Duty Before Desire (21 page)

Quiet blanketed the room, interrupted only by the gentle sound of the embroidery floss as it was drawn through the fabric. Arcadia had nothing to keep her own hands occupied, and the refreshments only tortured her empty stomach, so she stared wistfully instead at the
trompe l'oeil
chimney board painted with—of all things—a fire. It was cruel, she thought, to tease a cold person with a fire that offered no heat.

“Why must I sit all the way over here, my lady?” she asked a few minutes later, shifting on her stool. A plush chair neighbored her perch, but Aunt Delafield had insisted the low ottoman made Arcadia seem daintier than she was, a neat little feat of visual trickery akin to the chimneypiece's empty promise of warmth.

“Evenly distributing ourselves will soothe her ladyship's nerves. We would not wish to crowd her and seem grasping or vulgar.”

Arcadia glanced around the empty sitting area. “Yes, I see what you mean. This is certainly preferable to being all in a heap.”

Her aunt's eyes narrowed on her.

Arcadia smiled innocently.

Just then, the butler entered and presented a salver bearing the coveted calling card. Lady Delafield jumped to her feet. “Up, girl, up!” she yelped. She took her niece's hand and towed her into the center of the room. Then she dithered with the embroidery hoop in her other hand, dancing in a little circle before stuffing it behind a decorative pillow on the sofa.

The butler appeared in the doorway again and cleared his throat. “The Marchioness and Marquess of Lothgard,” he pronounced grandly, stepping aside to bow in a couple, rather than the expected lone lady.

Arcadia only caught a glimpse of the august personages before she followed her aunt's lead and sank into a deep curtsy. When she rose, she saw a tall man with dark hair and eyes. He was good-looking, she supposed, in a regular sort of way. Similar to Lord Sheridan in coloring, the marquess was not as aggressively handsome as his younger brother. The lines about his eyes and silver wings in his hair helped her estimate his age at about forty. At his side, the marchioness was golden and small. Her figure was soft and maternal, an impression carried out by the kind smile she trained on Arcadia.

“My lord, my lady,” Lady Delafield gasped, her eyes wide with awe, “how good of you to come. What an honor it is to have
both
of you in our home.”

“Madam,” the marquess said with a nod, drawing his wife further into the room. “Thank you for receiving me. You were expecting only my wife, and I pray you'll forgive my impertinence in coming unannounced.”

As they cleared the door, another couple was revealed behind Lord and Lady Lothgard. The surprising sight of Lord Sheridan's teasing smile struck a blow to Arcadia's heart, but the woman beside him sent it spinning crazily in her chest.

“Poorvaja!” she cried, rushing forward to embrace her friend, forgetting her duty to greet the, ostensibly, more important guests.

At her rain of kisses and murmured concern, Poorvaja laughed and waved her back. “I'm well, Jalanili, I'm well.” The ayah squeezed Arcadia's upper arms. “How are
you
?” She studied the younger woman's face just as Arcadia was drinking in the details of Poorvaja's fading bruises. “Getting fat, I see,” she stated bluntly. “Has she locked you up again?” Poorvaja's chin ticked towards the center of the room.

Lord Sheridan, who had been smiling fondly at the reunion between the two friends, now turned his attention to his hostess.

Lady Delafield gaped at Poorvaja. “What do you think you're—” Her eyes cut to the noble persons watching the scene and modulated her tone. “The servant's entrance is around the side of the house, you know,” she said to Poorvaja, as though scolding a naughty puppy. “Next time, be sure to use the correct door, please.”

“Miss Poorvaja has been an honored guest in our home these past days.” Lord Lothgard's mild tone was belied by the steely set of his posture.

“Though the circumstance of our meeting was most unfortunate,” chimed in the little marchioness, “I am delighted to have made Miss Poorvaja's acquaintance, and am proud to call her a friend.” Her cheeks were pale, like a china doll that had yet to have the blush painted on, and the round eyes she turned to Arcadia furthered the impression of a delicate nature.

“Deborah,” Lord Sheridan said, taking Arcadia's hand and guiding her to his family, “Lothgard, please allow me the great pleasure of introducing you to Miss Parks, lately of … Where was it, my dear?”

“Hyderabad,” Arcadia supplied.

“Hyderabad, India,” Lord Sheridan concluded. “Arcadia, this stuffy bloke is my brother, the Marquess of Something-or-other, and his wife, the marchioness, who is entirely too good for him.”

