Duty Before Desire (11 page)

An unwelcome sensation tugged at her belly as she continued looking at the naked man and thinking of Lord Sheridan. She tightened her shawl against hardening nipples.
Just the cold,
she assured herself.

She heard her aunt's voice drifting closer from behind her.

“... Must marry her off as soon as possible,” Lady Delafield was saying. “Then she'll be someone else's problem.”

The other woman tittered.

Arcadia clenched her teeth.

“Further,” her aunt went on, “I must get rid of that ayah. My niece has been too long under the influence of a heathen servant.”

Arcadia's ears rang as though they'd been boxed.
Get rid
of Poorvaja? Might Lady Delafield also so blithely suggest Arcadia
get rid
of an arm, or perhaps an eyeball? Even now, her beloved companion was at the far end of the gallery, studying at an elaborately decorated Grecian urn. As if sensing Arcadia's attention, she turned and pointed at the vase, her broad smile saying
Can you believe we're really here?
Poorvaja, too, had been entranced by Sir Thaddeus's tales of London's cultural wonders. Many was the time Arcadia had found her ayah looking at the plates in a book about the British capital, her slim, brown finger tracing the edifice of this palace or the lines of that monument.

Her hands tightly fisted in her shawl, Arcadia rounded on her aunt. “Why not just return Poorvaja and me to India and be done with it? Neither of us wants to be here. Mightn't we just agree this arrangement has been a terrible mistake and wash our hands of each other?”

Lady Delafield grabbed Arcadia's arm and pinched, hard. Shocked, Arcadia jerked out of her aunt's grasp. The loose skin about her ladyship's jaw quivered in undisguised fury. “No, gel, we most certainly shall
not
wash our hands of each other. You are Lucretia's daughter, the only living thing left of my sister. You might have no regard for your dear mother's memory, but I
will
do right by my sister. I will see you properly settled, you may be sure of it. Send you back to India, indeed.
Harrumph!
”

Poorvaja scurried over to investigate the commotion. Arcadia shook her head, warning her away from Lady Delafield's line of fire. The ayah hesitated, then pointedly turned her back on the squabble.

A man strolled in from the far end of the gallery, near the Grecian urn. For a few seconds, Arcadia did not recognize him, but the man's languid air and red cravat tickled her memory. The poet, Sir Something-or-other. His eyes swept the room, caught on Poorvaja, then darted to Arcadia. They shared an instant of contact before Mrs. Durrant had her say.

“Why, Lady Delafield,” the woman said, “I hardly know what to make of this shocking display. Children are the greatest blessing and lowest curse of a woman's life.”

As if overcome, Lady Delafield nodded, her expression one of unmitigated suffering. Sniffing, she fished a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her cheeks. She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Lord Delafield and I were never blessed with children of our own, you know. I'd hopes that my niece might provide us, at last, with an outlet for our paternal feelings. Alas, I think it's not to be …”

While Lady Delafield gave vent to her familial frustrations, Arcadia watched the poet approach Poorvaja, beakish nose leading the way, and engage her in what appeared to be stilted conversation. Poorvaja, eyes wide, took a half step back from the gentleman.

Arcadia sidled away from her aunt to rescue her friend from the intrusive scribbler. As she approached, Poorvaja glanced anxiously at her.
All well?
Arcadia nodded, trying to convey confidence she did not feel. What a mess she'd made of everything, from losing her precious heirloom her first day in England, to offending her relatives, Lord Sheridan, and all their fine, London Society with her ignorance.

“Miss Parks.” The poet bowed, his gaze slipping over her figure as he straightened. “What an unexpected pleasure, finding you here in these dusty halls. And Lady Delafield!” He interrupted the other women's
tête-à-tête
to make a florid bow to Arcadia's aunt and receive an introduction to Mrs. Durrant. With a girlish giggle, the baroness waved the poet back over to Arcadia and resumed her discussion.

“I trust you ladies are enjoying the exhibits?” Sir Godwin inquired upon returning to Arcadia's side.

“Yes, well …” Arcadia's eyes cut to where her aunt and Mrs. Durrant stood with their heads together, discussing Arcadia as if she was a clogged irrigation ditch or a cobra in the laundry, a problem to be solved. “It's been very illuminating, Sir …” she faltered.

