Duty Before Desire (39 page)

“Of course. I would very much like to see this harem of yours.”

Laughing again, Arcadia turned to her ayah. “I'm so happy, Poorvaja.”

The women embraced and started chattering at each other in Hindustani. Though he didn't comprehend the words, the joy mirrored in each woman's face was clear enough.

Still sniffling as he gradually composed himself, Sir Godwin wandered over to Sheri. Through his tears, he beamed fondly at the ladies.

Sheri tipped his head. “How long?” he asked. If Prickering was in any way misleading Poorvaja, Sheri would make sure he answered for it.

“From the first,” the poet breathed. “I saw her in Hyde Park, and I was lost. Every opportunity to be near her, I sprang upon. It wasn't until the night of your betrothal ball, though, that I found the courage to speak. We've been meeting in secret ever since.”

Sheri, too, had begun losing his heart that day in the park. All those times he'd thought Sir Godwin was mooning after Arcadia, he was really gazing at Poorvaja. Sheri supposed he'd assumed Prickering was infatuated with Arcadia because—well, who wouldn't be? She was beauty and grace and compassion. Still, he was glad the poet had had his eye on a different lady. On a day of such fine feeling, it would be regrettable to have to watch another man's heart crumble.

It was strange to feel in accord with Prickering, but love did strange things to a fellow. Sheri extended his hand. Sir Godwin gripped it. It was a nice moment of fraternal goodwill, the milk of human kindness, and all of that.

“We'll be like family,” Sir Godwin declared, clapping happily. “I'll practically be your father-in-law.” He nudged Sheri. “Son.”

Moment over.

“Come on, peahen,” he said, crossing to the sofa and sweeping his wife up into his arms. “Let's leave these lovebirds alone.”

Arcadia's arms came around his neck. She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw and then drew his earlobe between her lips, her fingers playing in the hair at his nape. Sheri sprinted for the stairs.

“Where are you taking me?” Arcadia asked, laughing.

“To bed,” he growled. “I'm feeling rather chilly.”

A fortnight later

The embarkation of
Brizo's Woe
was a tedious affair, accomplished in several stages of final boarding and inspections before the harbormaster gave the signal. Even once the anchors were raised and the lines released from the wharf, it was some time before the wind tucked into the sails and nudged the merchant vessel towards open water.

Huddled inside her stout new coat, Arcadia lifted her hand in farewell to Mr. Harrison Dyer standing on the ship's deck. She and Sheri, Brandon, Henry, and Norman—as well as Claudia and Lorna—had all made it to the docks before dawn to see their friend off.

Arcadia recalled how her new husband had once promised to wish her
bon voyage
with a cheer and a basket of sweets, and while Sheri put on a smile for his old friend's sake, she read tension in the lines around his mouth. Besides sweets, Sheri had crammed a small trunk with every provision he thought his friend might need on his journey, from bottles of liquor to spare linens and razors, to a compass and knife, to books, playing cards, and other little entertainments.

“You fret over him more than Poorvaja ever did over me,” she'd teased as she watched him pack the trunk, secretly adoring that thoughtful, nurturing side of him.

As their little group broke up and began going their separate ways, Arcadia slipped an arm around Sheri's waist. He drew her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“He'll be all right, you know,” she said. “If I survived that awful voyage, so will he.”

“Is that a note of regret I hear?” he asked, his hand slipping from her shoulder to the small of her back as they made their way to their carriage. “Wish you were aboard?”

That small point of contact did more to dispel the morning's chill than all her layers of clothes. After mounting the carriage step, she paused and turned. The light of a new day illuminated his handsome face and the tender warmth in his eyes. Arcadia's heart fluttered inside her chest. She touched his cheek. “Not in the slightest.”

They settled onto the squabs, and Sheri knocked on the roof. Then he kicked his feet up on the opposite bench and reclined, pulling Arcadia down with him.

Her eyes drifted closed, and for a few minutes she simply breathed, reveling in the feeling of his chest beneath her cheek and the love that pulsed between them, as vital and bright as the sunlight now streaming through the carriage windows.

“Will you come calling with me this afternoon?” His question rumbled against her temple, easy and natural as the gentle thunder accompanying the rain that broke the dry season.

