Duty Before Desire (7 page)

“Marriage is expected of all women, in all places.” Poorvaja cast a shrewd look at Arcadia from beneath her sooty lashes while she fitted Arcadia into one of her new dresses. The maid had let it out enough that blood could flow through Arcadia's torso, at least. “What do you do in a difficult yoga posture, Jalanili? Do you run from it?”

Arcadia suspected the woman had a lesson up her sleeve, but she couldn't see what her inability to clasp her hands behind her back had to do with marriage. “I breathe into it and try to relax until it comes easier.”

“Ah.” Poorvaja raised a finger. “You embrace the struggle. You dwell with it until it resolves, and then you are able to move on. You must embrace this struggle as well, my child, for the struggle is where life happens.”

Her ayah had a dreadful habit of talking good sense, even when Arcadia didn't want to hear it. Restlessly, she surveyed the bedchamber. The furnishings were different than those to which she was accustomed. Most notably, her bed was draped with curtains for warmth, rather than netting to protect her from mosquitoes. It was all so alien and strange. Was this a struggle Arcadia even wished to embrace? How did one go about making a new life in a new land, anyway?

At last, her eyes came to rest on a small bouquet of flowers in a squat vase, cheerful yellow blooms on bright green stalks.

Poorvaja followed the line of Arcadia's gaze. “He must have paid dear for those. Nothing could bloom naturally in this frigid wasteland.”

At this dark pronouncement, Arcadia chuckled. “You said yourself that we should go outside today. Lady Delafield says this is the warmest time of year. What shall become of us if it snows?”

The ayah's eyes rolled skyward. “Lord Vishnu preserve us.”

A frantic rapping on the door brought Lady Delafield back into the chamber. “Lord Sheridan has come again.”

Arcadia frowned. “Again? What do you mean?”

Her aunt clucked her tongue. “He has come every day to ask after you, and every day I've had to tell him you are still unwell.” She started, seeming to notice for the first time that Arcadia was out of bed and dressed. “Why, you wicked beast! If you're well enough to be up, you're well enough to take tea with a suitor. Mind you, I don't approve of Lord Sheridan as a suitor, not in the least. I've only allowed him into the front parlor because I knew you were ill.”

Her aunt's bewildering logic had Arcadia's head in a whirl. “If you do not wish me to see Lord Sheridan, why are you upset? I've no wish to see him, either. On this, we are in accord.”

Lady Delafield cast her a withering look. “Because you are deceitful, niece. I cannot think my sister would like the lying, willful creature her only daughter has become. Lord Sheridan is no prize, but you could do worse—and you will, too, if you don't start behaving with some civility. If you think Lord Delafield and I mean to house a spinster for the rest of our lives, you're sorely mistaken, my girl.”

It wasn't as if coming here had been Arcadia's idea. In less than a week, she had arrived in a new country, been attacked and robbed, and had suffered illness. As if all that wasn't enough, her aunt had first complained that Arcadia should have been sent to her years ago, and now she complained about the prospect of having her niece in the house for a length of time. There wasn't enough meditation in the world to make Arcadia comfortable with so much chaos.

“So I
should
see Lord Sheridan? Tell him I'll come down,” she said, eager to placate her aunt. The thought of coming face to face with Lord Sheridan and the painful recollections he represented stirred her nerves, which she fought to quell.

“Too late,” snapped Lady Delafield. “I've already sent him away.”

Behind her ladyship's back, Poorvaja threw up her hands and rolled her eyes.

Ordinarily, Arcadia would have laughed at her maid's mischief, but now she experienced a cold knot of anxiety.

“You're here to marry,” Lady Delafield pronounced with finality, “not to plague this house with your heathen antics.”

“Sheridan? What are you doing here?”

He looked up from the book of Epictetus he'd been browsing while waiting in a drawing room at Lothgard House. He'd asked to see his brother, but it was his sister-in-law who stood before him.

Setting the book aside, he rose and went to her. “Deborah, what a pleasant surprise. You look lovely this morning, my dear.” He bent to buss her cheek, his customary greeting.

She drew back, out of reach. Her lips pulled thin, bracketed by lines.

He gave a tight smile, straightened. His fingertips skimmed over the heavy embroidery on his waistcoat on their way to pluck his quizzing glass from the pocket. He twirled it in his fingers, allowing the silver fob chain to wrap about his digits.

“Why have you come?”

“To kiss the Blarney Stone,” he replied with simulated levity, not at all caring for the way his brother's sweet-tempered wife, who had once regarded him fondly, now seemed offended by the fact that he drew breath. “I'll settle for laying eyes upon my brother, however.”

She raised her chin a notch, folded her hands at her waist. “Elijah isn't here.”

“Is that Uncle Sheridan?”

One of the twins—he thought it was Crispin—popped his head through the open door.

The boy's face split into a wide grin when he spotted Sheri; he took a step into the parlor.

“Webb, get back.” Deborah's voice cracked like a whip and her arm shot out, as though to bar her child from stepping on an adder.