“Godwin,” he supplied with an affable smile. “Sir Godwin Prickering, at your service, Miss Parks. What a challenge it must be to find yourself cast upon foreign shores, thrust into the company of so many strangers, and expected to learn their names and adapt to their ways at once.”

Arcadia blinked. “Yes,” she said. “Precisely.” At last, she thought, a sympathetic soul.

“And you, Miss Poorvaja? How do you find London?”

The Indian woman's nose wrinkled; she looked at the man askance. In a sensible wool dress and plain gray bonnet, with her sleek black braid hanging down her back, Poorvaja's entire countenance brooked no nonsense.

Arcadia, too, was a bit taken aback by Sir Godwin's question. Not once had any person ever called her ayah “Miss” Poorvaja. Her surprise was followed by a rush of gratitude for the gentleman's consideration.

“White,” Poorvaja answered, her voice tinged with suspicion. “I find London very, very white.”

The poet chuckled, his laugh sounding like
hip-hip-hip
. “You have us there, Miss Poorvaja. We are a sunless, pallid breed.” Turning to Arcadia, he once again examined her. While she was sensible of his appraisal, his gaze did not cause her that uncomfortable rush of awareness that Lord Sheridan's did. “You look much improved since last we met, if I may say so, Miss Parks. I trust you are recovered from your unfortunate encounter with that cad in the park.”

How did he know about the footpad? Unless he meant the
other
cad. “Do you refer to Lord Sheridan?”

“Well … I don't like to name names.” Sir Godwin flicked dust from his sleeve. “
Some
names, in particular, should not be uttered in polite company.”

Lady Delafield had alluded to Lord Sheridan being unsuitable, and here was another who seemed to find him lacking. Arcadia looked over her shoulder to confirm her aunt was still occupied with Mrs. Durrant.

Leaning closer to Sir Godwin, she whispered loudly, “You do not care for that gentleman?”

“Zouche”—the poet's lip curled as he uttered the hated name, in contradiction with his previous edict—“does not merit the designation of ‘gentleman.' To say I do not care for him would be to say the ocean is damp. It would be to say the pyramids of Giza are getting on in years. It would be to say this institution”—he turned on the toe of a tasseled boot as if to encompass the whole of the museum—“has a few trinkets of passing interest. In short, Miss Parks, to say I do not care for that gentleman would be an understatement of criminal proportions.”

A man and a woman entered the gallery. While the man kept his eyes carefully averted from Sir Godwin's theatrical performance, the woman on his arm peered with interest. Even when the man turned, hauling her about to face a relief depicting a Bacchanal, Arcadia could practically see the woman's ears straining to overhear their conversation.

Arcadia made a patting motion. “He
is
a bit arrogant,” she said in a low voice, hoping to placate Sir Godwin's temper. “And a touch high-handed,” she added, recalling how he always insisted on doing things his own way, never taking her wishes into consideration.

“Oh, my dear Miss Parks, you are too generous. Is she not, Miss Poorvaja?”

The ayah had begun to edge away, but his question stopped her from making good her escape. She shot a glance at Arcadia and remained silent.

“You have not long been in our little society here, Miss Parks,” Sir Godwin continued. To the side of the gallery, the eavesdropping woman leaned farther away from her companion and tilted her head, the better, Arcadia assumed, to discern the subject of Sir Godwin's ire. “He is the worst sort of scoundrel.”

“Oh, come now,” Arcadia gently chided. “Surely, you exaggerate. Twice he has come to my aid.” She didn't care to be in the position of defending Lord Sheridan, but he had, in his own, infuriating way, rendered her assistance when she'd needed it. And he'd offered a gleam of hope with his suggestion of recovering her brooch. “Lord Sh—” She stopped herself at Sir Godwin's glower. “
That gentleman
has a certain charm, I'll grant.” Arcadia's gaze slid to the nude
Discobolus
. Heat swept her cheekbones. She cleared her throat. “Some women might find such a person … compelling.”

The poet scoffed and scuffed the floor with a toe, like a sulking boy. Arcadia and Poorvaja exchanged an amused smile.

“Let's not speak of that unpleasant subject any longer,” Arcadia said. Thoughts of Lord Sheridan always created a muddle of feelings she did not care for. “What brought you to the museum today, sir?”

