Duty Before Desire (24 page)

She brought her hands to his shoulders and rose to her toes, reveling in the sweet invasion of his body into hers. His fingers clutched tight at her back, while the hand at her bottom kneaded and squeezed. His hand moved between her legs from behind, probing through her clothes at her sex.

“Oh!” Arcadia gasped at the rush of sensation. His mouth found her throat, trailing fire along her neck while his heavy thigh parted her knees and found the juncture between her thighs. Arcadia clutched his shoulders, his neck, anywhere she could find purchase. His hands came to her waist, and he guided her hips back and forth, building the most exquisite pressure in her intimate flesh.

His own hips canted in rhythm with hers, the hard ridge of his flesh trapped between their bellies, undeniable and rude, while he ground against her through her skirts. One hand came to her breast, the pad of his thumb teasing her nipple to aching.

Not ten feet away, the alley opened onto the street, from which any passerby might get an eyeful of what they were doing. Sheri was angled to shield her from view, but that wouldn't be enough to stop a determined voyeur. Swamped by the overwhelming rush of pleasure and conflicting sense of shame, a sob rose in Arcadia's throat. She gripped his neck and brought his mouth back to hers, trying in her inexpert way to return to their tamer kisses of earlier.

His grip on her hips loosened. One hand rubbed soothingly along her flank. “Peahen?”

“Please,” she whispered, her hands trembling and eyes closed against humiliation. “Please don't.”

Sheri's forehead dropped to the crook of her neck. She was surprised to discover his breathing was as ragged as hers.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course.” Kissing her temple, he withdrew his leg from between hers. “Don't cry, Arcadia,” he murmured. “It's my fault. I'm a rank bastard.” His eyes scanned her face, his heavy brows creased in concern. “You just wanted a kiss, didn't you, peahen? I should have realized. Forgot you were a virgin, forgot myself—” Abruptly, he turned his back. His shoulders expanded, rose and fell as he took several breaths.

Arcadia used the moment to set herself to rights, fluffing out her skirts and smoothing a hand over her waist.

“I'm sorry, Arcadia,” he said over his shoulder, his voice barren of its usual warmth. “I shouldn't have taken such liberties.” Avoiding her gaze, he took her arm and guided her out of the alleyway, back onto the street.

She wanted to reach out to him, to tell him she wasn't upset by what he'd done—by what
they'd
done. Until she thought of the possibility of being discovered, she'd very much enjoyed what he'd made her body feel. She still felt restless and unsatisfied and wished there were some private place where he could give her more of those wonderful feelings.

“Sheri?” she ventured, pulling him to a stop.

But when he looked down at her, his eyes bleak, her courage withered and died.

“We should find Mrs. De Vere with all due haste,” he said. “There's nothing so desperately sad as a half-melted ice.”

There was a great deal involved, Arcadia soon learned, in preparing for a sham marriage. With a little less than a fortnight before the Lothgards' ball, at which she would be presented to Society and her betrothal to Sheri officially announced, attention quickly turned to making Arcadia a bride worthy of the Zouche family—or at least one who would not humiliate them.

That was how Lady Delafield framed the situation, in any event.

Lady Lothgard merely swooped in to take Arcadia shopping. “You can't know how delightful it is to have another lady in the family at last,” she said as her carriage bore them towards Bond Street. “I've only my husband and sons to outfit. What fun it shall be to consider the cut of a bodice rather than a frock coat.”

Today, her ladyship wore a gray and pink pinstriped muslin frock and a handsome bonnet with a low crown, the brim tilted back to frame her doll-like face. The marchioness's hand gripped the ivory handle of a cane.

“Does Lady Lothgard—that is, the Dowager Lady Lothgard—not accompany you on outings?” Arcadia asked.

She'd heard rumblings that Sheri's mother had recently alighted on Lothgard House, but Arcadia had yet to be introduced to her future mother-in-law. The meeting caused her no small degree of anxiety.

The carriage jostled on a rut. Lady Lothgard's eyes flinched shut; she sucked a quick breath.

“My lady?” Arcadia touched the other woman's knee.

