Duty Before Desire (30 page)

He opened the door to a drawing room and gestured the women inside. Arcadia, seeing that Norman and Elsa were within, balked. “Please, peahen.” He touched her lower back, and she bolted into the room as if prodded by a hot poker.

Sheri turned to close the door and was astonished to see Sir Godwin Prickering hurrying up the corridor in hot pursuit, his face nearly as red as his stupid cravat.

“Unbelievable!” The anger Sheri had been holding at bay licked up his spine. “It is bad enough that you constantly moon after Miss Parks and plague her with your prosy verse, but to give chase at our betrothal ball! I should call you out.”

The poet's eyes flashed. Tucking his nose into the air, he shot back, “The same betrothal ball at which you quite publicly pursued another woman, need I remind you. Perhaps it is I who should call
you
out, sirrah, since you've no care for the lady's honor.”

Sheri's pulse pounded in his temples. “Stay out of it, you contemptible widgeon,” he ground out, then slammed the door in Sir Godwin's supercilious face.

Pivoting on the heel of his dancing shoe, Sheri wasted no time with preliminaries. “Norman, you're here to make sure she”—he pointed at Elsa—“doesn't try to escape. But you're also a solicitor, so I expect you to honor the cone of silence,” he said, describing a circle with his hands.

“You aren't my client, Zouche,” the tall man said. “And besides—”

“Damnation!” Sheri dug through his pockets until he turned up a half shilling, which he slapped into Norm's palm. “Now I'm your client. Be quiet, try not to hear anything, and make sure Elsa stays put. And Miss Poorvaja”—he rounded to face the ayah—“is chaperoning, since
some
of us,” he said with a speaking look at Elsa, who slouched in a wingback chair, “have demonstrated a marked inability to behave in accordance with the strictures of good society.”

“Don' you dare rip up at me,” Elsa slurred. “I din' do nothin' I haven't done a thousan' times before.”

The sudden spike of pressure behind his eyeballs might have popped them right from of his head. “One does not kiss the bridegroom on the mouth in the middle of his betrothal ball, Elsa, especially when one is not the bridegroom's bride. Were you absent the day that concept was introduced at finishing school?”

She scowled darkly. “You're become a sanc …” Her head nodded; she jerked it up, blinked. “Sanctimonious ol' prig.”

“Miss Parks.” Sheri swiveled, giving his sotted friend his back. His fiancée stood before the hearth, her shoulders and arms limned by the firelight behind her, so lovely, his breath caught. He cleared his throat. “Arcadia, I apologize for what you saw in the ballroom. Elsa—Lady Fay, that is—is a friend of mine, nothing more. But our greeting was … over-exuberant. And for that I most sincerely beg your pardon.”

He did not add that Elsa had tripped and hurtled headlong into him, that he'd grabbed her up and spun to expend the momentum and prevent them from bowling over ancient Lady Dane, whom he'd just seen to her seat. Nor did he add that Elsa was inebriated to the point of impaired judgment, although that last was abundantly obvious to all and sundry. Why she'd chosen to put in her appearance after supper and three sheets to the wind, he had no idea. Likely Elsa didn't, either.

“My lord,” Arcadia said, lifting a hand, “you needn't explain yourself to me. You must do as you wish, of course.”

Elsa snorted. She dug a flask out of her reticule, different from the one Sheri had seen in her boudoir. “No wonder you picked her over me, Sheri.” She twisted off the top and sniffed the contents. “She's got much lower expectations inna husband than I've.” She tipped the flask to her lips. Norman plucked it from her hand. “Hey!” she squawked.

The drunkard spoke truth, and it stoked hot flames in Sheri's belly. Arcadia
should
have higher expectations. She deserved the same loyalty and respect she gave her friends, not to be humiliated by her groom at her own betrothal ball.

Kicking her legs up over the arm of her chair and swinging her feet, Elsa addressed Arcadia directly. “Iss true, you know.” Her glassy eyes crossed, then regained focus. “Sheri's been my frien' for years and years. We've never been lovers; we just compare notes.” At a prompting nudge from Norman, she added, “An' I'm sorry for kissing Sheri at your ball. Beg pardon. It was very bad, and I shan't do it again. You may cane my palms if you'd like.” She extended her hands; her head fell back to the arm of the chair, and she burst into laughter.

