Duty Before Desire (13 page)

She was teasing him. He liked that, he realized. He liked it a great deal. And he liked the way his name sounded in her unusual voice, like the opening peal of an aria.

“Shall we?”

As they exited the house, Sheri expected the ever-present Poorvaja to fall into step behind them, but the Indian woman was nowhere to be seen.

“Could I truly be so fortunate as to have you all to myself?” Sheri couldn't resist whispering. He was rewarded with a delightful pinkening of Miss Parks's cheeks. “Where is your Miss Poorvaja?”

Something flashed through her eyes, and then was gone. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. “My aunt says it is permissible for a lady and a gentleman to ride alone in an open carriage.” She nodded to the smart curricle standing at the curb.

“And thank God for that,” he said, jauntily leaping into the seat after handing her into the curricle he'd bought for a song from a viscount with pockets to let a few months back. “Lest I'd have had to rack my brain to concoct a plan equal to your cunning missive.”

He flashed her a grin as he snapped the ribbons, setting the matched pair of bays to a lively step. The day was overcast, but the clouds were high and nonthreatening. Though the air was still warm, one could feel summer leaching away; the atmosphere had the faintest undercurrent of the coming autumn chill. It was a perfect day for a drive. Sheri, at heart a city creature, wished, for once, to be out in the countryside. Miss Parks might enjoy seeing something of her new homeland that wasn't paved or soot-covered.

Several moments passed in silence while Sheri contended with traffic. “Where are we going?” she inquired. “Isn't Hyde Park in the other direction?”

“We can go there, if you wish.” Sheri nimbly directed the horses around a porter unloading a wagon parked before a draper's shop. “I thought revisiting the scene of the unpleasantness you experienced there might distress you.”

Miss Parks's wide eyes flew to his. “That is most considerate, my lord. Thank you.”

He barked a laugh at her surprise. “I really am a civilized sort, Miss Parks. You and I seem to have a knack for aggravating one another.” He nudged her arm with a playful elbow. “Admit it: deep down, you know I'm not too terrible. Elsewise, why call upon me to rescue you?”

“What makes you think I need rescuing?”

A teasing reply at the ready, Sheri glanced down in time to see her lift her chin, a shadow catching in the dimple there, highlighting her stubbornness. She raised one golden-brown brow, silently pressing her challenge.

With that small gesture, Sheri felt as if he'd been walloped over the head. In the days since he'd last seen her, the lady beside him had vastly improved in looks with the return of her health. Gone was the greenish, smelly urchin he'd plucked out of a puddle of her own sick in Hyde Park. Gone, too, was the pinched and exhausted female he'd nearly had to carry down St. James's Street. Quite suddenly, Sheri realized that Miss Parks was not at all plain, but arresting, with beguiling hazel eyes set above strong cheekbones, and a complexion appealingly, if unfashionably, bronzed from a lifetime in the Indian sun.

How could he, Lord Sheridan Zouche, dedicated appreciator of womankind, have failed to notice Miss Parks's potential? She'd never be a classic beauty, but God knew the
ton
had enough of those to sink a ship. Miss Parks was blessed with the kind of bones that would ensure she aged gracefully. Twenty years from now, she'd still turn heads. Hell, fifty years from now, she'd still be lovely.

Her fingers snapped in front of his face. “Lord Sheridan?”

He blinked. “Terrible traffic today.
Hyup!
” he called to the horses, urging them across Pall Mall, and then into St. James's Park. After handing the reins over to his tiger, Sheri assisted Miss Parks out of the carriage.

“You haven't answered my questions,” she complained.

“And you haven't answered mine,” he rejoined, eager to move past the way he'd been staring at her like an imbecile.

A scowl was her only response.

Tucking her hand into his arm, Sheri led her to The Mall. At this time of day, the
beau monde
would all have flocked to Hyde Park for the fashionable hour, making the promenade here a place of relative privacy.

Sheri was pleased by the strength he detected in Miss Parks through their point of contact. Her delicate hand rested lightly on his arm. She did not rely on him overmuch for support; her steps were even and sure. A little knot of worry he hadn't even been aware of lugging about in his chest eased.

