Authors: Caroline Richards
The Deepest Sin (15 page)
Behind Archer, several rows to the rear, came a familiar voice. Hamilton blinked owlishly back and forth from Cavendish to Meredith. He raised a hand to speak. “Lady Woolcott, I simply wish to thank you for the extraordinarily insightful and erudite paper you delivered this evening. I can only speak for myself when I say that you have given us an unprecedented look into one of the world's great mysteries... .” Archer gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes while Hamilton continued for several minutes applying his unctuous praise.
When he could bear it no longer and without waiting for Cavendish's nod, Archer rose from his chair, and without ceremony, abruptly interrupted Hamilton. “Lady Woolcott,” he said. His voice was like a thunderclap, commanding absolute silence in the salon. Even Cavendish, hovering like a hesitant chaperone behind the dais, did not intervene. Archer inclined his head ever so slightly. Meredith returned his gaze, her expression guarded. “If I might be permitted to ask you about your recent visit to Fort St. Julien,” he asked. “Perhaps you might share with us the highlights of your investigations there.”
Her expression remained passive, but he knew that she was raining curses upon his head, realizing precisely to what he referred. She met his gaze squarely. “I don't believe we have time to spare for such discussion, sir, and it would in all likelihood have little bearing upon the significance of the stone.” Her tone was brittle and dismissive.
“I should like to disagree, respectfully, of course.”
“Perhaps it is your ignorance of the subject matter that causes you to disagree.” A rumble of disapproval rolled through the salon as throats were cleared and chairs pushed back. And with a curt nod to Lord Cavendish and a frown for Archer, Lady Woolcott gathered up her papers and left the dais. Despite their overtly hostile exchange, it was not possible to shock her audience to any greater degree than her presence already had. Moments later, the proceedings having come to their official conclusion, Hector Hamilton was leading Lady Woolcott like a prize on his arm, through the salon to the main hall, where roving gentlemen were making their way from group to group. Meredith's narrow hooped skirts bounced slightly with each step, rhythmic, suggestive and, for Archer, impossible to ignore.
Archer stood in the wide doorway for an instant, then stepped forward as Meredith looked up from the men who were gathered around her.
“Lord Archer.” She raised one brow, trying not to allow her simmering anger to take over good sense, but she refused to stand down. “It appears as though you intend to continue your inquisition.” Here he was, larger than life. And in the most obvious, forward way imaginable, making an appearance at Burlington House. She had been adamant about his not seeking her out, to no avail. Torn between the desire to rain fists upon his arrogant head and simply walk away, she took a steadying breath. She would be calm, cool and aloof. That was the proper response to maintain control of herself and the situation. Instead of giving in to irrational impulse, she turned to Mr. Hamilton, who was eyeing Archer with an inexplicable combination of hesitation and dread.
“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”âhe turned to Hamiltonâ“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.”
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 the 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.”
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