Her entire body tense, the marchioness shook her head. She exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing by small increments. “There,” she said with a weary smile, the lines in her forehead deepening. “Forgive me, Miss Parks. I'm well. As well as I ever am. What did you ask? Oh, yes,” she said to herself, pressing a finger to her brow, “Lady Lothgard. My mother-in-law resides in Bath, so I do not often have the pleasure of her company.”

“She is in Town now, though?”

“Mmm.”

Shouldn't the dowager have called upon Arcadia? Or should Arcadia call upon her? She'd no idea how these things were handled. Her aunt was still barely speaking to Arcadia, and Poorvaja knew less than she.

She wished Sheri were here to ask, but she hadn't seen him since the day before yesterday, when he'd introduced her to Claudia De Vere. When he'd pulled her into a dark alley and darker pleasures.

Arcadia's eyes traced a paisley swirl on her shawl, and she felt lost. If only Lucretia Parks had thought to leave her daughter some instructions. Arcadia frowned. While she was making useless wishes, she might as well wish her mother hadn't died at all and was here to guide her through London Society, rather than buried in the churchyard of a tiny Anglican church in Hyderabad. A pang of missing her mother shot up Arcadia's throat, catching her breath.

“She always takes several days recuperating from the journey to Town,” the marchioness said. “I've scarcely seen her myself, and she's living in my house. On a related topic”—her smile warmed—“it occurs to me that you and I shall very soon have the same mother-in-law. That makes us sisters.”

“Sisters?” Arcadia echoed.

Lady Lothgard reached for her hand. “Please call me Deborah. And will you permit me the use of your Christian name?”

“I … I suppose, yes.”

“Excellent.”

Deborah inhaled, her quiet smile illuminating her from the inside out. Her happiness caused Arcadia no small agitation. When she and Sheri had agreed on their plan, she'd not thought of his family. Having no siblings of her own, it hadn't occurred to Arcadia that she was obtaining a brother and sister through her marriage. And nephews, too, although she'd yet to meet the infamous Crispin and Webb.

Now Arcadia had more family than she'd ever had—or shortly would, in any event—and while they rolled out the rug of welcome, she was planning to leave them all. It didn't seem right to allow the sweet noblewoman to call her a sister.

“Deborah …” Arcadia's voice faltered.

“Arcadia,” Deborah returned, giggling like a young girl. Cutting her eyes out the window, she gasped. “We're here!”

The carriage door flew open. “Surprise!” shouted Claudia De Vere, laughing at Arcadia's stunned expression.

“Missus … Claudia,” Arcadia stammered, clambering out, “what are you doing here?”

“Her ladyship invited me,” Claudia said, bending her swan-like neck to the marchioness. “As if the pleasure of seeing you again wasn't enticement enough, when Lady Lothgard said she was bringing you to Madame Doucet—”

“Who?”

“—I couldn't possibly say no.” Claudia looped her arm through Arcadia's and pointed out a black painted door. No signage suggested this was any sort of shop, and curtains drawn across the interior of the windows prevented her from glancing inside the brick-fronted building. “There's a waiting list for her services two years long. Why, just last month, I heard the Countess of Wagener burst into tears in the middle of the street because Madame refused to outfit Lady Wagener's daughter for the girl's debut ball—
next year
. No one gets in to see her on such short notice, unless, of course, one is at least a marchioness.
And
a Zouche.”

Leaning heavily on her cane, Deborah led the way to the mysterious black door. “You make Madame sound like a dragon, Mrs. De Vere!” she protested. “Madame Doucet is my modiste, Arcadia. She isn't a snob, merely overworked. I'm most fortunate to have found her when she was new to London. She outfitted me for my wedding, and I've been with her ever since.”

Despite Deborah's reassurances, Arcadia's knees knocked beneath her terrifically unfashionable skirts. The only dresses she owned were those she'd brought with her from India and the handful Lady Delafield had made ahead of her arrival—and those far too small.

Another facet of the scheme Arcadia had not considered was the impact marrying into a fashion-forward set would have on her wardrobe. When she returned to India, she would have no use for gowns commissioned for London ballrooms. And while her dowry could more than bear the expense of new garments, that money was meant to provide her primary support for the rest of her life. Unwise expenditures today could translate into lean times twenty years from now.

Still … it wouldn't hurt to look. One gown would not send her to the workhouse.

