Duty Before Desire (33 page)

“Kicked the ball, dug holes in the garden, stacked blocks … whatever she wanted. I tried to bring a little gift whenever I came—a piece of fruit or a candy. Pebbles or leaves that caught my eye. A frog from the pond, once, much to her mother's dismay.” He slid an impish look her way. “Every spring, I took her to visit the new lambs, and she always rode in front of me on my pony—my horse when I was older—when I took her into the village. Spoiled her a little, truth be told, but it was so easy to make Grace happy. And her smile …” Sheri lifted his eyes. “I would give anything to see that smile again.”

And there it was, she realized, the reason he went out of his way to dance with wallflowers and flirt with spinsters. Sheri tried to make them all happy because he was looking for Grace in their smiles. The old marquess might have thought to humiliate young Sheridan by appointing the boy keeper of his illegitimate half sister, but instead had forged in his second son a compassionate, giving soul.

Arcadia brought her hand to his jaw, felt the growth of whiskers on the cheek that had been immaculately smooth for their wedding just this morning.

“I'm sorry if I shamed you or your family by speaking carelessly at dinner. That was not my intention.” The Dowager Lady Lothgard's vehement reaction to Grace's name made sense now. Though in no way the child's fault, Grace was the product of an adulterous liaison the old marquess had flaunted before his wife.

Sheri's hand covered hers. He brought her palm to his mouth, pressed a kiss into it. “You did nothing wrong, Arcadia. It was a relief to hear Grace spoken of openly. And I did miss her today. You were right about that, if not the old bastard.”

He stood, having to keep his head stooped in the low space, and offered a hand to help Arcadia to her feet. “I apologize for sulking on our wedding day. I wasn't abandoning you, merely putting my head to rights before plying my seductive powers upon you.”

Arcadia's mouth went dry. She licked her lips. “I'd nearly forgotten.” A lie.

Tut-tut-tut
went his tongue. “You wound me, peahen.” Hooking a finger into the collar of his coat, he swung it over his shoulder and led the way back down the stairs. At the door to his room, he paused. “Would you like to come in with me now, or do you prefer to freshen up in your own room first?”

So casually he spoke of their intimacy, as if it were of no greater import than a proposed jaunt to the marketplace. Perhaps it wasn't a significant event for him. Many women enjoyed his company, it was said. What was one more lover, even if the woman in question happened to be his wife?

“I should change out of my sari before I do it irreparable harm.” She gasped. “Poorvaja! We left her at Lothgard House.”

“Did we? How careless of us.”

“We must return for her at once.”

He shot her an incredulous look, then pushed into his room. “Darling, if you think I'm leaving home on my wedding night to fetch your ayah, you are tragically mistaken.”

Arcadia peeked into the chamber. Tastefully appointed in rich greens and browns, it didn't look like a den of debauchery. After tossing the coat across a stool, Sheri untied his cravat with nimble fingers, drew the neckcloth from his collar, and discarded it on the corner of the large bed. He turned, fingers opening the buttons on his waistcoat. His brown eyes assessed her. “Still there, you little voyeur?” The elegant waistcoat was wadded into a ball and carelessly tossed to a corner.

“Your clothes are scattered everywhere.”

“It gives French something to do in the morning.” Kicking off a shoe, he sent it sailing to one side of the room. “His favorite pastime is waking me with a scold for the shocking way I abuse my garments.” The other shoe spun beneath the bed. “And then I get to tell him they're my demmed clothes to treat however I please, and if he doesn't care for it, he's welcome to find another position.” Dropping onto a stool, he tugged off his stockings and wiggled his toes. They were long and straight, the nails there as nicely groomed as those on his hands. A few hairs grew on the tops of his white feet, brown against the pale skin. His calves had an appealing shape, she thought, though she'd no basis for comparison other than the
Discobolus
. The living examples before her were firmly muscled and covered with more of that crisp brown hair, and she wondered very much what they would feel like. “Then he gives me my coffee and sets about restoring my clothes to pristine order.” He lobbed one stocking to the top of a walnut wardrobe; the second found its way behind a curtain.