With the subject turned to himself, Sir Godwin brightened and waved an arm. “Nourishment, Miss Parks. I come seeking nourishment for my poor, starving soul. Whenever I feel my powers of creativity on the wane, I strike out on a pilgrimage of poverty, my heart open to receive whatever alms of ingenuity the Muses see fit to grant.”

Gracious
. What a mouthful. Lord Sheridan, too, had a fondness for using many words to express brief thoughts, Arcadia recalled.
No!
she scolded herself.
No more thinking about Lord Sheridan.

The writer guided her and Poorvaja to a nearby statue. Arcadia's brows rose at the sight of a naked female torso. At least the woman's lower half was covered, unlike the male athlete, although the marble fabric clinging to her left leg from thigh to foot revealed as much as it concealed. The end of the fabric draped over her right arm, while her left was poised in the air, her hand curled in an attitude of grasping … something. But her hand was empty.

“Behold the Towneley Venus,” said Sir Godwin. His long, curved nose rose in the air as he gazed up into the goddess's face. “Such sublimity. Such beauty. Note, if you will, the graceful curve of her cheek, the tender fullness of her lip. One wonders whether she is about to smile, or rebuke a hopeful lover. I find in her the essence of feminine mystique. I come here often to sit at her feet and seek divine guidance for my work.” His eyes gleamed with admiration.

“I think you just like to see the undressed lady,” Poorvaja stated, unimpressed.

Arcadia turned her head, hiding an indelicate snort.

The poet turned his eyes on Poorvaja, his lids half-lowered. “I
always
find much here to inspire me.”

Poorvaja's cheeks went ruddy, and she ducked her head, then scurried over to Lady Delafield and Mrs. Durrant.

“Sir, that was not well done of you,” Arcadia scolded. “Poorvaja is not used to such talk.” Not that she was, either. The tips of her ears were fairly scalding from the flirtation laced in the poet's words—and he'd accused Lord Sheridan of improper behavior with ladies!

Sir Godwin's fingers dallied in the folds of his red cravat. His eyes once more roved the voluptuous goddess while he addressed her. “Forgive me, Miss Parks. I was overcome by … poetry. It happens, you understand, in the presence of such beauty. Words tend to erupt forth when I am so … inspired.”

His gaze turned on her, then, but Arcadia steadfastly kept her own fixed on the statue. This level of verbal play was far beyond her.

“She looks sad,” Arcadia blurted. “Did you ever notice?”

“No.”

“She's meant to be holding something.” She pointed at the vacant palm. “Venus is missing a belonging. Perhaps an object of great value.”

“That doesn't make her sad,” Sir Godwin drawled, “merely incomplete.”

Arcadia wanted to point out that the loss of something dear, that feeling of incompleteness, could make one sad and unmoored. But she did not feel inclined to open herself up to criticism for such an opinion. Being deviled by Lord Sheridan for her foolishness in losing the brooch had been enough of that kind of scrutiny.

Lady Delafield joined them, her nose more pinched than ever. “Niece, time we were off.”

Sir Godwin bowed and took his leave of the ladies.

As they departed the gallery, Arcadia cast a final, lingering look on
Discobolus
. With her own feelings of incompleteness and loss, strange that she would be so drawn to the ancient athlete rather than to the goddess, with whom she was in perfect sympathy.

• • •

At seven o'clock, her aunt's maid arrived to help Arcadia dress for supper.

“Where is Poorvaja?” Arcadia asked. The ayah had been absent from her room since they'd returned from the museum. Recalling the words of her aunt earlier, she was anxious to lay eyes upon her friend.

The maid cast a furtive look at the closed door. “Not supposed to talk to you about that, miss,” she whispered out the side of her mouth. “Just put your dress on, please.”

Another layer of apprehension wrapped around the cold stone in Arcadia's torso. She prepared for supper mechanically, allowing the maid to dress and style her as she would.

In the parlor, Arcadia found her uncle and aunt calmly sipping tea.

“Good evening, Uncle. Aunt.”

Lord Delafield stood and made her a slight bow, light from the candelabra slipping over his bald, waxed scalp. “Arcadia, have a seat.” He gestured to a chair adjacent to the settee he shared with his wife. His other hand stroked his white beard as he regarded her.