For some minutes, they strolled in silence through the stately old trees lining the pebbled walk. Sheri enjoyed stretching his legs with a woman on his arm. It had been a long time since he'd had the simple pleasure of a woman's company. Not that Miss Parks's company was exactly simple, he reminded himself.

“What was it you wished to discuss?” he asked. “A matter of utmost importance, I believe you said.”

She angled towards him. The fringe of her shawl swung against his thigh. His breath hitched. Ye gods, he'd been far too long without a woman if some strings swatting his leg could affect him so.

“My response will answer one of your questions. And you're right, I do need help. I didn't know who else to turn to.” Her earlier bravado slipped away like a discarded mask; now weighty concern seemed to pull down her shoulders.

Whatever differences he and Miss Parks had had in the past, he hated to see a woman in distress. As a gentleman, it had been bred into his very marrow to come to the aid of a lady in need. Furthermore, there had been Grace, for whom he'd have turned the world upside down, only for the reward of her open smiles.

“Miss you, Sheri …”

Stepping off the walk, he pulled her around the large trunk of a tree to shield her from public view.

“Miss Parks, what's happened?” He took her hand in both of his and rubbed circles with his thumbs. Her slender fingers curled delicately around his. Even through the gloves they both wore, her gentle touch heated his palms.

When she met his gaze, her eyes were full of sorrow. “It's Poorvaja. My uncle has cast her out.”

“Cast her out?” Sheri echoed. “To where?”

“That's just it, I don't know!” Miss Parks threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. “She's a stranger here, like me. She has nowhere to go. Who would take her in? She'll be lost. Something terrible will happen if I don't find her, I just know it.” Slowly, sadly, she shook her head from side to side. “I cannot abandon her. Poorvaja is my ayah. She is family to me.”

Sheri had only a rough idea what the office of ayah entailed, but he well understood the ties that bind family together. Hadn't he agreed to find a wife he didn't want just to please his own family? And then there was the family of his own making, the Honorables, his brothers-by-choice. The men who had stood at his side during that early morning duel would do anything for him, as he would for them.

No, one did not abandon family, and one certainly did not cast family aside, he thought, sparing a sour thought for his own brother, who had threatened just that if Sheri did not fall in line with his dictates.

“Will you help me find her? Please?”

Without answering, Sheri turned on his heel. He plucked his quizzing glass from his pocket and jounced it against his palm. Miss Parks tugged his elbow. “My lord, please. Will you answer me?”

“I'm thinking,” Sheri answered over his shoulder, his tone clipped. “It's not a particular talent, so you'll have to give me a moment.”

What a conundrum. Shame on Delafield for tossing out Miss Parks's beloved ayah. Difficult enough for the average household servant to find employment, but at least there were employment offices and an informal network among the working class to help one another find placements. What were the chances that Poorvaja knew where to locate an employment office in London, or even that such a thing existed? The woman hadn't been in England long enough to make friends with the maids at neighboring houses to hear of openings that way, either.

“How long has she been gone?” he asked, spinning about.

“Two days.” Miss Parks wrung the cords of her curricle in tight fists at her waist.

Oof.
With nowhere to go, Poorvaja was at risk of being waylaid by a cutthroat or footpad, or “rescued” by one of the many unscrupulous pimps and procuresses who snatched lost lambs off the streets and forced them into the flesh trade. From what he'd seen of the Indian woman, she was made of stern stuff, but as time passed, she would become desperate. After two days, she could be anywhere in the city—or even beyond. The hair on Sheri's nape stood on end. Good God, the woman really would be lost.

“And what will you do if you find her?” he demanded. “Will your uncle take her back in?”

“I … I'm not sure,” Miss Parks admitted. “I'll figure something out. It won't be for long, only until we can return to India—”

The quizzing glass smacked into his hand; he stuffed it back into his waistcoat. “And will your intended,” he demanded, snatching her wrist and pulling her close, “the Reverend Mr. Cousin Whatsit, join your little exodus to the promised land?”

