wrapped around his upper arm.”
She indicated the space between her shoulder and elbow. “What do you say, Lord Black?”
Archer tilted his head, admittedly pleased she wished to share this thing between them at such an intimate level. He knew even without the ink and the needles he’d been forever marked.
“Proceed, sir.”
“I’ll just wait over here,” Elena said, going to the far side of the room, where shelves created a haphazard screen of privacy. There she meandered, stopping to consider a row of stoneware pots filled with various tobaccos. She lifted a glass lid and inhaled the woodsy, chocolate-sweet scent.
Glancing between the tins of tea and bottles of vinegar, she glimpsed Archer unbuttoning his shirt. Fixated, she watched as he parted the linen as far as the buttons would allow and shrugged the one sleeve off, leaving half of his chest and his arm entirely bare.
He looked up, catching her. Everything in her went scalding hot, but she did not look away. Heat smoldered in his gray eyes, evidence of the unspoken attraction that continued to flare between them. Overwhelmed by her intensity of feelings, Elena turned back to peruse the goods.
An hour later, Archer was tattooed, bandaged and clothed. Elena petted the cats while Archer paid the shopkeeper.
As they emerged onto the busy sidewalk, Elena experienced sudden desperation. She didn’t want the afternoon to end, not with their good-bye so near on the horizon. Somehow she knew when he was gone, he would be gone forever.
“Where shall we go now?” she mused aloud.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
She feigned offense. “You said this was my day. Not my”—she glanced at her watch—“hour and a half.”
“What is it you wish to do next?”
“Well, since you’ve asked . . .” She grinned.
“Tell me.”
“I’ve always wanted to smoke a hookah.”
Archer towered above her, broad shouldered and dark. He shook his head slightly, and pressed his lips together, but his eyes smiled. “And I suppose your guidebook has told you where we might go to smoke one?”
“No.” She glanced around at the pedestrians moving past. “This time you’ll have to ask someone.”
Elena coughed behind her fist. “I do believe my curiosity has been satisfied as far as hookahs are concerned.”
She passed the tube and mouthpiece to Archer. They half reclined atop a mountain of shining, multicolored pillows, their coats and hats strewn across a small table in the corner. The walls of the semiprivate room had been painted a vivid turquoise.
Archer grinned. “That’s it? Three puffs and you’re finished?”
On a low, richly inlaid table beside them, the cylindrical hookah pipe rested on a gilt, lotus flower base, and bubbled like a purring cat.
“Pardon me? That’s three”—she coughed again—“three and a half puffs.”
He expertly looped the tube onto its hook.
Archer could recall no occasion where he’d driven to and fro, and passed such an extended amount of idle time for the simple sake of enjoying someone else’s company, but lounging beside Elena in this steamy, smoky place sent a tight curl of pleasure through his lower stomach and groin. Her hair had loosened from its pins, and glowed in mussed, shining curls around her face. Her fitted, high-necked bodice skimmed over her firmly corseted breasts and narrow waist. The contrast of propriety and sensuality teased to life every masculine impulse within him.
Unaware, Elena observed, “This is quite the gathering place for the dilettante crowd, is it not?” She crossed her legs at the ankles.
“Hmmm. Yes?” Archer closed his eyes, savoring the rustle of her stockings, one thigh brushed against another.
“I believe we passed Mr. Wilde and Mr. Dodgson sitting together at a table on our way in.”
Their male attendant, adorned in a long white tunic and linen pants, returned to place before them two small glasses, full of amber liquid.
“Yes, indeed,” he confirmed in a confidential tone. “Whistler the artist is also a regular, as is his young associate, Mr. Sickert, but to my understanding, they are on holiday in France.”
The attendant disappeared once again. Elena sat up from her splendorous throne of cushions. She took up the glass from the table and sipped the drink—only to cough in earnest.
“What is that?” she asked, her eyes watering.
Archer took the glass from her hand and returned it to the table. “Anise-infused brandy.”
“It’s very good. I do want to finish that.” She fanned her face and again lay against the pillows, this time closer to him—so close he suffered a distinct stiffening in his trousers. He shifted, not wishing to alarm his oblivious companion. To his consternation she unfastened the top three buttons of her bodice. Beneath, she wore a white muslin blouse, just sheer enough that the lacy edge of her chemise and the lush swell of her breasts were apparent.
“Much better,” she sighed, meeting his gaze.
“I’m glad,” he responded tightly.
So as not to kiss her, Archer talked. “I have gotten a tattoo, and we’ve smoked a hookah. What else, Elena? What else would make this a . . . perfect day?”