Smothering a laugh, Arcadia took a few steps into the room. He was being absurd, and she was glad. It distracted her from his intriguing calves.

Pivoting, he tugged his shirt free of his breeches and over his head, then sauntered slowly to her. His lids drooped and his eyes glinted, but his smile remained light, teasing. Arcadia found it very difficult to focus on his face with his bare chest
right there
. Wide shoulders were round with muscle, giving way to the hillocks of the strong arms that had carried her once and held her close not often enough. His chest was broad, the bulges flatter and firm in the places where her own was soft with breasts. Small brown nipples drew her gaze, which then slid down a trail of that tantalizing hair to his belly. Lean muscle banded his flat stomach, and his every step gave her a view of the smooth play of those muscles beneath his skin.

Her face went cold, then hot. Her palms grew moist; she hoped the
mehndi
would not run.
Discobolus
had in no way prepared Arcadia for the raw, animal beauty of this man. Shadows cast by the fire hollowed his cheekbones, drawing lines that arrowed to his sensual lips. Arcadia's mouth watered.

Shirt dangling from his hand, Sheri stopped just in front of her. Arcadia inhaled great, greedy gulps of his tea-and-leather scent. He trailed the edge of a cuff across her jaw. “The secret to a perfect cravat,” he murmured, “is that the linen must have the bitter tears of a long-suffering valet ironed into it. It's a finely tuned rapport we've established, you see.”

Smirking, he stepped back. Arcadia was lightheaded. He'd spun a silly tale to put her at ease, and now he was naked but for his breeches. Her lips thrummed in time with her pulse, plumping, as if to silently wave him down and request a kiss.

She touched her brow, was surprised to find the medallion there. She'd forgotten she was still wearing her sari. “Poorvaja—”

“Is having a fine time at my brother's house. It was all arranged for her to stay at Lothgard House tonight.” From his dressing room, he selected a silk dressing gown, which he tugged on and loosely belted with the tie.

“Oh.” Arcadia glanced down. Getting out of her intricate ensemble by herself would be a challenge, but she'd manage.

As if reading her thoughts, Sheri said, “I'll play lady's maid tonight, peahen.”

“You needn't trouble yourself. I'll make do.”

He smiled wolfishly. “If you think I'd be troubling myself, you're mistaken once again. Come.” Slipping his hand around hers, he led her through his dressing room, at the back of which was a door.

“Open it,” he encouraged.

Beyond the door was another dressing room and then a bedchamber French had neglected to include in the tour.

The room was snugly warm, thanks to a fire blazing in the fireplace. A coal scuttle on the hearth was generously heaped with fuel. Besides the fire, the room was illuminated by an oil lamp. The light revealed draperies and bedding in vibrant jewel tones, sapphire and emerald and gold like the citrines at her throat. Her feet sank into a thick rug that covered all but a few inches around the perimeter of the room. Her hand slipped across the soft pile of velvet bed curtains. Her Kashmir shawl was draped across the end of the bed heaped with pillows. Several neatly folded quilts formed a stack beside the bed. On the vanity table, she spotted her brush and comb, which Poorvaja had just used on her hours earlier at Lothgard House.

She slanted a questioning look at him. “How …?”

“Do you like the room?”

Something in the timbre of his voice, the tilt of his head, communicated that her answer mattered. It wasn't polite interest that prompted him to ask, but the earnest hope of approval that she'd sometimes glimpsed.
This is his doing,
she realized.

“It's lovely, Sheri. Perfect.” She drew back the hood of her sari. “And it's warm.”

His hands came to her arms. “I don't want you to be cold.”

The simple sweetness of his words tugged on her heart. She lifted on her toes and brought her mouth to his.

“Thank you,” she whispered, dropping back a step.

Sheri's hand cupped her jaw; his fingers jangled her earring. He brought her face back to his and sealed their mouths together. His lips parted, coaxed hers to follow. Arcadia welcomed the sweep of his tongue and met it with her own. His other hand came to her face, holding her captive for a long, slow, drugging kiss. It went on and on, giving the pleasure time to migrate from her lips down her throat to her breasts and beyond, until it went beyond pleasure to restlessness.

