Duty Before Desire (20 page)

Despite all, she exuded a calm, determined air. She'd been knocked down by life, and quite literally by the brute who had beaten her, but Poorvaja wouldn't stay down for long. He admired her strength.

It occurred to Sheri that this Indian ayah was the closest he'd ever have to a mother-in-law. The realization made him smile. He'd proudly claim her as such, too. Wouldn't that just stick in his mother's craw? The thought of the dowager marchioness having to share the “parents of the couple” role with a wet nurse-governess-companion was absolutely delightful. He chuckled to himself, picturing the head table at the wedding breakfast and the splash such a scene would cause.

Poorvaja slanted a questioning look at him.

He waved his hand. “Don't mind me. A little too much whiskey, is all. Gives me the giggles. If you won't take your medicine, would you at least tell me, please, who caused your injuries?”

The sudden shift in conversation caught Poorvaja off guard. Her hand went to her face. “I don't want Jalanili to know.”

“I'm afraid she already knows. She saw you, remember?”

“No, I mean …” She ducked her head, her hands twisting in the bed linen. “I don't want her to know what happened.”

Sheri went still inside. “I vow, Miss Poorvaja, that whatever you confide here will not find its way to Arcadia by my lips. If you choose to tell her at a later time, that's your decision to make.” But if he heard a name, or any useful information, Sheri would hunt down the swine who caused Poorvaja harm and visit the same hurts upon that bastard tenfold.

“Well,” she began, gingerly at first. “Jalanili's uncle, Lord Delafield, told me I had to leave, that his wife takes care of staff decisions, but she couldn't stand to look at me.” Poorvaja's eyes flashed at the memory; her voice grew stronger. “The first night I tried to spend near the house, but a man with a stick said I was disturbing the respectable people.” A watchman, Sheri surmised. “When I would not go, he chased after me, so …” She pressed her fingers above her brow. Sheri passed a glass of water to her. “Thank you,” she said, after a long sip. “That first night, I walked, not knowing where to go. By the time the sun came up, I thought to myself to work as an ayah again until I found a way to get to Jalanili. But what to do?” she asked, shrugging. “Go door to door, hoping someone would take me in? By nighttime again, I was hungry, but more thirsty. I had only two small coins in my pocket, so I went to a place with drink. I asked for water, but the man there laughed and gave me beer. I was so thirsty, I drank it very fast. It went right to my head,” she added with a rueful smile.

“Happens to us all,” Sheri assured her.

“Not to Jalanili,” Poorvaja stoutly declared.

“Excepting that paragon, naturally,” he teased in return.

“After that, I walked some more, until I saw a large building, all lit up, with many fine carriages coming and going. Lots of
sahibs
and
memsahibs
in one place! A good place to find work, with so many people to approach in a short time, yes?”

Sheri frowned. “What was the building?” he asked, trying to place Poorvaja's location during this portion of her narration.

“A theater, I believe,” she answered. “Someone said the play would be ending soon.”

Drury Lane, then.

“There were other women standing near the building, too. I went to one and asked what she was doing, and she said she was working.”

Sheri felt himself blanch, knowing all too well what sorts of women worked Drury Lane after dark. “Oh no.”

“So I said, ‘Me, as well,' and waited beside her. The woman said I couldn't stand in her spot. I explained that it was important for me to find work, but she only grew angrier. Not a good temper, I thought, to display before young children.”

Sheri snorted. “She wasn't looking for work around children. I'm afraid you encountered some Drury Lane vestals—ladies of the night,” he clarified at her baffled expression.

“Whores, you mean?”

He nodded.

She laughed once, dry and humorless. “There were no prostitutes on Jalanili's little station, and the only two in the nearby village were sisters who kept their own house, so it took me a little time to realize the sort of work that woman and the others were looking for, but I did figure it out. Unfortunately, it was after she hit me.”

His eyes widened. “A
woman
did this to you?”

“Three of them,” she said, ticking her chin up. “Two of her friends came to help when they heard her screaming.”

A chill passed down Sheri's spine at her cold, satisfied smile. If he'd previously found Poorvaja a bit intimidating, his opinion had just shifted to
mildly terrifying
. He'd do well never to land on her bad side.