“I’ve had two wishes already. Am I so lucky as to be granted three? Hmmm,” she mused, smiling. “If you could arrange for us to attend a dissection, I’d be in heaven.”
Archer blinked.
“An autopsy?” He reached for his brandy and tossed the entire glassful down. “Sometimes you say the most unexpected things.”
She laughed, pressing her hand to his arm. “I didn’t really expect you to comply, but you’ve been so cooperative—and you are such a man of influence—I thought I might as well ask. It’s very difficult for women pursuing the study of medicine to view an honest to goodness autopsy—particularly of a male specimen. We must rely largely on illustrations, wax models and lectures. Can you believe I could possibly make my way t
hrough medical school without ever observing the true particulars of male anatomy? It’s a shame our governing bodies find women’s sensibilities too delicate for such a reality.”
He didn’t respond, wishing to avoid the whole subject of her medical inclinations.
He stared down into his empty glass. “In the absence of an autopsy, have you any other wishes?”
Her eyes went smoky, and she swallowed as if gathering courage. In a quiet voice she said, “Forced to confess my deepest, most secret wish, it would be that you’d kiss me again.”
He set the glass on the tabletop. “You know I can’t.”
“Don’t you want to kiss me?”
God, her eyes, her voice, her mouth. She tortured him.
“I won’t tell anyone.” A small, teasing smile lit upon her lips. “Just like I won’t tell anyone about your wicked tattoo, or that solitary puff you took on the hookah.”
Impulsively he grasped her by one shoulder. Her eyes widened. He pressed her back into the pillows. The firm construction of her bodice lay evident between them, but even so, he felt the full crush of her breasts beneath.
Looking up, she was all shadowy seduction and pink lips. A vivid backdrop of blue silk spread all around. He caressed the underside of her jaw, marveling at how she made any other woman in his past fade to nothingness in his memory. He bent his face to hers.
She quickly turned hers aside, grinning. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to kiss me now.”
“Wicked girl,” he whispered.
But that was her whole allure. She wasn’t wicked. She was just Elena.
“I’m not a girl, Archer.”
He dragged his thumb against her lower lip. Her pupils grew huge and dark.
His mouth pressed over hers, tasting the sweetness of the tobacco and spiced brandy.
Voices continued their conversations outside their door. His hand slid beneath her bodice to spread against her stomach. Even through the layers of her blouse, chemise and corset, he felt her warmth, and the gentle flex of her stomach beneath. Elena sighed. Her hand slipped round to the nape of his neck. Innocently, with the tentativeness of one just learning passion, she met the impassioned thrust of his tongue.
The blood rushed into his ears, and other more dangerous parts of his body. He felt deliciously out of control, and in so public a place. He let out a husky growl, and rolled off her to fall back against the pillows.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “This has to stop. We can’t spend any more time alone together.”
When she did not move or speak, he turned his face to her, and found her still reclined against the pillows, her hair mussed and her cheeks pink. She grinned, a bit dazedly.
“And to think I asked for the autopsy first.”
Mary Alice followed Elena into her bedchamber.
Elena unpinned her hat. “If there’s time, I’d like to have a bath before supper.”
She wanted to wash the hookah smoke out of her hair and look especially nice for the evening to come, because it would be spent with Archer—likely in the company of Mr. Leeson, if Mrs. Hazelgreaves did not come down. She only admired Archer more for his determination to ensure things did not go too far between them.
She paused, seeing the roses. She’d completely forgotten to ask whether he had sent them.
“There’s correspondence for you on your desk, Miss Whitney, and a number of cards of visitors who called while you were out.”
Elena dropped her coat to the bed and went to see. Her pulse jumped as she spied an official-looking letter atop the calling cards, its printed return address the London College of Medicine for Women. She snatched up the envelope, smiling.
Her acceptance. The perfect end to an absolutely perfect day.
Soon, Archer would be gone. Without medical school to look forward to, she’d be left with nothing.
She slid her finger beneath the flap and unfolded the letter. The parchment bore the official letterhead of the college. She scanned the words.
She blinked, not believing.
She reread every word to be sure she had not misunderstood.
She hadn’t. The letter she held in her hand was not an acceptance, but a rejection.
Chapter Fourteen
Tears stung her eyes. Confused, and blindly seeking Archer’s comfort, she veered out of her room, the letter clasped in her hand, and quickly arrived at his apartment. She knocked. When he did not answer, she rushed down the central staircase, and onward to his study.
“Lord Black.”
He sat at his desk. Beside him stood Mr. Leeson, his arm cradling a stack of documents.
“Yes?” Archer looked up.
