“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 strategemâand it was a strategemâhad 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 timeâI 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 hansom 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.”
“Just a few more moments' walk. I feel the need for air. I suppose with all the excitement ...” Hamilton nodded, his eyes behind his spectacles concerned, and Meredith sensed that he was somehow uneasy. She looked to her left, where the wide alley of Albermarle Street stretched to the north toward the Thames. She pictured the river with its sluggish, dark water carrying odd bits of debris. She shivered, remembering how she'd thought they'd lost Rowena forever to the currents of the Irthing. The wind moaned through the gaps between the bridge's balustrades, the pale stone gaze of the Southbank Lion just out of sight. Puddles marred the street, dimpled under the light rain. A familiar prickle skittered down her spine, the awareness of being followed or watched, bringing with it a world of horrendous possibilities: a blow to the head, someone strangling her from behind, a watery grave in the Thames. She shivered in the dampness.
It had been ever thus, looking over her shoulder. Until the moment that Rushford and Rowena had told her Faron lay dead, drowned in the swirling tides of the Channel. Her heart had twisted, shocking her with the ferocity of the pain. A man she had once loved and who had tormented her for too many years was now gone.
Hamilton was saying something, but Meredith heard very little. Each step she took carried her deeper into her thoughts. She knew that she was neither a weak nor emotional woman and had done her best for her wards for many years. Inheriting Montfort upon her father's death, after he'd been predeceased by an older brother, she had come into the means that allowed her to shelter her young charges from the evil she had had a hand in creating. When she'd thought Julia missing and Rowena dead, she had spent what seemed like days scanning the expansive grounds of Montfort, expecting to see Rowena on her horse Dragon, or Julia setting up her photographic apparatus by the gazebo. Desperate to have the girls returned to her, hoping for a miraculous gift, she only saw a horizon that was an unforgiving gunmetal gray. They could not be taken away from her, her conscious mind had cried, even though cruel logic had dictated that she must give up hope and give in to her grief.
Then the gift came. Her girls brought back to life. Back to Montfort.
The tightness in Meredith's chest eased. Barlow Place stretched out before her, the cobblestone road slick with damp, reflecting the dull glow of gaslight. There was nothing left to fear. Meredith turned to Hamilton, whom she'd all but forgotten. He kept pace with her long strides, respectful of her need for silence. “Thank you, dear Mr. Hamilton, for your company,” she blurted out, suddenly, unaccountably grateful. The man demanded nothing of her save her presence.
He gripped his umbrella more tightly beneath his arm. “For what, my dear Lady Woolcott?” he asked. “This has been a most enjoyable evening.” He took stock of her weariness. “Although you must be both entirely exhausted and exhilarated so I shall insist that we stop here. I shall see to our getting a hansom.”
Without waiting for her agreement, he pulled her back to the corner where Charles Street intersected with a narrow alley. They both looked reflexively up and down the road, willing a conveyance to make an appearance. Instead, out of the mist, two men approached, the first with an unkempt beard, and a few yards behind him, a taller man wearing a top hat. Meredith tensed, watching the bearded man walk by without acknowledging their presence. She glanced over her shoulder as he passed. When she turned back, the man in the top hat stood before her, his right arm raised, and sharp, polished nickel gleaming in the rain.
Meredith made a sound low in her throat, but before the cry faded, Hamilton had placed himself in front of her. A sickeningly soft sound rent the air and Hamilton fell back, propelling them both to the ground. The world tilted, the cobblestones biting into the back of her head. Instinctively, Meredith thrust an elbow into a rib cage, hearing a howl of agony. The arm holding her went limp for an instant. Then came the sound of running feet, fading in the distance.
Breathing heavily, Meredith struggled to rise, Hamilton atop her, far heavier than he seemed. Every bone in her body protesting, she turned onto her stomach, propping herself on her elbows. A few feet away sat Hamilton's discarded umbrella. Stretching out an arm, she gripped the handle, using it to push herself up from beneath him. On her knees, swallowing nausea, she looked up and down the deserted alley before her gaze returned to Hamilton. He lay on his back, eyes open and fixed on the sky.
“Dear God.” The words came out on a sob. The subtle rise and fall of his chest told her he was breathing. She would get help. But before she could rise, Hamilton had grabbed her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “Don't leave me ... please.”
She shook her head, hair tumbling around her. “I won't leave you.” She smoothed a palm over his brow, righting his spectacles, which remained miraculously in one piece. Desperately, she surveyed his body. The gaslight illuminated the dark glisten of blood on his right thigh. It appeared to be a knife wound. Realization swept over herâhe had protected her from attack, possibly saving her life.