Casting a rueful smile at his brother, Lothgard bowed. “Enchanted, Miss Parks. By what miracle my scoundrel of a brother has convinced you to marry him I shall never know.”

“Oh, Elijah, stop your teasing,” the marchioness gently chided. “You mustn't mind their squabbling, Miss Parks. Our family isn't as uncouth as these two would make us out to be.”

“Worse, I fear,” Lord Lothgard drawled. “She hasn't met the twins.”

Arcadia took the marchioness's proffered hands. “Not at all, my lady.” Drawing a breath, she uttered the few words she'd prepared for this meeting. “I'm delighted to meet you, Lady Lothgard. I have not made many friends here yet, and I hope that I shall prove myself worthy to be yours.” Glancing at Poorvaja, who gave her a nod, she added, “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for taking such good care of Poorvaja. I'd hoped to hear from you word of her progress, but you have exceeded my dreams by actually bringing her here today, healthy and strong once more. How can I repay your kindness?”

“Oh, isn't she the dearest thing in the world?” Lady Lothgard beamed like Arcadia was the Second Coming. “It was our pleasure, my dear, I assure you. Of course you and I shall be good friends. You must think nothing of any sort of debt—we are to be family now, after all. But Sheridan”—she turned to the younger man—“why have you left Miss Parks in such suspense all this time?”

“It was not my intention to do so, Deborah. Each day, I attempted to call upon Miss Parks to tell her how her friend fared. Each day, my call was rebuffed.” He allowed a pregnant pause to fill the room. “The footman said you weren't at home, Arcadia. But Miss Poorvaja has implied that might not have been the case.”

All eyes turned to Lady Delafield. The woman's trembling set her many lace ruffles to quivering like autumn leaves in the breeze. Her face blanched, then flushed. She swayed on her feet. Arcadia feared the woman would shortly faint in self-defense.

“The footman was not mistaken,” Arcadia blurted. “I wasn't home. My lady aunt has taken me shopping every day this week in preparation for our wedding.”

Lord Lothgard's shoulders eased, and Lady Lothgard's sweet smile returned. But Lord Sheridan was not fooled, Arcadia saw. His brow arched as he leveled a speaking glance on her, but he said no more. Poorvaja snorted, muttering a Hindustani oath beneath her breath before strolling to the sideboard and helping herself to tea.

As though freed from a daze, Lady Delafield blinked. “Tea!” she chirped. “Fine idea. Please, everyone be seated. Poorvaja, help me serve our guests.”

While her aunt fluttered about, Lord Sheridan took Arcadia's elbow. After several days apart, seeing him again was a shock to her system. Tingles danced over her scalp as he bent his head to her ear. “Did she lock you up? Is it true?”

Arcadia licked her lips. “It's good to see you again, my lord. Thank you for everything you've done.”

Lord Sheridan's jaw tightened. “Tell me, woman.”

She nodded.

He cursed and pulled a hand down the lower half of his face. “Where is your uncle? Did he know? He will answer for this—”

“Please don't,” Arcadia whispered, acutely aware that the company was watching them. “It's over now. I just sat in my room and ate and read and meditated. It wasn't so bad, really. The worst part was not knowing about Poorvaja, but she's here now and …” His eyes searched her face. Arcadia swallowed. “Please.”

Mouth drawn, he looked away. A muscle in his jaw flexed. Unconsciously, it seemed, his hand went to his waist. Briefly, he touched the fob, which she now knew contained the portrait of his deceased sister, Grace. Then he pulled out his quizzing glass and held it to his eye.

“Madam,” he called to Arcadia's aunt, “I must put you in touch with my manservant, French. He's set about finding Miss Parks and I a new abode to call our own. No doubt your recent shopping excursions have formed the seed of my bride's
trousseau
, but French will let you know what linens and furnishings my wife will require for her marital home. I know you will want to give your niece the best.” His chilly voice brooked no argument. “The very finest money can buy.”

Lady Delafield's mouth popped open. “Well … naturally, my lord,” she said, passing a cup of tea to the marchioness. “Her dowry will amply afford all the necessary accouterments for your new establishment.”

He clucked his tongue. “
Not
her dowry.” His smile could have turned hot tea to ice. “After all, my lady, it wouldn't be a wedding gift if she pays for it from her own dowry, now would it?”