“I'm looking forward to it,” she readily accepted. Their mutual willingness now to admit their desire for the other's company was one of Arcadia's favorite things about married life. Sheri was her best friend, the person who made her laugh and challenged her to stretch her limits—and she got to spend the rest of her life with him. Lucky, lucky girl.

“Did you remember to pack the preserves in the baskets?” she inquired.

He nodded. “Lady Dane's sweet tooth will be delighted, I'm sure, although I can't speak for old Mr. Waldman.”

“Who doesn't like apple jam?” She squeezed his waist. “But even if he doesn't, he'll be sure to appreciate the company. It was good of you to include a gentleman on your first round of charity visits. I know the ladies are more your forte. Soon enough, all the men will be calling you Chère, too.”

He snorted, and they relaxed again into companionable silence.

She knew the instant his thoughts turned naughty, felt the hitch in his breath and the quickening of his pulse. Her own body softened in response.

“We can't go back to bed,” she said, even though her fingers itched to bury themselves in his hair and her skin was hungry for the feel of his mouth. “Claudia and Lorna are coming for a yoga lesson this morning, remember?”

Sheri groaned. “Tell them to come another day, when I'm not busy having carnal relations with my wife.” He slipped the top two buttons of her coat free, then cupped a possessive hand over her breast.

Chuckling, Arcadia nestled closer. “What day would that be, husband?” Since the morning they'd each finally confessed their love, not a day had passed without Sheri teaching Arcadia another way to find pleasure together—a new location, a new position, another inch of her body or his to tantalize and excite. Not a night had passed without words of love whispered in the dark before they fell asleep in each other's arms.

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” she suggested.

“No good. Tomorrow is Tuesday.”

“You can't have every Tuesday—”

“The hell I can't.”

“Besides,” she said, “I've already lit the fire to warm the new yoga room.” She paused before adding, “And you may be disheartened to hear that I checked and double-checked the walls. There are no spy holes in our house.”

Sheri stiffened. “Who told? I'll drub the traitor.”

Arcadia lifted her head and met her husband's unrepentant grin. “They both told, you fiend.” She swatted his arm playfully. “And both their wives told me.”

“Are you angry?” he asked.

She lowered her voice to a sultry drawl. “Did I seem angry this morning? Or last night? Or—”

He silenced her with a kiss that was both tender and raw, stoking her desire, promising love of every sort. Arcadia promised him right back.

And they both kept their word.

It's been said that writing is easy; you simply open a vein and bleed onto the page. Some novels demand more blood than others—this one sucked me dry and then raided the blood bank.

Jason, Sarah, Michelle, Deb, and Beth, you propped me up when my bum ankle wouldn't hold me and gave me your strength when I had none of my own. I love you.

Tara, this book wouldn't be here without you. Thank you for always being the editor I need.

Thanks to my copyeditor, Annie Cosby, for keeping me on my toes, and to Julie Sturgeon for cheering me to the finish with much needed wit and wisdom. Many thanks to the art department and everyone else at Crimson for giving my novels such exquisite care.

Channing, Nicole, Sierra, and the rest of the Pink Lotus instructors and
Kula
, thank you for teaching and inspiring me. Thank you, Amy, for keeping me sane.

And thanks to you, my dear readers. If you have ever sent me a note or taken the time to leave a review of my books, you helped bring this novel to fruition. You never know what the effect of a kind word will be. You have been my inspiration and my motivation when I needed it most. Thank you.

 

Elizabeth Boyce had a lifelong dream: to be an astronaut. She has recently made peace with the fact that this dream is unlikely to come to fruition. Good thing, then, she had another dream: to be an author. This dream comes true every single day, and she couldn't be more grateful.

Ms. Boyce lives in South Carolina with her husband, children, and her personal assistant / cat.

She loves hearing from readers, so keep in touch!

Email: [email protected]

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Twitter: @EBoyceRomance

 

Six years later

The night was stormy, and most certainly dark. And while others might see such weather as portentous of some grave misfortune, to Miss Claudia Baxter, the rain and howling wind were as welcome as a surprise inheritance from a heretofore unheard-of uncle. The appearance of the storm had gifted Claudia an opportunity to deliver herself from a dreadful fate. Not one to ignore such a cosmic boon, she had, over the course of the last two hours, feverishly stitched together an idea.

