Duty Before Desire (17 page)

“I shall take supper in my room,” she said at last.

Her aunt gave no reply. She didn't seem to be breathing.

Turning sharply, Arcadia darted up the stairs to her room and closed the door behind her. Throwing herself into a chair, she buried her face in her arms and finally permitted the overwhelming emotions of the day to pour forth in hot tears. Even as sobs shook her shoulders, she forced herself to remain quiet, lest her relatives overhear and take exception at her outburst.

After a time, she straightened and scrubbed her knuckles across her eyes. At the wash stand, she poured water into the basin and splashed some onto her face, then pressed a square of flannel to her heated cheeks.

Arcadia scarcely knew what to make of herself anymore. Lady Delafield had needled her from the beginning, but it wasn't like Arcadia to be deliberately cruel. Her aunt obviously worshiped the memory of her older sister; divulging the unkind things Lucretia had once said about her had been needlessly vicious.

It had been the same with Lord Sheridan in the beginning, too, she reflected. His arrogance and sharp wit had goaded her into saying and doing all sorts of regrettable things. Now she knew he wasn't quite as callous as he'd first appeared, but his charm had an almost worse effect on her than his cool disdain. Just this evening, she'd gone and agreed to marry the man, despite promising herself she wouldn't marry any Englishman. His scheme to release her so she could return to India had appealed to her sense of reason, but she couldn't deny that she responded to him as a man, too. The feeling of his strong arms around her waist and his hard chest pressed to her own had been just as compelling in swaying her decision as his promise of freedom.

She was surprised when a housemaid delivered a supper tray; she'd half-expected Lady Delafield to withhold food from her in punishment for their exchange downstairs. Worry for Poorvaja had regained supremacy in the noxious, emotional stew simmering in her gut, and she had little appetite for the portion of lamb and new potatoes on her plate. After forcing down a few bites, Arcadia set the tray in the corridor, then prepared herself for bed.

Desperate to find some sense of peace, she sank to her knees in the center of her rug.
Please let Lord Sheridan take good care of Poorvaja.
She trusted him to keep his word; she did. And yet, she couldn't help but think she herself could do the job better. It was natural, she supposed. She loved Poorvaja, while Lord Sheridan did not. To Arcadia, the Indian woman was her entire family. To Lord Sheridan, she was a chip in their matrimonial bargain.

“All will be well,” she murmured, rearranging herself into a cross-legged sitting position. “All manner of things will be well.”

Closing her eyes, Arcadia drew and released a deep breath, training her attention on the sensation of respiration. Behind her lids, nebulous blues and purples and greens floated across a sea of black. A faintly luminous corona formed in the center, concentric rings of color and darkness.

This. Yes.
For a few blissful moments, Arcadia was free. Her worries and fears were still there, and the side of her nose itched. But for the briefest time, none of those sensations mastered her. She dwelt alongside them in peace, observing them from a distance as one might a stranger passing on the road. There was only Arcadia, her breath, and the wide universe inside herself.

The woman's head lolled as the curricle rolled swiftly through the darkening streets of Mayfair. “Jalanili,” she murmured. Fishing under the bench, Sheri pulled out a flask and offered it, unsure whether she was actually conscious. “Try a nip? It's Madeira. My friend imports it from America.”

One black eye cracked open and rolled in his direction. He jiggled the silver container, sloshing the liquid. “The legality of obtaining the stuff is a little dubious, so I must swear you to secrecy, all right?” Poorvaja made no reply, nor any move towards the drink. Stopped at an intersection, he popped the lid and took a swig. “
Mmm,
” he hummed in exaggerated appreciation as he held it to her lips, as if trying to cajole an infant into eating mashed peas. “Comes from Charleston. Ever heard of the place?”

She turned her head, giving him another view of her bruised jaw. Someone had struck her. A flame of anger stoked in his belly.

“Who did that, Miss Poorvaja?” he asked, determined to hunt down the offending coward and give him a taste of his own sauce. “Who hurt you?”

She shrank into the blanket, her silence tinged with an undercurrent of fear.

Right. Not the time for questions. He wedged the flask beneath his thigh before guiding the horses through a break in the traffic. A moment later, Poorvaja's eyes were once more closed. She slumped heavily against his shoulder and pitched forward when he struck a rut in the road, forcing him to grab the neck of her dress to steady her.