Surreptitiously wiping sweaty palms against his trousers, he asked, “How did you make it back to Delafield House today?”

She blinked. “I walked,” she said, as if it should have been obvious.

Badly injured and half-starving as she'd been, though, Sheri wouldn't have thought any less of Poorvaja if she'd just curled up in a gutter somewhere and quietly expired. That she'd had the fortitude to find her way back to Arcadia after her harrowing few days was further testament to her indomitable nature.

Sheri could think of no person more deserving of his help. What better way to reward her loyalty and perseverance in the face of such adversity than to make possible the voyage home she and Arcadia both desired?

Should everything go as he planned, he would soon marry Poorvaja's charge and then have the authority and ability to make good on his intentions.

“Well, I see why you wouldn't want Arcadia knowing you'd scrapped with a bunch of street cats, so your secret is safe with me, but it's a demmed good tale. You made a fine showing,” he said, chucking her on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

Poorvaja grinned, seeming inordinately pleased with herself. Bloodthirsty wench.

“We both need to rest up,” Sheri said, rising to leave. “You, to regain your health, and me, to regain my sobriety. Tomorrow morning, I've a bride to claim.”

In Lady Delafield's parlor, four days after accepting Lord Sheridan's proposal, Arcadia sat upon a tufted ottoman across the room from her aunt, her stomach all in knots as they awaited the arrival of their much-anticipated guest. A neatly displayed selection of savory tartlets and flaky scones on the sideboard attested to the expectation of many visitors, although only the Marchioness of Lothgard was scheduled to call. A pot of pekoe steamed merrily beside the sugar bowl and cream pitcher. For the past several days, Arcadia had been nibbling on everything in sight in a futile attempt to settle her nerves and alleviate the boredom of confinement in her room. An appealing aroma wafted over from the tray of tartlets, onions, and—Arcadia sniffed—was that thyme? Her stomach gave an audible grumble.

“Do not forget what I told you,” Lady Delafield instructed loudly over the impolite sounds of Arcadia's anxious appetite. “Curtsy, and keep your eyes down, sensible of the great honor it is to meet Lady Lothgard. But do not appear cowed. You must give the impression that you will do credit to the marquess's family.

Lady Delafield glanced up from her embroidery hoop and regarded her niece over the rims of her pince-nez. Today, Arcadia's aunt wore a dress featuring long sleeves and a high collar trimmed with lace, as well as a white cap festooned with more frothy lace. The ensemble looked enviously warm compared to Arcadia's cap-sleeved dress of sprig muslin, which Lady Delafield said emphasized her youthfulness. At least her ladyship had not objected to Arcadia's shawl.

“If I ought not be cowed,” Arcadia mused, “is there a farm beast I should emulate? A goose, perhaps?” Goodness, but those scones looked good. The golden tops, brushed with butter, gleamed dully. And a dish of clotted cream beside them, too. Her mouth watered.

Her ladyship
harrumphed
. “Impudent girl! Lady Lothgard will expect better manners than that in Lord Sheridan's wife. Already, your name is connected to some rather unfortunate business. If your besmirched reputation convinces the marchioness you are not a suitable
parti
, you might find yourself married to a baker, missy. You cannot rely upon poor Reverend Fisk to renew his interest now that your uncle has had to tell him you are not eligible for his consideration, after all.”

Oh, bother Reverend Fisk.
To the best of Arcadia's knowledge, there had been no interest expressed by her unknown cousin, anyway, only her Delafield relations trying to foist her off on the vicar. And Lady Delafield likely would have cheerfully pushed the fellow off a cliff to clear the way for the more advantageous match.

Three mornings ago, Lord Sheridan had made good on his promises. The day after whisking Poorvaja away, he'd arrived at Delafield House just as the clock chimed eleven. Anxious to know how her ayah fared, Arcadia had run to the window each time she heard a carriage or horse in the street, and so she'd caught a glimpse of him from the landing above the entrance hall just as the butler admitted him.