On a weary sigh, Norman lifted her into his arms. “I'll see she gets home.”

Sheri nodded his thanks. While his friends cleared the room, he pulled out his quizzing glass and spun it on its chain at his side.

There was a fraught silence emanating from the woman behind him.
Women
, he corrected himself. Poorvaja was still present. But the Indian woman was tranquil in her silence. The tension all radiated from his bride.

He turned to meet her gaze. Their eyes held for a long moment. He wanted to take her in his arms and remind her what a real kiss felt like. He'd put her in front of a mirror and let her see what his passion looked like, so she'd never again mistake his intentions.

Never again.
That sounded like a very long time. But he and Arcadia didn't have a very long time, only the duration of her sojourn in England. He was being hospitable. Ensuring her stay was comfortable. After she left, Sheri would kiss any number of women with whatsoever intention he damned well pleased. Eventually. That was the bargain.

“Please leave us, Poorvaja,” Arcadia said, her eyes still holding Sheri's.

“Jalanili—”

“Please.” She turned her face, giving him her profile—that straight nose and stubborn chin that teetered close to unfeminine but drove him wilder than any dumpling-cheeked maid had ever done. “I should like a moment alone with Lord Sheridan.” She added something else in Hindustani. He couldn't help wondering what it was, but he'd been in the suds with enough women over the years to have a fair idea.
I'll dispatch him with the candlestick; you make sure the coast is clear
wouldn't have been entirely unreasonable.

The door closed behind Poorvaja. Arcadia stepped closer to Sheri. She tilted her head and peered into his eyes. His palms itched to pull her close and touch her everywhere, to feel her body against his once again.

“The gallery is empty, Sheri,” she whispered. “You're all alone on stage, with no one to applaud your performance.”

Gallery? Stage?
What the devil was the woman going on about? But did it matter when she was so near that he could lose himself in trying to find the exact place where the tan on her face and upper chest gave way to the creamy swells of her breasts? There was no precise line of demarcation, but a gradual shift from one to the next, as the pale rays of dawn slowly gained intensity, until suddenly they were the brilliant gold of midday. He rubbed the back of his neck to keep his fingers away from her.

His tongue was thick in his mouth. Clumsy. “What—” he rasped. Cleared his throat. “What happened earlier, Arcadia. I'm sorry. I had to clear it up right away. I couldn't have you thinking anything untoward was happening between Elsa and me.”

Her lashes lowered, casting crescent shadows on her high cheekbones. “She said you chose me over her. Did she wish to marry you? Does she still?”

Memories of that foolish morning flipped through his mind. “I asked her,” he admitted. “Proposed.”

“Do you love her?” The question was quiet and shaded with compassion.

“No.”

Slowly, so she saw what he was about, Sheri took one strand of her brown hair, felt the warm silk slide between his fingers. When he reached the end of the strand, he lightly strafed his fingertips along the edge of her bodice and watched, mesmerized, as the faintest blush appeared in the wake of his touch, coloring the beautiful contours of her flesh. She was soft and silken, and he hungered to lay his mouth where his fingers had been and drink the taste of her into his mouth.

Mirroring the languor of his movements, Arcadia slowly brought her hand to his face. Somehow, she'd removed a glove without him noticing. Interesting, as he hadn't been able to tear his eyes away from her all night. Her palm hovered a hairbreadth away from him. He felt its heat. A whimper-groan arose in his chest, so much did he want her to touch him.

Fingers, one, then two, came to rest on his jaw, no heavier than a moth. So lightly he might have dreamed it, her nails traced his face, picking out the texture of his evening whiskers.

“Would you prefer to marry Lady Fay?” The warmth of her voice undulated across his throat.

What was a Lady Fay? Language lost meaning. All the blood had been diverted to the front of his body, his eyes and nose and fingers and ears, the better to sense every aspect of her. But mostly the blood was pooling in his cock. His golden goddess was to hand, and he was not kissing her or driving himself between her legs and that was wrong.

“Unf,” he said.