Her eyes went wide and round. She batted his shoulder with the side of a fist. Sheri held firm and pulled her closer. Frustration of all sorts licked his veins. Most immediately, he was angry about the loyal and lively ayah having been discarded into the gutter. His family's edict that he marry still bristled. And, as his aching flesh reminded him, he'd been celibate for months now, ever since that disastrous night with Sybil.

Yes, well, he thought, admiring the fiery way Miss Parks yanked herself free of his grasp and stomped his toe for good measure, perhaps something could be done about each and every one of his frustrations. The idea had been circling the perimeter of his brain ever since his encounter with Miss Parks on St. James's Street. Now he felt sure of its soundness.

“He isn't my intended,” Miss Parks snapped, indignantly drawing her shawl tight across her bosom. The pale pink of her dress was far and away outdone by the livid flush across her prominent cheekbones. Her eyes nearly crackled with anger, and that stubborn chin jutted defiantly. She was glorious. “I told you I'm going back to India, and I am—alone. I have no intention of marrying Mr. Fisk, nor any other Englishman.”

“An admirable sentiment, I'm sure,” he said, planting his hands on his hips. “But you're wrong about one thing, Miss Parks. You will marry.”

Her mouth opened; he raised a hand to forestall her protest. “Oh, don't squawk at me. I'm not proposing you should marry your country parson.” At the perturbed tilt of her head, he felt a smile slide into place. “Rather, I propose that you should marry me.”

Before Arcadia could absorb Lord Sheridan's statement, her body reacted. For the first time since arriving on this frigid island, Arcadia felt heat. Her ears burned as if boxed. The rest of her, however, went numb. She ducked around the tree and immediately stumbled on a root. He was behind her at once with warm, steadying hands bracketing her waist.

Pulling free, Arcadia wheeled about to face him. “What madness is this?”

As he stepped closer once more, the vines on his waistcoat seemed to snake and writhe across his chest. She was giddy, Arcadia realized, retreating until her back touched rough bark.

A determined gleam shone in his eyes. He shook his head once. “Not madness. It's perfect. Marry me.”

Pressing a hand to her temple, Arcadia tried to clear her head. How had her plea for assistance in finding Poorvaja turned into … whatever this was. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because I wish to engage you in a contract of matrimony.
Marry me
are words we English typically associate with the concept.”

“I know that!” she snapped, annoyance blowing the cobwebs out of her skull better than a brisk cup of tea. “What I don't understand is why you would ask me. Is this a poor demonstration of British humor?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, affecting a wounded expression. “On the contrary, I am entirely sincere. My family requires that I marry, as yours does you. Our union is the solution to both of our problems. Straightforward enough.”

Somewhere in the last two minutes, the man had taken leave of his senses. It was the only explanation.

“There's nothing straightforward about it. We're strangers! What a rash idea.”

Witnesses. She needed witnesses. The last time she'd been caught alone with a man in a London park, she had been accosted and robbed of her most valued belonging, and here she was, once more at the mercy of a lunatic. Fresh air seemed to have a deleterious effect on the British male sensibility. Arcadia eased to the side, planning to make a break for the promenade.

She managed half a step towards freedom before Lord Sheridan's arms shot out, caging her in. Her palms braced against his chest, and she shoved. She might as well have been trying to push the tree out of her path, for all he gave way.

“Let me by,” she demanded tartly. “I'm not marrying you, nor anyone else. I don't want to marry at all.”

Grinning wide, he clapped her on the shoulder. “Neither do I!” his mouth said, but his expression and tone suggested,
Yes! Now you have it,
as if Arcadia had finally grasped some arcane mathematical concept.

Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, Arcadia moaned. Then she lifted her head and met his infuriatingly amused expression. “My lord, please return me to my uncle's house. Clearly, asking you for help was a mistake. You've proved your point. I'm sorry for wasting your time.”

Lord Sheridan took her elbow and guided her back to the path, but instead of heading back towards the carriage, he continued down The Mall. She dug her heels into the gravel, resisting. There were other people here, the witnesses she'd wanted. Two gentlemen rode horses at a sedate walk a short distance away. There was a harried maid herding four children, and even an officer in his scarlet coat strolling with a lady. Arcadia drew a breath, preparing to scream.