Leeson stepped back.
“I don’t understand this,” she gasped, rushing toward him, stricken. “I don’t understand this at all.”
“What is it?” His face expressed immediate concern.
“I received this letter.”
Alarm flashed over his features, and he lunged up. Rushing around the massive rectangle of the desk, he snatched the letter from her hand. His gaze raked over the contents.
“Do you see?” She worked to keep her voice calm, though inside she was frantic. “It’s a letter rejecting my application to medical school. I don’t understand. I easily passed the required examinations. My references were impeccable.”
He did not say anything—he did not even meet her gaze. Before her eyes his concern transformed into something else, something hard and dark. Distance rose up between them like an icy northern wasteland.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
Finally, he looked up, his cool gaze, his tense jaw confessing everything.
She thought back to that night in his room, his insistence that she not return to the hospital. She recalled how he usually listened in silence when she discussed her plans. She had interpreted his silence as approval.
“You had something to do with this letter?”
Leeson clasped his documents against his chest, his expression one of pity.
“You used your influence to have me rejected from the college? Why? Why would you do that?”
Archer spoke in a low, yet resolute, voice. “Because, Elena, I will not have you destroyed by your noble, yet naively optimistic dreams.”
She recoiled, angry, hot tears welling against her lashes. She had not realized the full involvement of her heart with Archer until this moment. She backed several steps away from him, to grasp the curved back of a chair.
He continued. “I have not invested so greatly in your life, and in your future, for you to waste yourself on prostitutes and orphans, and a multitude of people for whom there is no hope.”
“Waste myself?”
“If it’s not Jack the Ripper, it will be some other criminal or vagrant who hurts you, or disease, or—” He bit down on his words, clearly tortured by what he had done, but firmly resolute. “Don’t you understand?”
“Yes . . .” She blinked away her tears, never believing until this moment betrayal could cut one so deeply. “I understand that you said you admired my ambition and my desire to serve others—and that despite everything that has taken place between us, you didn’t mean those words at all.”
She rushed from the room.
Archer moved to go after her, but felt a hand seize his arm.
“ ‘Everything that has taken place’ between you, my lord?” Leeson repeated softly.
Archer bristled, wanting to capture her, to hold her, to make her understand.
“You test dangerous waters,” Leeson whispered. “Better to let her go.”
“Miss Whitney, dear?”
Elena looked toward her door from where she perched on her window seat. She hadn’t heard anyone knock, but there stood Mrs. Hazelgreaves. Odd, but her companion wore a green tea dress, not her customary pink. The bothersome gray curl had been secured at the center of her forehead with an enameled butterfly hairpin.
Elena smiled faintly. “You are out and about. You
must feel better. I’m so glad.”
She really was glad, but found it difficult to summon much enthusiasm about anything since the confrontation in his lordship’s study three days before. Since then, she’d kept mostly to her room, trying to decide where her life must go from here.
Elena made another observation.
“Your cane. You don’t need to use one anymore?”
“My recent rest has done wonders for me.” She smiled blithely. “We’ve got visitors in just an hour. Are you ready?”
Elena stared out her window. Yes, visitors. Despite all that had passed between them, Lord Black was again determined she snare a husband, or so Mr. Leeson had gently explained as if it were the most normal solution in the world for her future. They were to accept callers that afternoon. She hadn’t yet decided whether she would appear.
“He cares for you, darling, I know he does.”
Elena turned her head back in surprise. “Why would you say something like that?”
The old woman pulled the door closed behind her. “I may have been confined to my room, but I hear what goes on in this house.”
Elena’s heart stopped. “What, exactly, have you heard?”
“That’s not important, dear. What matters now is that we’ve got to come up with a way to punish Lord Black. That’s right, darling girl, we must show him the error of his ways.” Mrs. Hazelgreaves chuckled gleefully.
Elena stared at Mrs. Hazelgreaves in disbelief. At the same time, she’d grown accustomed to the bizarre and unexpected over the previous weeks.
“First things first.” She eyed Elena up and down. “You aren’t planning on wearing that frock, are you?”
Archer glanced at his watch. Where the devil was Elena? He had never been adept at polite conversation, and had not anticipated he would be left alone, for some twenty minutes, with the ridiculous expectation he be gracious and charming.
He smiled tightly, over the square table covered in white linen and tea equipage, at a marquess and two earls, each in the company of a dowager mother or sister. He had personally chosen them based on an intensive investigation into their finances and reputations. Certainly Elena could find someone she could abide amongst them, despite one being astoundingly corpulent, and the other two approaching Selene and Mark in age.