“No, you don't,” he said, pulling the senseless woman back. “Your Miss Parks will have my head on a platter if anything happens to you.” He drove the rest of the way to Lothgard House one-handed, his other arm anchoring Poorvaja to his side.

At his brother's house, the butler, Giles, raised an imperious brow when he opened the door. “I'm sorry, Lord Sheridan, but you are not allowed entrance.” He sounded not the least sorry, the ornery old goat. The servant shut the door.

Jamming his foot in the doorway before it closed, Sheri shouldered his way past the sputtering servant. “Sorry myself, Giles, but I'll give you the satisfaction of slamming the door in my face another day.”

“My lord, I must insist that you leave,” the butler said dryly, unperturbed by Sheri's behavior. Giles had been in Eli's service since the time of the marquess's marriage and was well accustomed to the Zouche family scapegrace.

“Can't do that, Giles,” Sheri said, striding across the shining marble floor. “As you can see, I've a woman here who needs—”

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Poorvaja startled and thrashed in his arms. Instinctively, Sheri tightened his grip and hunched protectively over her, wheeling to locate the source of the clamor.

Giles was ringing the bronze alarum bell hanging from a heavy iron sconce near the door, alerting the house to an emergency—in this case, Sheri.

“Oh, for God's sake!” Sheri bellowed as footmen swarmed from every corner and crevice to answer the call.

“Intruder!” Giles pointed at Sheri. Quickly, he snapped off orders, instructing two footmen to hold Sheri and dispatching another to locate his lordship. There was a decided note of glee in the butler's tone. This was probably the most fun he'd had in years.

“Giles,” Sheri heard his older brother call from the top of the stairs. “Is it a fire? Do we need to evacuate?” The marquess trotted into view, half-dressed for the evening, an intricately embroidered waistcoat fitted atop a shirt still open at the collar and cuffs. “Is it—Christ Almighty!” he exclaimed, pulling to a halt.

Sheri raised his brows. “An honest mistake, but nay, brother, it's only me.”

“You aren't permitted here,” the marquess snapped. “Giles,” he rounded on the butler, jabbing his thick index finger into the opposite palm, “I gave you explicit instructions—”

“Oh, save it for a rainy day, Eli,” Sheri groaned. “Giles did nothing wrong. And call off the hounds, would you?” He shot a withering glare at the footman on his left side, whose hand hovered as if to snatch Sheri's arm. “I come on an errand of mercy.” He hoisted Poorvaja in explanation. The carriage blanket bundled around her torso effectively bound her arms, but her feet kicked wildly, solidly connecting with the rib cage of the hovering footman. “Good shot, Miss Poorvaja,” Sheri commended in a low voice, “but please still yourself.” The effort of holding onto her was beginning to make Sheri's back complain. “If you'd just direct me to an unoccupied room,” he said to the marquess, “I'd be much obliged.”

Lothgard's lip curled in a sneer of distaste. “Have you taken all leave of your senses? How dare you bring one of your doxies into my wife's home!”

“She isn't a—”

“Elijah?” Deborah slowly descended the stairs, her hand tightly gripping the mahogany bannister. She, too, was partly dressed for the evening. Her golden hair had been prettily arranged in a cascade of shining curls sprinkled with diamond hairpins that winked in the light, but she wore only a silk wrapper. “Sheridan? Who is that?” A shadow of concern crossed her face as she nodded toward Poorvaja.

“My fiancée's ayah,” Sheri blurted before his brother could supply his own, mistaken interpretation.

“Your what?” Eli said, at the same instant Deborah asked, “What happened to her?”

The lines around Deborah's mouth deepened as she crossed the foyer. At her beckoning gesture, Sheri leaned over, as if presenting a swaddled babe in arms, instead of a grown woman. Poorvaja shrank against Sheri, her dark eyes wide and fearful.

“Her face!” Deborah cried. “She's injured.”

“That's why I'm here,” Sheri said. “Long story, but Miss Poorvaja can't stay with Miss Parks at the moment. Please, may she stay here tonight? I want to call a surgeon for her.”

“Of course,” Deborah said immediately. “This way.”