Stepping into a shaft of sunlight cast through the transom, he'd paused to remove his hat and gloves. Even she, who knew nothing of English men's fashion, could see he'd taken greater care with his appearance than his usual, impeccable toilette. His gray-blue frock coat fit him like a second skin, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and skimming his sides as they tapered to lean hips, while cutting away in the front to reveal a gray silk waistcoat, free of any adornment save his silver fob. In the sunshine, his cravat was almost blindingly white; an iridescent black pearl nestled in the center of the crisp, precise knot. Charcoal trousers clung to his muscled thighs before disappearing into black top boots that gleamed like the pearl at his throat.

The sight of his splendid male beauty hit Arcadia in the solar plexus. The air rushed from her lungs in a soft
whoosh
. His eyes cut to where she stood, and her heart seized. It wasn't just his ensemble that was perfection. Lord Sheridan's sensual lips held a firm line; his eyes glinted with supreme confidence. The very air around him crackled. Arcadia felt drawn to him like air helpless to resist the pull of a raging inferno. He gave her a nod, the gesture filled with determination.
All will be well
, he seemed to say.

A short time later, Lord Delafield had called both Arcadia and her aunt to his study. Arcadia tried to look surprised when Lord Delafield announced that Lord Sheridan Zouche had done her the very great compliment of requesting her hand in marriage.

Lady Delafield shrieked, then burst into tears. “He's a rogue!” she wailed. “But such a connection. Oh, husband, what's to be done?” Lord Delafield opened his mouth, but his wife seemed to have finished wrestling with the matter. “You're right; of course she must accept.” Her ladyship issued thanks to heaven, immediately after which she commenced hyperventilating, necessitating the summoning of her maid with her vinaigrette. There didn't seem to be much reaction left for Arcadia herself to express, and so she remained quiet.

Lord Delafield tried to stem his wife's mounting enthusiasm, warning that there were “one or two peculiarities” attached to Lord Sheridan's proposal, but her ladyship would hear nothing to diminish her jubilation.

When Lord Sheridan returned to the study to formally propose, Lady Delafield refused to quit the room, taking it as her due that she witness Arcadia's moment of triumph, which was, she proclaimed, every bit hers, as well. Arcadia felt her aunt's eyes, feverish with ecstasy, on her as Lord Sheridan took her hand and dropped to bended knee. She'd scarcely heard his pretty little speech, so embarrassing did she find the entire scene.

There was one small moment that felt entirely her own, when she must have missed her cue to reply. Lord Sheridan gave her hand a private squeeze. Arcadia met his gaze, warm with knowing humor, and felt herself overcome with wonder. How could this be real? How could this gorgeous man be meant for her? He wasn't, not really, but—oh, just for this instant, she could pretend it was all real, that he truly did want to marry her, and she actually was the happiest woman on earth. And so she'd answered yes, her voice thick, and his grin split her heart right in two. He stood then, his eyes never leaving hers, the awareness between them quickening. She craved a kiss, like the one they'd shared in the park to seal their bargain. His eyes dropped to her lips, and her eyes went to his. Her toes curled.

Then Aunt Delafield broke into applause, shattering the spell. Lord Sheridan pecked Arcadia's cheek then turned so they could accept congratulations from her aunt and uncle.

The only intelligence she had of Poorvaja came just after Lord Sheridan's proposal, when Lady Delafield had been occupied recovering from her nerves, and her uncle had gone to fetch a bottle of champagne. In those stolen seconds, Arcadia whispered an inquiry after her friend. Lord Sheridan had assured her that Poorvaja was in good hands at Lothgard House.

That afternoon, upon learning that Poorvaja's return was a condition of the betrothal, Lady Delafield had turned on her niece with an accusing finger. “Conspirator!” She threatened to call the betrothal off, but neighbors, having caught wind of the gossip ignited by their kiss in the park, began arriving to offer felicitations. It was too late to end the engagement without losing face. Instead, Lady Delafield once more confined the bride-to-be to her room. Poorvaja had not yet returned, and Arcadia had heard nothing more about her friend's recovery.

Now freed from her room for the first time since that day, Arcadia would not risk her precarious liberty by asking Lady Lothgard about Poorvaja's health. “Forgive me, Aunt, I don't mean to be disrespectful. Things are so very different here, even some of the words you use are unfamiliar.”