The receiving room of the bachelor lodgings was dank, shabby, and altogether depressing, much the same as the hallway the landlady had led Sarah through after her admittance to this place of residence. It was a decidedly unimpressive dwelling, and she had no call to now stand in a miserly little sitting room with a pit forming in her stomach and perspiration dampening the palms of her cotton gloves. No call at all, apart from it being Arthur Davenport’s lodging.
Balling her hands, Sarah cursed the man who had brought her to such a state.
It had been over a week and a half since she’d heard from him, a week and a half where she had received three letters from the lawyers representing Robert’s family, all with an increasing level of threat. Something had to be done to dissuade them, and soon, but her bloody solicitor had seen fit to ignore her repeated missives for immediate assistance.
He’d ever been thus, even when they were children. He’d ignored her constantly, and when he had paid her the slightest attention, he’d looked down his too-large nose at her and made her feel petty and small. Perhaps her intelligence wasn’t of books and learning. Perhaps it was she couldn’t conjugate Latin verbs, and she’d no desire to learn about Pythagoras and his theorem, but she was a good deal cleverer than Arthur Davenport could ever conceive. He’d not seen what their mothers were up to, though it had been obvious to anyone who had an ounce of sense. She’d had to avert the situation, and had done so well, she’d been rewarded with a good man and eight comfortable years for her trouble.
Now, her husband’s family was seeing fit to ruin what joy her marriage had held…and Arthur Davenport wasn’t helping.
She couldn’t believe she’d been forced to seek him out at his residence, had been forced to apply to her mother to find where he lived. No doubt her mother now entertained notions of her daughter’s second marriage, this time to the son of her dearest friend. She’d probably planned the entire event in her mind, along with the names, number, and dispositions of her never-to-exist grandchildren, because Sarah certainly wasn’t going to marry Arthur Davenport.
She was only surprised she’d managed to keep the nature of her query to herself. She’d told none of her troubles with Robert’s family—well, might as well name it true. Troubles with Robert’s father. At first, grief had kept her silent, but as grief had dulled into a steady ache, the demands from Robert’s father had become more virulent, and for eight months she’d borne them, determined she should fix the matter herself. However, no matter which tack she took, what point she presented, she could not convince the elder Wetherall she had a brain and the will to use it. It was like butting her head against a wall, and she’d only become more frustrated with each snide comment from Robert’s father. She’d wanted to correct him, to prove she was capable and worthy of the bequest Robert had given her, but nothing she said or did changed her father-in-law’s mind. It had been thus her entire marriage and had continued into her widowhood. Why wouldn’t he believe her capable? Why wouldn’t he—
Biting her lip, she crushed those thoughts. She was worthy, and Robert had loved her. If his father wouldn’t admit he was wrong, she’d make him admit it. Thus, the only route she possessed was a legal one…and Arthur Davenport.
Crossing her arms, she ignored the dampness of the cloth covering her hands. She would not allow Arthur bloody Davenport make her feel inferior, frivolous, and stupid. She knew what he had said was true, that Robert’s family had no legal claim to the estate Robert had left her, but the Wetheralls also had money, an obscene amount of it, not to mention the ear of a duke. These things did not always come down solely to the law and who was legally entitled. Laws could be bent, changed, rewritten…and Arthur Davenport had ever been willfully ignorant of the depths people could sink to.
The heavy tread of someone traversing the hall penetrated the thin walls. Her stomach immediately relocated somewhere much lower than it should be.
Gah, this was so frustrating! She never, never experienced this indecision, this fear he seemed to bring out in her so effortlessly. Even now, she stood in the center of this appallingly dilapidated room, and she didn’t know if she had made the right decision in coming to his lodgings.
Damn, damn, damn him.
With a scowl, she turned to face the door. She didn’t even know if it was him, but if it was, she would use her ire, her uncertainty. A scowl was a scowl, and he had no cause to know if it was caused by anger at him or anger at her own foolishness.
It was him. He entered the room, shoulders stooped and eyes ringed in darkened flesh. The chestnut strands of his hair stuck up every which way, his clothing rumpled and creased, and the battered bag he held had seen days much better than this.
She clenched her hands. She had the most maddening desire to smooth his hair.
His expression tightened as he spied her, and any feeling of compassion that lingered, fled. “Mrs. Wetherall. Good evening. Mrs. Hampton said someone awaited me, but I did not know it was you.”
And if he did, he would not have attended her? Is that what he was implying? “It has been over two weeks, Mr. Davenport.”
“A week and a half by my reckoning. That is not a long time in the legal world.” Though his shoulders were somewhat straight, he still looked tired.
Not that she cared. “Neither is it short.” Stretching to her full height, she attempted to glare down her nose. “I have received letters in that time, Mr. Davenport, further threats from my husband’s family solicitors. You were contracted on the basis you would communicate with me, and yet I find two weeks have passed with no note or report from you. Thus, I’ve had to bestir myself to secure such. Do not think I will be paying for this time.”
