Authors: Caroline Richards
The Deepest Sin (28 page)
“I believe it is time for champagne,” Blythe said. “Out in the countryside most of the day in this blasted weather. Could use a drink. Now where's that milquetoast of a nephew, Hamilton?” he blustered.
“He should be with us in a few moments.” Overstuffed upholstery in hunter green and a roaring fire greeted them. She watched as Blythe rummaged around the drinks table before thrusting a flute into her hands.
He turned to pour himself a drink. “No more malingering, I trust, on his part. Heard about the unfortunate business in London and so I must thank you for having accompanied my nephew to Warthaven Park. Hector does not take after the rest of the family in robustness. All this scholarly nonsense when he should be spending more time out of doors.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Well, at least I know I will never have to serve as a second to him in some duel.” He gave a bark of a laugh.
Meredith did not immediately answer, sinking into the chaise by the hearth. Blythe tipped the whiskey down his throat, put his glass back down and said to himself, “Fill it up,” and blew out a breath of relief. He was anything but the refined, elderly aristocratic gentleman that Meredith had been led to expect, and resembled the relatives in the hallway portrait gallery not one whit.
Blythe dissolved into one of the chairs near the fire and proceeded to describe the state of his coverts, deer herds and hunting pack, making no mention of his long-term sojourn on the Continent. It was a tour-de-force performance, his observations rambling and without end. By the time Hamilton arrived with the book he claimed he'd been searching for most of the day, Meredith had barely gotten a word in edgewise.
“There you are, Hector. I was about to send an able-bodied footman to rip you out of your bed.” Blythe glanced at him disparagingly. “You look as though a strong wind could knock you over. What have you been up toâother than squiring this beautiful woman about London?”
Hamilton appeared rather bewildered and sank down into one of the chairs farthest away from his uncle, but not before pouring himself a glass of brandy with unsteady hands. “Good to see you again, Uncle Octavius,” he said with stiff formality. “And to answer your question, I have been busy with my convalescence.”
“Enough of that by now, I should hope.”
The barb did not miss its mark. “I am all but myself again, Uncle, so much so that I have been looking forward to our visit. Thank you again for opening Warthaven Park to us.”
The fire burned briskly in the hearth, but Blythe just shook his head, one stocky leg crossed over the other, foot swinging. “A pleasure. I should hope you will show Lady Woolcott the delights of Cambridge. Including the Fitzwilliam, of course.” He turned to Meredith. “Quite the bluestocking, I hear.”
Hamilton cradled his glass between his hands. “Of course. Although I shouldn't expect you to accompany us, Uncle Octavius, knowing your dislike of musty libraries, museums and such.”
Blythe shrugged, but not before taking a large swallow of his drink. “That's not an inaccurate way of putting it, although now that I've met the fair lady,” he said with a sidelong glance at Meredith, “I just might change my mind.”
Hamilton let his breath out through his teeth. “I should have thought hunting might be more to your liking.” He looked thinner in his evening jacket, the shoulders hanging loosely from his frame. The familial resemblance between the two men was nowhere to be seen.
Blythe gave him a curious look, brown eyes piercing, brows raised. Firelight licked his muddy boots and sparked from the ruby in his cravat. “How perceptive of you, Hector. I do so enjoy the hunt.”
An indefinable tension invaded the room like a faint scent. Meredith placed her flute on the table by the side of her chair. “I understand you have spent quite a few years on the Continent, Lord Blythe, and that you have only recently returned to England.”
The older man met her gaze, a small smile playing about his thin lips. “I've spent the last few years in France, as a matter of fact.” A slight pause, to allow the fact to sink in, and then he rose. “Time for dinner.” Meredith momentarily wilted in her chair before taking his hand and allowing him to escort her to the dining hall.
Lord Blythe exhibited a prodigious appetite. In short order, he had eaten his way through several servings of roast beef, a variety of vegetables and a lamb terrine, washed down by copious amounts of red wine and followed by a singularly spectacular blancmange. Throughout the whole extravagant display, seated in a dining room that could easily accommodate fifty for dinner rather than three, Meredith fought a growing unease.
