Archer’s eyes slid round the room behind them as though he wondered if Victoria might appear at any moment through the throng of dancers. “She is a very good actor.” He moved closer, and his large frame cut off the noise of the room. “Look, I apologize for being curt with you just now,” he said, using the rich, persuasive quality of his voice to its fullest. “You could not have known.”
He glanced over his shoulder and then back at Miranda, and she marveled over the effect Victoria appeared to have on him. Until now, Miranda would not have thought him fearful of anyone.
“But you know now,” he went on, his gray eyes pleading and soft. “And I should like very much for you not to speak to her again.”
Pretty words for a direct order. The spark of irritation grew within her breast. “There is something you are not telling me.”
As expected, the corners of his eyes creased slightly. “Such as,” he asked blandly.
“Such as why she bothers you so very much. Such as why she chose to use your name.” Miranda crowded him lest he back away. “Such as why you share the exact, exceedingly rare eye color yet you are not kin in any form.”
Archer’s eyes narrowed, his chest heaving slightly—all signs that an explosion of temper was imminent. She did not care a whit.
“Must I spell things out for you?” he hissed.
“Yes.”
She thought he’d shout, but he leaned in over her like a dark, avenging angel. “She lives in disgrace, with a reputation so low that Cheltenham is asking her to leave as we speak. Association with her can only cause you social harm.”
Miranda could only gape. “I should think you of all people would not concern yourself over ill associations and foul reputations.”
He flinched as though slapped. His eyes held hers for a terrible moment. “Stay away from her, Miranda,” he said flatly, then stalked off, leaving her alone in the corner.
“Blast.”
Archer was not in the hall, or on the balcony. A quick circulation of the dining room, salon, and again through the ballroom came up futile. How could such a large man disappear in less than five minutes?
Miranda turned down a dark hall and went up a small landing toward the side of the house where the family rooms lay. Archer might have overstepped social niceties and taken refuge in the Cheltenhams’ private spaces—either that or he had left her at the party, an idea that made her chest tighten with hurt. Her step grew light, fear of discovery giving her caution; she had no desire to come upon anyone but Archer.
A set of large double doors lay open near the end of the hall. Yellow light spilled out from the open doorway to lie in rectangles upon the crimson rugs. Voices came from within, little more than an indistinct rise and fall of sound. Her step grew slower, for she recognized one voice in particular.
In keeping with Lady Cheltenham’s ornate sense of style, heavy brocade drapery adorned the doorway, with life-sized black marble statues of Hades and Persephone standing guard on either side. Hades’ black hand stretched out toward Persephone’s turned head, his stone mouth open as if in a plea. Miranda placed a hand upon Persephone’s cold marble foot and leaned forward.
A woman’s melodious voice rose up. “You have finally come out of hiding, Benji.”
“Do not call me that.” Archer’s voice was so low it was almost inaudible, but filled with raw anger. “You’ve lost all right to call me anything.”
Curiosity screamed for Miranda to stay, but she owed Archer his privacy.
The woman’s light laughter tinkled like crystal. “You did not used to object to me calling you Benji, beloved.”
Beloved? Privacy be damned; she wasn’t going anywhere now. Miranda risked a look. The pair stood alone before a heavily draped window. Victoria stalked around him slowly, her gloved hand traveling over his shoulder as she surveyed him. Archer stood like timber, his dark head facing forward.
“In fact”—the train of her lime-green gown curled about his ankles—“I remember you being quite fond of me moaning it—”
He grabbed her wrist and wrenched her arm up hard. “What you remember is your own vanity.” He bent over her. “If you had any eyes for the world around you, you’d know our time together was better forgotten.”
“Bastard!” She moved to strike him. He caught the hand neatly.
“Temper,” he warned lightly, though there was little humor in him. He let her go abruptly, and she fumbled back a pace.
Victoria’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I should say the same to you. You wouldn’t want that mask to come off in a scuffle. People might see what lies beneath.” She gave his chin a light flick, her finger clicking loudly against the hard mask.
The cold cruelty of the gesture cut into Miranda, and she bit her lip hard.
“You do not want your sweet bride to run off, no?” Victoria went on, when Archer didn’t respond. She tutted sadly. “I ought to have said virgin bride. You cannot have bedded her.” She laughed hard, a near mannish sound in all its unfettered glee. “I can just imagine how quickly she’d leave should she gaze upon your horror.”