“Bu … bu …” Lady Delafield stammered.

Oh, she could kiss him. Arcadia might not have wanted her aunt's petty cruelties revealed before Lord and Lady Lothgard, but in her deepest heart, she took satisfaction in Lord Sheridan's neat
riposte
.

The marchioness staged an intervention for the sputtering hostess. “On the topic of the wedding, might we discuss the ball? Lady Delafield, my husband and I would like to use our upcoming annual ball as the occasion for an official betrothal announcement. Of course, I'd welcome any additions you might wish to make to the guest list …”

While Lady Delafield recovered herself, Lord Sheridan and Poorvaja exchanged a silent communication. The ayah took a seat, perching herself beside Lady Lothgard.

“Miss Poorvaja,” Lord Sheridan said, speaking over his sister-in-law, “I see you've some tea, but no refreshments as yet. What do you have on offer there, Lady Delafield?”

The older woman straightened and glanced over her shoulder at the buffet. “Cook has provided scones, biscuits, tartlets—”

“A little of everything for Miss Poorvaja, if you'd be so good, my lady.” He guided Arcadia to a chair, settled her into it, and kissed her hand. “And for Miss Parks, too.”

For a moment, Arcadia was sure her aunt would refuse. Her nose pinched and eyes flashed defiance. But then, astonishingly, Lady Delafield bent her stiff neck and set to filling two plates with delicacies.

Arcadia quailed, wondering what her aunt would do in retribution for Lord Sheridan humiliating her before Lord and Lady Lothgard. But he put his hand on her shoulder, and she knew he was still there, standing behind her. And he'd served a warning to her aunt.

For now, Arcadia was safe. The heat of his hand cupped around her arm spread, infiltrating her heart, and she wondered whether that vulnerable organ could possibly remain unharmed.

When Sheri arrived at Delafield House the following day, it was with a much different mindset than he'd had just the day prior, a call he'd approached with the grim determination of a general rallying the troops to battle. Having to beg Lothgard to attend what was supposed to be a ladies' tea had been an excruciating exercise in the art of groveling, but his inability to see Arcadia for three days had been alarming, given the circumstances. Already, he knew the Delafields capable of turning a woman out into the streets; what might they do to their niece?

Learning that Arcadia had been punished, sent to her room like a recalcitrant child, made Sheri want to punch a wall. Witnessing Arcadia, whom he well knew to be impertinent and a bit saucy, shrink into herself and even lie to protect her detestable aunt was an outrage. His engagement to Arcadia Parks might be a farce, but that didn't mean he would allow her to be mistreated, either.

His impulse had been to throw Lady Delafield into a closet, lock the door, and throw away the key. See how the harridan liked a bit of her own treatment. Then he'd run Delafield to ground and make him answer for the sins that had been committed against the women in his household. Mostly, he wanted to spirit Arcadia away to safety as he had Poorvaja.

Over the course of their visit, Sheri had beheld aspects of Arcadia he'd not yet seen. There'd been a vulnerable sweetness there; her voice had trembled when she thanked Deborah for the care Poorvaja had received. And her eyes had been filled with hope when she'd asked Deborah to be her friend, as though she desperately wanted it to be true, and he'd silently seconded his sister-in-law's claim that Miss Parks was the dearest thing in the world—at least in that moment. He had no doubt she could turn biting on him again in an instant.

But wasn't that kind of unpredictability exactly what he enjoyed in a woman?

Lord and Lady Delafield were nowhere to be seen when Sheri was shown into the now-familiar parlor. In short order, Arcadia and Poorvaja made their appearance. He helped them into his coach.

“Where are you taking us?” Poorvaja demanded hotly as the coach started forward.

He regarded her with amusement. Sheri might have come to her rescue in her hour of need and persuaded her to share confidences with him, but Poorvaja's instinct to protect Arcadia rested for no man, not even erstwhile heroes. “I'm abducting you to my lair of villainy,” he drawled in reply.

The ayah leveled a gaze on him. He met it. Held it. At last the woman lowered her eyes and muttered something in an unfamiliar language.

Arcadia made a sound in her throat and replied in the same Indian dialect. If Arcadia Parks's English sounded like she was about to sing, this was her voice in full melody. He had no idea what the woman said as she directed what sounded like a heated few sentences at her ayah; he just let the music of her voice wash over him like the loveliest aria ever composed. Sheridan could very happily wallow in her voice for hours.