Pushing his plate away with exuberance, Blythe leaned back in his chair and surveyed Hamilton and Meredith with a faint smile. “I forget what contentment is until I return to Warthaven Park.” He half lifted his hand like a rector about to give his blessing. “And so pleased that you both could join me.”
His plate barely touched, Hamilton smiled weakly in return. “Your warm welcome and hospitality are much appreciated,” he said in the tone of a child, as though by rote.
“You needn't wait for an invitation next time.”
“Well understood,” Hamilton said.
“And so tomorrow we repair to the Fitzwilliam.” Blythe folded his broad palms on his stomach, replete at last.
“You need not accompany us, Uncle.”
“Oh, but I insist, Nephew.”
Meredith folded the crisp linen napkin on her lap, suddenly finding it necessary to escape from the strange tension that had been building between the two men. Pleading a headache, she excused herself, not waiting for a footman to pull back her chair, and left the room with murmured apologies. With her skirts bunched in one hand, she made her way down the corridor until she was well away from the dining hall and leaned back against the linen fold paneling. She was only half lying when she pretended a migraine, now taking in great gulps of air in an attempt to alleviate the pounding pressure at her temples.
Just as she was feeling more composed, she saw Hamilton coming toward her, straightening his spectacles under the shimmering lights of the overhead chandelier. She experienced an unsettling rush of emotion. As he reached her, he took note of her pallor and her attempt at a smile, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You left so suddenly. I had no choice but to excuse myself and come to see if you required anything, my dear Lady Woolcott. Headaches can be the very devil.”
“I'm feeling better, truly. I simply needed some air.”
He took note of her distress. “My uncle can oftentimes be somewhat overwhelming.”
The ornate chandelier above, its multiple candles burning, threw shadows into sharp relief. The muffled sound of servants clearing away crystal and china resonated through the hall. Meredith glanced up the broad staircase, the familiar sensation of being watched prickling her skin. Would it never leave her, this heightened awareness? Forcibly, she pulled her attention back to Hamilton.
“Are you certain you are well, Lady Woolcott? Perhaps I should accompany you to your rooms.”
What was this madness? she thought, her shoulder blades stiffening. Her eyes traced the darkness of the stairwell, peering into the dimness. Nothing. Ignoring her disquiet, she straightened away from the wall while at the same time Hamilton moved closer. And the next moment she stood in the circle of his arms, breathing in the scent of starched linen and dry ink. “Lady Woolcott,” Hamilton murmured, clearing his throat once again, “I am here if you need me for anythingâfor anything at all.”
The pounding at her temples increased and she knew she must get control of her emotions and seek some semblance of calm. Interpreting her agitation as invitation, Hamilton drew her nearer, holding her close, implicitly offering her his strength and understanding. He gently stroked her back, tentatively brushing her cheek with the back of his hand.
Lifting her face to his, she gave him an uncertain smile, prepared to offer the appropriate blandishments about gratitude and friendship. Despite the jumble of misgivings, the pieces of the puzzle that refused to lock into place, she told herself that Hector Hamilton was truly a sweet man. Modest, kind and courageousâso different from the previous men in her life. Her smile broadened and he mistook the gesture as an opening and dipped his head, his faded blue eyes only inches away. And then he kissed her, a gentle, tentative kiss. And for a moment, Meredith let him, overwhelmed and confused, no longer certain she wished to face the world alone. But almost as quickly as she'd given in to impulse, she regretted her rash response, recoiling from the sensation of his lips upon hers. She pulled away. “I'm sorry. Mr. Hamilton ... please.”
Stammering and flushed, Hamilton dipped his head in polite withdrawal, embarrassment tightening his fine features. “My apologies, Lady Woolcott. I should not have ... If I have overstepped the boundaries of our friendship ... I did not intend to cause you distress. Please forgive me.” He bowed faintly, hands clenched at his sides. “I cannot begin to explain what came over me.”
“It is quite all right, Mr. Hamilton. No damage done. Simply a lapse in judgment. Mine as well.”
“I would do nothing in the world to harm our friendship,” he stuttered, blinking rapidly. “It was simply that you appeared in need of comfort. Please do tell me that you are not upset by my boorish behavior.”
“I am not upset,” she said, taking a step back. “And will be delighted to tour the Fitzwilliam with you tomorrow.”