The marchioness led Sheri upstairs to a guest chamber. Lothgard followed on Sheri's heels. “Miss Parks? Not the chit who paraded in front of White's in broad daylight?”

“That's the one,” Sheri answered.

The marquess made a choking sound. “You can't be serious! Her name's been splashed in the scandal sheets at least twice. Naturally, you've been tangled up in it all. But scandal is all anyone knows of her—she hasn't been presented; she's barely connected.” Lothgard hissed into Sheri's ear, “Have you compromised the girl? Is that what this is about?”

Pausing at the bedchamber door while Deborah, a footman, and a maid raced ahead to prepare the room, Sheri gave his brother a quelling look. “I would thank you not to speak so freely of my intended,” he said in a frosty tone. Although referring to any woman as his
intended
raised the hairs on the back of Sheri's neck, the chagrined expression on his brother's face almost made that unpleasantness worthwhile. Almost.

“Come in,” Deborah called.

Sheri carried Poorvaja into the chamber and gratefully deposited her onto the bed. He made a sound of warning when the woman flung off the carriage blanket and lurched upright. “I think not, madam,” he said, gently but firmly pushing her shoulders back to the mattress.

Poorvaja shook her head. “No, no. Jalanili. Please.”

“Miss Parks knows you're here,” Sheri assured her. “She asked me to have your injuries tended. You're safe now, upon my honor. And if you aren't well enough to go home tomorrow, then I shall bring Miss Parks to you.”

“Shall we send for my physician,” Deborah inquired, “or do you prefer someone else?”

Sheri'd never before been responsible for the well-being of anyone besides himself. The sense of responsibility he'd felt when he first took custody of Poorvaja grew heavier with every decision thrust upon him. Arcadia was depending on him to take the best possible care of her ayah, and Sheri didn't dare fail this first test of trust.

Raking his hands through his hair, he gripped the back of his head and blew out a breath. “I want Dewhurst.”

“That surgeon friend of yours?” Lothgard asked from where he hovered in the doorway. “I thought he'd married and relocated?”

“Just to Middlesex.” Elmwood, the small estate where Brandon now resided with his wife and her young brother, lay in the countryside not far outside of London.

“Still, it would be two hours before he could be here, at the earliest,” the marquess pointed out. “That's too long.”

Indeed, Poorvaja's eyes rolled, half-closed, while she whimpered.

Growling, Sheri took several restless strides and kicked the brick hearth. “Shit! Sorry, Deborah.”

Lothgard was right. Sheri trusted no one more than Brandon, but calling his friend wasn't a viable option.

“McGully, then,” he said, naming the master surgeon-anatomist with whom Brandon had lived and worked for years.

His brother nodded. “I'll see to it.”

Heaving a sigh, Sheri pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow and upper lip. This was but a small taste of what it must be like to have an entire family and household in one's care. If making decisions for one ayah was so agonizing, Sheri and Arcadia were doing the right thing in planning to go their separate ways. Both of them would live much nicer, simpler lives without the burden of the other.

A maid entered with a pitcher of water. Deborah poured some into a glass and sat on the edge of the bed. “Miss Poor … I'm sorry,” she glanced at Sheri.

“Poorvaja,” he supplied.

“Miss Poorvaja,” Deborah began again, “my name is Lady Lothgard. Would you care for some water?” She offered the glass. “Perhaps tea?”

The Indian woman gave no sign of comprehension. Her eyelids fluttered weakly, and she mumbled beneath her breath. Deborah touched her shoulder. Poorvaja flinched.

“Ye gods, how badly is she injured?” Sheri nibbled anxiously on his thumbnail, spoiling his manicure. Where the devil was that surgeon?

“Why don't you go wait for Mr. McGully to arrive?”

He shrugged off Deborah's suggestion. “Lothgard can meet him.”

“Sheridan.” The little marchioness gave him a long look, her brow furrowed and lips pursed. “You're in the way,” she finally said.

It was the closest thing to a harsh remark the woman had ever uttered at him.

Jamming his hands into his pockets, he strode out of the room and made his way to his brother's study. The marquess was seated behind his large desk, nursing a tumbler of whiskey. When Sheri entered, Lothgard gestured to another drink, already poured.