She swayed closer yet, and his primitive brain registered a woman falling and so he caught her by the breast.

“You promised not to touch me.”

“Did I?” He knew he had, more fool he. Why would he ever promise such a thing? Instead, he should have promised to fuck her until she forgot her own name. He loosened his grip, his fingers closing together and swirling across her nipple.

Her hazel eyes were bright. A line of white teeth flashed between her parted lips. Her bared throat revealed a thrumming pulse that beckoned to his tongue. He lowered his head.

She suddenly stepped back, out of reach, and he was left wanting and cold. “Keep your promises, my lord. And keep your hands to yourself.”

Married.

Arcadia didn't feel married. But having only been in that state since morning, and with no point of reference for evaluating her experience against, perhaps this fatigued annoyance was what matrimony felt like.

“It's an awful lot of bother, isn't it?”

Poorvaja's eyes flicked to hers in the mirror, then returned to her work as she carefully brushed Arcadia's hair, pausing periodically to anoint it with oil. “You are a bride only once, Jalanili.”

True, but it was the second time today she'd been put through an extensive toilette regimen. Before dawn, Arcadia awoke at Delafield House for the last time. She and Poorvaja had shared a few minutes of meditation, followed by yoga postures. Then it was right into a tub redolent of sandalwood. She could have happily lingered in the bath for hours, but her ayah attacked with a special scrubbing powder to make her skin glow, pink and new.

The Arcadia Parks who met Lord Sheridan at church was the image of proper English maidenhood, laced and buttoned, gloved and bonneted, only her freshly scrubbed face bared to the chill October air. Sheri, too, had taken pains with his preparations. His hair was still damp at the ends, his cheeks freshly shaved, his skin carrying the brisk note of cologne recently applied. In a tailed frock coat, ivory brocade waistcoat, and buff trousers, he'd been splendidly handsome. Sober before the vicar, yet Sheri's lips had twitched with a spark of deviltry as he vowed
… with my body, I thee worship.

Her thumb worried the gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand like a tongue prodding at an aching tooth. Two weeks since the betrothal ball, and the memory of Sheri kissing Lady Fay still stung. Playing along with his pretend courtship created too many confusing emotions. One of the few things Arcadia knew of a certain was that she did not fit into his world. During that first waltz that robbed her of her senses, Sheri told her he liked her just as she was and exhorted her not change for anyone.
He certainly hasn't changed for you.

After the ceremony, they had come to Lothgard House for breakfast, then Poorvaja whisked Arcadia upstairs to begin preparations for supper. This evening, Arcadia would be neither the immodest dancer, nor the blushing bride. She would be something else, something closer to who she was at heart. She was done apologizing for who she was and who she wasn't. She lifted her chin and watched in the mirror as Poorvaja parted her hair down the center and gathered it at the nape. She was Arcadia Zouche now, and soon she would be going home.

“You make the mistake of supposing your wedding day is for you.”

Arcadia lifted a brow. “Is it not?”

“Not only you.” Poorvaja bent at the waist to examine her handiwork, making minute adjustments to the tucked ends of Arcadia's hair. “There are two families also, yes? People who have cared for you both and dreamed of this day and who want to see—” Her voice suddenly hitched. “Who want to see you happy.” She swiped an eye with the back of her wrist.

The ayah's other hand rested on Arcadia's shoulder. Arcadia pressed her cheek to it. “You are everything to me, Poorvaja. Mother and sister and friend.”

“And you are the daughter of my heart, Jalanili.” She cracked a wry smile. “Which is why you must now let me have my fun. Turn around,” she directed, reaching for a little pot of
kajal
on the dressing table.

She bent close, her familiar scent a soothing accompaniment to the gentle strokes of the thin brush she swept below Arcadia's eyes.

“He's going to stick it in you.”

Arcadia blinked. “I … ah …” she stammered.

“Since the
memsahib
is not here, it is my duty to tell you.”

Her cheeks flamed. Arcadia didn't think her mother would have approached the topic with quite that degree of candor. “All … all right.”

“His man part.”

“Yes, I understand. Thank you.” Arcadia had not spent eleven summers of her life in a
zenana
and not picked up a fact or two.