It was as though she'd absolved him of all sins. He heaved a sigh of relief. “So looking forward to it, Lady Woolcott. We shall put this unfortunate incident behind us.” Meredith smiled her agreement, watching as Hamilton backed down the corridor away from her.
Her headache now pounding, she made her way up the grand staircase to her rooms. Lights from the sconces flickered and she could not dispel the notion that someone watched from the shadows. The portraits glowered in the half-light, observing her progress, eyes boring into her back. Once in her rooms, she gratefully shut and locked the door behind her.
The fresh scent of the outdoors and of wet wool assailed her senses. Had someone left open a window on such a bitter night? Turning around, she saw Lord Richard Buckingham Archer dripping mud and winter mist from his cape onto the Oriental rug. His unruly hair was sleek with droplets of snow, a trace of stubble shadowing his jaw. He looked as though he'd ridden hard, a dark and towering presence in her bedchamber, his gaze outrageous.
Chapter 12
M
ontagu Faron had always preferred summer, glorying in the nighttime scent of the lime blossoms that graced the estate of Claire de Lune. Now the aroma was but a memory lingering in the cold of winter.
ontagu Faron had always preferred summer, glorying in the nighttime scent of the lime blossoms that graced the estate of Claire de Lune. Now the aroma was but a memory lingering in the cold of winter.
Giles Lowther looked away from the secured French doors and the moonlit parterre with its plane trees and disciplined shrubs and instead paced the length of one of the chateau's many laboratories, the tang of formaldehyde warring with nature's perfume. Two rectangular tables lined the generous space, topped by rows of microscopes, the instruments now covered with dust. There were ghosts in the room, of a youthful Faron and Meredith Woolcott.
Lowther stared at a desiccated butterfly, its wings pinned back under glass, framed on the altar of Faron's vaulting ambition. The bright yellows and blues were faded now, though the colors had once been brilliant against the cold glass upon which they rested.
He knew firsthand of Faron's agony, the ongoing torment of loss, relentless torture that had invaded both his waking and sleeping hours. His life had been a palimpsest, layers of bitterness and regret that had fueled his appetite for revenge against those who were closest to Meredith's heartâRowena, the rebellious one, and the more subdued sister, Julia, both of whom had brought Faron to the portal of death.
As with Faron, Lowther did not believe in fate or God but only his own driving thirst for knowledge and revenge. The first had brought him alongside one of the greatest minds of Europe and then offered him the opportunity to take what was in his grasp. Jerome and Meredith were the sacrificial lambs. Lowther ran his hand along the finely wrought leather mask covering his face. Now whose was the greater intellectâhis or Faron's?
He smiled behind the mask and looked out the French doors to the ordered park outside which had been designed by Le Notre, esteemed landscaper to Louis the Sun King himself. The roots of the Faron family in France ran deep, their association with the Renaissance and the Enlightenment forged in blood and wealth. The numerous libraries at Claire de Lune held ancient texts. Egyptian artifacts like the Rosetta stone and
The Book of the Dead
belonged to the Farons by right of fiat, or so they believed.
The Book of the Dead
belonged to the Farons by right of fiat, or so they believed.
How the mighty had fallen. And at the hands of a guttersnipe, an English one at that, raised to unimaginable heights by wit and stratagem alone. He had assumed the mantle of Faron's wealth and power with the ease of slipping on a mask. No one believed him truly dead. He chuckled at the thought. There was little else standing in his way, thanks to the Woolcotts, whose every move had seemed to doom Faron to failure and finally death. Now was the time to dispatch Meredith Woolcott like the specimens in the room that no longer served any use. That she and her wards had slipped through his grasp, not once but twice, was unforgivable.
Hector Hamilton was a worry and Lowther despised weakness of any sort. Of course, Crompton was now at the helm. He had nearly beaten Lord Rushford to death, not an easy task. Lowther's eyes lit briefly on the butterfly pinned to its crucifix, before walking to the French doors to see the skeleton of winter outlined in the bareness of the trees. Just a few more days, and the circle would be complete. He would welcome Lady Meredith Woolcott to Claire de Lune himselfâwhere she would finish what she and Faron had begun almost twenty years before.