For the longest time, he stared. “Week and a half,” he finally said.
Damnation! He was so annoying. That hadn’t changed since their youth, though his appearance had. He’d always been taller than her by half a foot but he’d never seemed bigger, his skinny frame and habit of hunching making him small. Now, even though he was hunched with tiredness, his frame had fulfilled the promise of his broad shoulders while the cut of his greatcoat displayed his trim waist. His mouth was the same, that incongruously generous bottom lip at complete odds with his unromantic character, and his eyes were the same shade of hazel, more brown that green. And, if she were pressed, she would concede he’d grown handsome over the years.
But he was still maddening. It didn’t matter how attractive he’d become. “What progress have you made?”
“None. I have been in the country for over a week. All that was managed was a rough draft of a letter to cease and desist.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
She would not feel sympathy. She wouldn’t. “That is not good enough, Mr. Davenport. I have engaged you upon the belief you are a somewhat decent solicitor. I expect better from you.”
Hand dropping from the bridge of his nose, he said, “I can only do what I can do, madam.”
“Be that as it may, I expect better things from someone with your reputation.” She cast her gaze around the room. “Although your place of residence does not lend credence to that belief.”
“There is little I can do now.”
The snide comment brought her attention back to him. Fingers clenched on his travel case, he awaited her response.
She lifted her chin. “I understand that. I am here merely to impress upon you my dissatisfaction with your services thus far. I feel certain more should have been accomplished by this time.”
His brows rose. “Dissatisfaction, madam? I have been engaged for little more than a week. How, pray tell, could you possibly be dissatisfied?”
“Are you hard of hearing, sir? I already said you should have accomplished more.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I have been in the country. At a wedding.”
“And this precludes you from working? From having a thought upon the subject and writing it down?” She knew what he was about. He was ignoring her, her problems and her concerns. He could have done something, not matter how small. That he didn’t show her lack of worth to him, more than words could ever convey. And she didn’t care how fetching he looked all disheveled and rumpled, or how his unshaven cheeks lent definition to his strong jaw. “Well, Mr. Davenport? What say you to that?”
“I was at my friend’s wedding. I am allowed some time away from my employment.”
“Yes. You are. But what of the days before your friend’s wedding? What of the trip home? Are you telling me you did not work on other clients?”
A flush stained his skin. “I will get to your matter when I get to it.”
At the tacit confirmation of her accusation, a kernel of hurt burned. She buried it with anger. He was attempting to give her the brush off. As he always did. “This is intolerable, Mr. Davenport.”
Through gritted teeth, he said, “As I have said, there is little I can do. Perhaps you would be so kind as to come to my chambers Thursday morning.”
Thursday? Thursday? “What, sir, do you intend to do in the three days between then and now if you do not work on my case? No. You will do something now.”
“I will not!” he roared.
She jumped, her breath locked in her throat.
He gripped the back of the chaise, his fingers digging into the cloth covering the sparse stuffing. “Madam. I have returned from the country not ten minutes ago. I’m tired, disheveled, and hungry. I have better things to do at this current moment than attend to claims that have little to no legal merit. I will attend you on Thursday morning.” He paused. “As I have said.”
Heart racing, she crossed her arms and attempted nonchalance. “You understand why I cannot trust in your assertion to attend me.”
“I do not lie,” he said stiffly.
“No, you simply evade. I know how you operate. You haven’t changed at all.”
“For God’s sake! Leave me alone!”
“No!” The air practically vibrated between them, full of anger and frustration, and the hundred thousand times where he’d ignored her, dismissed her, made her feel inferior or stupid or low.
And she wanted her mouth on his.
Horror roiled through her. Where had that thought come from?
Hazel eyes, full of anger and frustration, held hers. Dear God, she wanted to kiss Arthur Davenport. She wanted to feel his mouth under hers, to lick and kiss and suck. She wanted to know what he would do if she pulled him to her so his chest crushed her breasts, her hips cradled his, so there was no space between them. She wanted to learn his taste, his texture, hear the sound of his moan and give him the sound of hers.
“Nothing to say, Mrs. Wetherall?”
“I—” How could she think such a thing? How?
He stepped forward. “Nothing?”
Unable to speak, she stared up at him.
Slowly, his expression changed, his brows drawing together as she remained silent. The disdain she’d felt all her life, the contempt, became something else, something that careened wildly through her and forced her to him, forced her to wet suddenly dry lips, forced her aware of her body was so very close to his….
Hastily, she backed away from him. “Thursday?”
He looked as shaken as she and then, like a switch turned, it disappeared. “Yes.”
“Right. Well.” Lifting her chin, she tried not to notice how her knees shook. “I expect progress.”
“Of course.”
“Right. Well.” Her mind was so horribly blank…apart from the desire for his mouth on hers. “Good afternoon, Mr. Davenport.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wetherall,” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.
Without another word, she fled the room, one thought pursuing her no matter how she hurried. How could she have wanted to kiss Arthur Davenport?