Archer’s hand rose high, vibrating with the effort to hold back. “If you weren’t a woman,” he whispered fiercely.
“Oh yes, you would, Archer.” She glared up at him without fear. “We both know you’ve done that and worse. You ought to have stayed hidden away in darkness where you belong. Why you choose to subject anyone to your presence astonishes me.”
Pain radiated from him in palpable waves, and it made Miranda ache for him. His hand lowered.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he said in a low voice. “Why are you here?”
Victoria made a turn, letting her long train swish elegantly, and Miranda caught a faint whiff of her heady perfume, thickly sweet like carnations and roses, yet acrid underneath from the overuse of lemon. Victoria’s wide mouth turned in a pout.
“I was bored.”
She cocked her head slightly, her eyes slanting. “Your pretty wife is quite stimulating, no?” Her lips curled into the semblance of a smile. “This must be why you wed her—the titillating conversation.”
Archer might have been a block of carved basalt.
“Ah, but you guard her well.” Her melodious voice was becoming less so.
“Answer the question.”
Victoria inclined her head toward the door, just a fraction of an inch, but enough to make Miranda’s breath freeze. She eased back behind the statue.
Victoria’s voice drifted overloud to her ears. “Do you truly want me to answer you while the mice are at play?”
Miranda felt rather than saw Archer turn toward the door, for by then she had slipped away, her heart pounding, her feet moving as fast as they could without making a sound.
“You bitch!” Archer’s hand twitched at his side. Striking her would be useless. “So that was all for her benefit, was it?”
Victoria laughed, throwing her head back with delight. “Of course,” she said, snapping round to glare at him with full venom. “Your little chit, as they say, is an amusing distraction. Now then”—she moved to wrap her arms about his neck—“let us kiss and make nice.”
He pushed her then, a hard shove that made her fall back a step. God help him, he shouldn’t have. But his weakness was already exposed. And it made his heart pound hard.
Her humor died with a snarl. “We had an understanding.”
“Based on lies.” He brushed by her, and she struck like lightning, grasping hold of his arm so that he jerked back. The thick miasma of her floral perfume filled his nostrils, making his temples throb.
“I love you, Archer.”
For a moment, he might have thought her capable of such an emotion, but for the sight of her cold, soulless eyes. “How odd,” he said. “The last time we spoke you told me you hated me, never wanted to set eyes upon me again.”
She smiled thinly. “You understand nothing of women then.” Her fingers bit into his arm. “Have your toy if you must,” she said with flat reserve. “But I will not be pushed away again. Only I know what you truly are. We belong together, and it is time you remembered.”
He drew her in, vaguely aware that a low growl rumbled in his breast. He would end this now. For too long, he had ignored her mad attachment to him. Victoria’s eyes widened, watching him, waiting to see what he would do. A faint sneer curled her red lips. She underestimated him; she always had.
“This way, darling,” said a voice from behind them. “Oh, I say…”
Archer turned to see young Mr. Hendren framed in the doorway with his latest mistress clinging to his arm. The pair eyed him with varying levels of distaste and wariness.
“Have we interrupted?” The jeer in Hendren’s voice was poorly hidden.
Archer almost told him yes, sod off, but Victoria slid from his grasp and out of the room. He grit his teeth in fury. He’d never catch her now; experience had taught him that well. With a glare at Hendren, he pushed past the couple and went out to control the damage wrought.
He tracked Miranda by instinct, feeling the pull of her lead him through the house. No longer distracted by Victoria, his senses filled with his wife, her scent, the desperate sound of her breathing coming to him over the chatter of revelers and the discordant strains of a waltz.
Outside, the air was cool and fresh, the scent of loam and earth rising from well-tended flowerbeds lining the rear garden. Crushed shells crunched beneath his feet as he strode down the center path, alerting her to his presence. She spun from her position under the willow tree, her glorious hair shining penny bright in the moonlight.
“Miranda.” He reached out for her, desperate to hold her, reassure her, and perhaps glean some comfort for himself.
She stopped short at his touch, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to…” She bit her lip and looked away ashamed. His heart turned over in his chest. He was at fault here. He’d pulled her into a world of death and depravity. The need to protect her made his arms quake, yet he hesitated. What right had he to hold Miranda when everything Victoria said about him was true?