Â
“Have you gone entirely mad?” Meredith hissed. “This time I truly intend to scream!” She jerked away from the door and put an escritoire between them, taking no chances.
“Truth be told, I was not expecting a warm reception,” Archer said coolly, scrubbing a gloved hand down his wet face. “Especially with your attentions already taken by Mr. Hamilton.”
“It was you. You were spying from the staircase,” she whispered, circling from behind the table. “You are despicable, unconscionable, sir.”
He looked at her in some surprise, surprise which quickly shifted to something else. He stalked closer, so close that she could drown in the blue sea of his eyes. “I felt no need to interrupt, Lady Woolcott. As you well know, if it had been me with you downstairs, I'd have had your drawers round your ankles in minutes.”
Meredith fumed, pushing a hand through her hair in frustration. “You have no right to interfere. I demanded that you stay away from me and here you are again, having broken in to a home and invaded my rooms.”
“Perhaps I find you irresistible. I cannot help myself.”
“Oh, please. I suppose you have been overcome with lust for my erudition. Or is it the fact that my advanced age is a welcome change from the parade of young women whose mamas no doubt keep you on your toes?”
“Actually,” he drawled, “it was your mouth. Ripe and sensuous. And that's when you're not talking.”
Insulted beyond belief, she felt her color heighten. “I see,” she whispered. “You are mocking me, but for the last time. Leave right now.” She pointed to the window. “Using the same entrance by which you came.”
Archer lifted one brow at her command. “Forgive me, Lady Woolcott, but your protestations are wearing thin. Or perhaps I was confused, as the last time you were more than willing to use that luscious mouthâ”
Meredith drew back her hand to strike him. Like quicksilver, Archer's hand snared her wrist, dragging her against him, the drops of mist quickly soaking her gown. “For all your learning, you do seem to have a propensity to violence. Had I not seen you with a pistol not so long ago, I should never have been forewarned.”
“Well, I shall warn you once again, Lord Archer, and I don't require a pistol with which to do it. I have the right to kiss whomever I choose. And that includes Mr. Hamilton.”
His eyes dark, his mouth hard, he whispered hotly against her ear, “You are a very poor liar, Meredith.”
“And you are a poor excuse for a gentleman,” she hissed.
He drew back, his gaze running over her face. “I never claimed to be one.” Challenge fired his eyes. He jerked her fully against him, catching her by both wrists and forcing them against the escritoire, pinning her with his body. The evidence of his desire was hard and unequivocal. For an instant their gazes locked.
“Why do you always fight me?”
Her breath, too, was short. “I don't want you here.”
His grip did not loosen, his lips moving toward hers again, and she felt her eyes grow heavy with surrender. His voice was silk. “Such a liar.”
Fighting him physically would be useless. Damn, damn, damn the man, she thought, taking in the splendor of his tall, muscled form. It was impossible to forget his raw virility or repress the heat turning liquid between her thighs. More angry with herself than with him, she took a deep breath. “Archer, listen to me. We must be rational about this.” Even as the words left her lips, her body was intent on defying logic, heat coursing through her veins.
“I'm pleased that you finally agree with me.”
Meredith waited for him to do something other than gaze at her. He still held her wrists, his face so close to her own, his eyes narrowed with a predatory gleam that she hadn't seen before. “What are you looking at?” she whispered when the tension of their silence became unbearable.
“You,” he said. But still he made no further move. “We don't seem to do at all well with words.” Without releasing her hands, he brought his mouth to hers. His hand rose to her throat as she kissed him back, the other pressing her abdomen into the hard shaft of his erection. Finding her wrists suddenly released, she moved her hands down his back, down to his buttocks, her fingers biting into the hard muscles, expressing a need and demand that matched his own.
It was Archer who drew back. His hand on her throat seemed to be imprinted on her skin. “This solves nothing,” she said, her voice strange, as if emerging through a fog. “You cannot protect me.”