A shop girl opened the door and escorted the trio to a sumptuously appointed seating area where three glasses of champagne awaited them on a tray atop a gilt table. Deborah looked perfectly serene in the opulent surroundings, while Claudia craned her neck this way and that, drinking in every detail while she sipped her beverage.

Arcadia tried to relax. She took a mouthful of the wine and attempted to focus on the sensation of bubbles popping against her tongue and the insides of her cheeks. If she closed her eyes and really concentrated, she could even hear them fizzing against her teeth.

A velvet curtain swooshed aside. “
Bonjour!
”

Arcadia startled, sending champagne shooting up the back of her nose. Through watering eyes, she saw a dark-haired wisp of a woman swathed in black approach Deborah with outstretched hands. “
Ça-va, beauté?
” the woman asked, leaning down to place two Gallic kisses on either of Deborah's cheeks.

Averting her face, Arcadia coughed into her hand to clear her throat. She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the back of a finger. Feeling more composed, she turned back, only to find herself the focus of Madame Doucet's gimlet eye. Then the modiste trained her attention on Claudia, who shrank back in her seat.

Madame Doucet laughed once, then cocked her head at Deborah. “You say you bring me Chère's bride,
mais
…” Shoulders hunched to her ears, Madame spread her hands towards Arcadia and Claudia. Her eyes cut from one to the other. With a snort, she shook her head. “
Non. Pas possible.
” Then back to Deborah. “
Vraiment?
”

With a gesture, Deborah bid Arcadia rise. “Madame Doucet, this is Miss Parks, Lord Sheridan's bride. She is in need of a gown for her betrothal ball next week.”

The Frenchwoman bristled. “
Mais, marquise,
that is your birthday
fête
!”

Was it? Arcadia's stomach sank. “My lady, I didn't know,” she said in a rush. “I wouldn't dream of intruding—”

“And now it is to be a betrothal ball, as well,” Deborah said. “Even more reason to celebrate. What a happy occasion it shall be.” The golden-haired woman smiled serenely, but Arcadia noted a tightness around her eyes. Recalling the jolt in the carriage, she wondered how much pain the marchioness lived with every day.

Madame Doucet held her hands out to Deborah in supplication. “Already, I have created for you a gown of such
magnificence
, it will be impossible to outdo myself. No one will give her even a look, not with you already the queen of the night.” Crossing her arms, the modiste sniffed, as if to put a period on the matter.

Deborah's soft bosom rose and fell on a sigh. “I understand, madame. I suppose we've no choice but to go elsewhere. Perhaps Mrs. Fowler would be willing to take our custom.”

“Penny Fowler … pah,” the Frenchwoman grumbled. Her mouth twisted to the side. Dark eyes moved from Arcadia to Deborah and back again. Madame Doucet stepped closer to Arcadia, then closer yet, until the toes of her black shoes tapped against Arcadia's scuffed half boots. The modiste
lifted her patrician nose and leaned forward, one thin brow raised. Palms damp, Arcadia gripped her skirts but stood firm.

After a moment, Madame Doucet's intense expression softened. “Ah.” She smiled coyly. Stepping back, hands folded at her waist, she tilted her head, this time her gaze studying Arcadia from head to toes. “
Oui. C'est bon.
This, I can work with. For Chère.” She clapped twice, and the velvet curtain parted again. The girl who'd admitted them to the shop appeared, and Madame rattled off instructions. The girl nodded and scurried away.

“Come,
mademoiselle.
” She shooed Arcadia towards the back room.
“Rapidement.
There's no time to lose.”

Arcadia cast a silent, desperate plea for help over her shoulder. Claudia's wide, blue-gray eyes met Arcadia's over the mouth of her champagne glass.

“We'll be along in a moment, my dear,” Deborah assured, lifting her own glass in toast.

In no time, the Frenchwoman had Arcadia standing on a pedestal in the back room in naught but her shift. Dress forms stood sentry around the room, the headless torsos arrayed in gowns of various stages of completion. Attended by a flock of seamstress-acolytes, the modiste scrutinized Arcadia with the careful diligence of a nit-picker, poking her waist and hips, lifting her arms, peering at her ankles, even demanding to see her teeth.