Arcadia brought her hand to his chest, splaying her fingers over the firm contours of flesh, his skin heating the thin layer of silk. Her other hand came to his neck, slipped to his nape. Her fingers burrowed into his russet waves. Her bangles tinkled as she explored his chest and hair.

“Mmm,” he moaned, lifting his mouth only to bring it to her jaw and chin. Arcadia arched her throat, and he trailed hot, openmouthed kisses to her collarbones.

His fingers plucked at the sari. “You are stunning, Arcadia. A goddess.” His tongue swirled in the hollow at the base of her throat. Her knees trembled. “You're a work of art,” his whisper rumbled below her ear, his nose nudging her earring aside so he could plant kisses there, as well. “I could look at you for hours and find new details to admire. But please, for the love of God, tell me how to get this infernal thing off of you.”

Her head fell back, and she laughed, her arm cradling his head. He chuckled, too, the corners of his eyes crinkling even as he continued lavishing her face and neck with kisses.

She pulled out of his grasp; his fingers lingered in the air for a moment, as if he missed touching her already.

“First, the jewelry.” She held her arms out, palms turned up to display the beautiful
mendhi
. Sheri's eye caught on the swirling patterns.

“I'd rather hoped the jewelry could stay.” His brow quirked over a wicked glint in his eye.

“It's borrowed. I would not wish it to be damaged.”

One at a time, he drew the bracelets down her arm, carefully rocking each back and forth to work them over her hands. When one wrist was bare, he lightly trailed his fingertips down the inside of her forearm and hand, ending with a kiss in the center of her palm. Then he repeated the procedure on the other arm.

He piled the bangles on the vanity. “What next?” he asked, his voice husky.

Panting slightly, Arcadia turned her head, touched an ear.

Heeding her silent instruction, he removed the earring, then gently massaged her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. His mouth replaced his hand as he drew the tender flesh between his lips. Again, he repeated his ministrations on the other side, treating that lobe to the same massage and kisses.

Arcadia's breath quickened. She clung to his shoulder for support as his attention to her ear and neck sent a shimmering shower of sensation pouring through her body.

“Now here.” She bent her neck so he could remove the headpiece. The necklace was last to go. Almost, she didn't ask him to remove it. But it, too, was borrowed finery, she reminded herself, and so it joined the other pieces on the vanity.

She extended her arms so he could unwind the sari. Grasping the loose end of delicate material, he slowly circled her, gathering the slack into his hands as he went.

“Peacock feathers,” he said, almost to himself. His fingers slipped into the space between her skirt and blouse, caressing her stomach with a touch that made Arcadia's intimate flesh throb, sudden and sharp. She shifted, pressing her thighs together to ease the heavy ache building between her legs. A tiny moan fell from her lips.

“Almost there, peahen,” he murmured soothingly. Sheri folded the sari and set it on the vanity stool, then shrugged out of his dressing gown, the blue silk joining the red in a heap.

She saw the jutting outline of his erection behind the fall of his breeches. Her body twitched in anticipation, remembering how it felt to rub against him. Knowing that he was aroused by her did strange things to Arcadia's body. Her breasts grew heavier, her lips parted.

He noticed her looking. Sheri dropped a hand to his front, stroked two fingers up and down the length of his manhood. “This is my constant companion when you're near,” he said, “and three-quarters of the time when you're not. I wake up in the morning hard, aching to be inside you, and go to sleep at night with only my hand and poor imagination for company.”

The sight of Sheri touching himself was shocking and exciting at once, and his words caused her stomach to hollow on a shuddering breath.

“Truly?” she breathed. Her hands twitched to join his. Her skin craved the relief of his touch. “You desire me so much?”

His hand curled around his shaft on a groan. The muscles in his arm flexed as he stroked. “So much. Take off your shoes.” Arcadia nearly tripped in her eagerness to comply with his command. She took off her stockings, too, the carnal hunger in his eyes making her bold.

Her hands went to the edge of her blouse at her waist. “Ah-ah.” Sheri lifted a hand, padded across the rug. “I'm troubling myself with this duty, recall.” She lifted her arms, and he drew the blouse over her head, the beads lightly abrading her skin. Her unrestrained breasts tumbled into view.