It was a rather slapdash plan, Claudia allowed, as she padded away from the kitchen with a small bottle of pig's blood gripped in her fist. But with her wedding to Sir Saint Tuggle and his fifty years' worth of dental negligence less than a week off, what choice did she have? At this point, Claudia would have happily run away with a band of Gypsies, had any been so kind as to pass by Rudley Court. Sadly, Roma were thin on the ground in Wiltshire just now, so Claudia was left with a madcap scheme and a vial of blood.

Her bare feet made no sound as she crept through the sleeping house. She and her twin brother, Claude, had discovered—and thereafter avoided—every creaky board and groaning hinge in a childhood spent terrorizing their way through six governesses.

She made her way up to the bedchambers, keeping a keen eye out for Ferguson. The butler's highest calling in life was the preservation of Rudley Court and he'd been known to patrol the halls at least twice per night. In years past, that duty had meant defending the house against the ravages of nine Baxter children, Claudia and Claude being numbers eight and nine.

Luck was with her; Ferguson was nowhere to be seen. Claudia followed the path running down the center of the corridor rug, worn thin by decades of young Baxters and their guests. She stopped outside a guest room door and was startled by a sudden fluttering in her middle. There had been no doubts or fears until this very moment. The little bottle grew slippery in her hand. She passed it to the other and wiped her palm against her dressing gown.

If only her parents hadn't agreed to Sir Saint's proposal, then Claudia wouldn't have been driven to these desperate measures. But she had failed to make a match during her Season. She'd been just another Baxter, with unremarkable looks and an embarrassingly large family. Her two thousand pounds were nothing to brag about, and most of her gowns were handed down from her sisters. Claudia had never been the prettiest, the richest, the most fashionable. And so her Season came and went without a single proposal.

In the five years since, Claudia had resigned herself to the role of spinster aunt to her growing herd of nieces and nephews. Every family needed one, she reasoned. But then, two months ago, disaster struck in the doughy, stinky form of Sir Saint Tuggle. Sir John Baxter had accepted Sir Saint's suit without so much as a by-your-leave from his youngest daughter. Claudia had been informed of her betrothal over the fish course that night.

Sir Saint was due to arrive tomorrow afternoon and stay at Rudley Court until the wedding, and her many siblings would likewise begin trickling in over the course of the week. With the house full of people, Claudia would have no more opportunities to evade this marriage. She was out of time. Unless she took her fate into her own hands, she would become Lady Tuggle in a few days. As her intended had told her, she could look forward to producing Sir Saint's heir, followed by a lifetime of rusticating. There would be no house parties or Seasons in Town or trips abroad. Sir Saint's gout prohibited anything resembling fun from touching his life. She was too young to surrender to such a dreary existence. She couldn't do it. She wouldn't.

Steeling her resolve, Claudia turned the knob.

She slipped into the room and leaned against the beveled wood, allowing her vision to adjust to the darkness of the bedchamber. Outside, the storm still raged. A flash of lightning revealed the bed, as well as a pair of top boots carelessly discarded in the middle of the floor. Plunged once again into darkness, Claudia made her way forward, careful to avoid the boots. One noisy stumble would ruin everything.

With her free hand extended, Claudia reached the bed and felt her way to the top of the covers. A soft exhalation of breath made her heart leap.
It's only Henry
, she reminded herself.

“Only Henry” being Mr. Henry De Vere, whose family's estate, Fairbrook, adjoined the eastern side of Rudley Court. He was twenty-five, two years older than the twins, and had often been about when they were children, tossed in with the Baxters like just another puppy in the litter. Back then, Henry and the twins had been thick as thieves, roaming the countryside and playing games of Claudia's invention. Henry usually sided with her in disputes between the twins and had never let Claude exclude her from their play. Perhaps understandably, she'd developed a touch of hero worship where Henry was concerned. He was her very own champion. As she grew into adolescence, she couldn't help but dream he might come courting some day.