“Yes, I can and yes, I will,” he said. His hands went to the opening of her gown and the delicate fabric parted as he made swift work of the hooks and laces until it puddled at her feet, the gray silvered in the moonlight falling through the window. The cold air brushed her body and her nipples hardened. She reached up to touch his lips, moaning softly in infinite satisfaction as he touched her, drawing a finger down her throat, between her breasts, to her navel and slipping between her thighs. Her feet shifted as a questing finger probed and found what it sought, all the while his eyes held hers, watching and measuring her every pant and breath, mastering her body. He held her tightly and the cold damp of his coat rubbed her nipples, the leather of his britches smooth against her belly and thighs, which were covered only in thin batiste. Then he kissed her again, his mouth hard and possessive, his tongue driving deep until her head fell back under the pressure of his ravaging mouth. Her body arched against his hands in the small of her back when she peaked, panting her pleasure into his mouth.
Without removing his lips from hers, he carried her to the bed. Her skin was sensitized, every nerve ending close to the surface, the rich brocade coverlet rough against her naked back. Kneeling astride her, he ran his hands over her breasts, circling the nipples with his fingers. He looked up and met her gaze and suddenly, Meredith knew what she wanted. “Come closer,” she whispered, angered somehow with the cool detachment in his gaze, as though she were something that had to be tamed and understood. She didn't wish to think, not now, when her fingers pushed the wet wool from his shoulders and quickly unfastened his waistband. She moved her hand to enclose him.
Inching down the bed, she took him in her mouth, her hands resting on his hips as she pleasured him. She knew he watched his erection move in and out of her mouth, its length swelling even more with each slide of her lips and tongue. She gloried in the power she held over him. Wanton, ravenous, she took him deeper, feeling his hands play over her buttocks and her inner thighs.
Just before he was about to explode, he jerked away. Hair a glorious tumble around her face, her nudity covered in the sheerest batiste, she slid her way up his body, rubbing her breasts against his chest.
“You want me. And I want you. Nothing is simpler or truer than that,” he said, his voice rough with desire. He pulled her up against the pillows and she spread her legs; her gray eyes were clouded with passion.
“Say it,” he demanded, as he touched the fluid of desire gleaming between her thighs. “Say it.” More harshly this time.
She smiled and the curve of her lips was enough to unman him. They never had any luck with words. “Hush, darling,” she murmured, quickly straddling him, urging him into her body, removing her drawers; widening her passage until he impaled her. She arched up and then down in desperation to meet him. Her hips writhed and pumped, drawing him deeper and deeper, her need for consummation verging on the precipice of frenzy. Finally, after she had peaked once again, he pulled her beneath him, entering her body with one long, slow thrust that penetrated her core. Meredith cried out, curling her legs around his hips. His mouth covered hers, suppressing her pants of pleasure before they broke from her lips. He rode her with a ferocity and force that ended in his own spine-wrenching orgasm, which he spilled on the softness of her abdomen. His breathing was as rough and shallow as though he'd run ten miles.
Meredith couldn't move, nor find the breath to fill her lungs. The fire crackled in the hearth, their labored breathing a counterpoint to the soft tap of snow against the windowpanes.
“I still want you to leave,” she said.
His head lifted from the mattress. “Don't say that.”
She measured his critical gaze for a moment and then softly exhaled. “How does this”âshe gestured weaklyâ“change anything?”
He rolled away, reaching for the sheet. “Does your meeting with Hamilton not make you suspicious in the least? A man whose interests serendipitously align with yoursâthe Rosetta stone and
The Book of the Dead
?”
The Book of the Dead
?”
She rolled her eyes, flinging an arm over her forehead. “Not this again,” she moaned.
He growled deep in his throat, a contemptuous sound, and glared at her for a second. “And what about the child's toy from the nursery at Claire de Lune? How have you reconciled that bit of evidence?”
“Do not let's begin again,” she muttered. “I don't wish to hear it. So please leave.”
“I'm not leaving without you.”
Sitting up, she pulled a portion of the sheet around her shoulders. The silence was oppressive. At once pleased and disappointed that she'd locked the door to the room, she pushed a hand through the tumble of her hair. “Will you not give me some credit, Archer? Do you really believe that I would give over my independence for whatever it is you are offering?”
He looked at her, his expression swept clear of all emotion. “You hide behind these bluestocking notions, Meredith, when truly, they do not exist for you. You are a beautiful, passionate woman, and there's no use denying it. Your father and Faron have much to answer for in terms of your unorthodox notions.”
She began to rise from the bed.
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