Only, in this case, Sheri was the venomous serpent.

“Oh, come now, Deborah,” he said, affronted. Extending his arm, he waved his nephew forward. “Let the lad come greet his uncle.”

“No.” Shooing the boy back into the corridor, she slid closed the pocket door and turned on her brother-in-law. Her brown eyes were large in her rounded face. “I don't feel comfortable having you around the boys, Sheridan. Just this morning, Crispin came home from the park with a bruised face. Do you know how he came to be injured?”

“Fell off his pony?” Sheri guessed.

Golden curls swayed as she slowly shook her head. “He fought with another boy. That child called you a …” She visibly wrestled with the epithet. “A name. And Crispin defended you.”

Sheri winced. “Good of him, but he shouldn't have done that.”

“No,” Deborah agreed. “You're just what the other boy said.”

Well.

“Boys scrap, Deborah.”

“He didn't even know what the word meant, only that his uncle, his hero, had been insulted. Webb explained that a
monger
is someone who deals in particular goods, so Crispin said, in that case, he wants to be a whoremonger when he grows up, just like you.”

Shame, cold and acidic, leaked from his gut and spread. “I hope you assured them I do not peddle flesh for a living.”

Deborah took a few limping steps, her determined spirit more than making up for her physical frailty. “They go to school next year, and it will be worse. Not just a single boy taunting them in the park, but dozens.” She shook her head and bit her lip, pausing before continuing on. “You may not come around the boys, Sheridan.” Despite the fire in Deborah's eyes, her voice quavered. “Not until you've proven yourself reformed.”

“By way of marriage?” he asked as kindly as he could, given that it was an agreement he'd made under duress. His hackles rose at the thought. Sheri had no wish to bring ill repute to his family, especially his young and impressionable nephews, but he had no need of a bride to keep him in line. “Things will be different, you have my word. I believe I'm well on my way, without the intercession of a wife. Just the other day, you may be interested to know, I rendered aid to a lady in need.”

“Miss Parks,” Deborah said. “Believe me, brother, I've heard all about
that
.” Her shoulders heaved on a weary sigh. “You were found in a compromising position with the lady—”

“She was robbed,” he clarified, “and sick. Mr. Wynford-Scott was there, as well as her servant.”

Deborah pulled a kerchief from a pocket in her dress and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “It's been established that the maid was
not
there, that she arrived later in Lady Delafield's carriage. As far as I can gather, Miss Parks was alone with
two
men, and half-unclothed. Furthermore, you resisted returning Miss Parks to her aunt.” She wrung the damp square of linen into a tight log. “Oh, Sheridan,” she said, her voice thickening, “how
could
you? I hear nothing but
‘
What has that brother-in-law of yours done now, Lady Lothgard?' and ‘Share Zouche has struck again!'”

She balled a fist and batted his arm. “That terrible Lady Tyrrel even had the audacity to ask if your depraved proclivities run in the family—and then she … she …” The woman's face crumpled. “She made a vulgar proposition towards Elijah and myself!”

His eyes widened at the thought of Sybil trying to lure Lothgard and Deborah into her bed. Deborah was so innocent, she'd probably never even heard of such an arrangement before Sheri's former lover put the suggestion to her. “My dear, I'm so sorry,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to a chair. Crossing to the sideboard, he poured a cup of lemonade and presented it to her. “Please believe that nothing untoward happened with Miss Parks. I would never take advantage of a lady in such dire straits,” he pointed out. “As a matter of fact, she has been abed with her illness ever since that unfortunate incident. This is all tawdry gossip and misunderstanding, don't you see?”

Deborah snuffled and swiped her nose with the wadded handkerchief. “But it's so easy to believe the worst, because it's happened before, over and over again. And that's why I can't have you in my home or around my children.” She sipped the drink, coughed, and set it aside. “What sort of example are you setting for them, Sheridan? Is this the kind of behavior you wish them to emulate—this inveterate womanizing?”

One knee cocked out as he planted hands on hips. He'd had quite enough of these aspersions cast on him and his life. “And what's wrong with willing adults engaging in whatsoever activities they choose?” he demanded hotly. “If my nephews wish to sample the delights of the bedroom when they are older, then bravo to them, I say.”

Deborah gasped in dismay. “Says the man who was shot by a jealous husband.” Deborah rose to her feet. “You have to get out, Sheri. Right now. And don't come back until you've properly reformed.”

Sheri made a curt bow and turned. His brother stood glowering in the parlor door. His face was red and still as stone. “I suggest you do as the marchioness bids, Sheridan. Do not darken our doorstep again.”

• • •

After being evicted from his brother's house, Sheri found himself at something of a loss. He walked aimlessly through Mayfair, staring at the ground in front of his toes. The accusations of treating Miss Parks with impropriety stung, but he could shrug off the gossip as he had so often in the past. After all, the same tabbies who whispered behind his back welcomed his advances. Hypocrites, the lot of them, he fumed.

He did regret that Deborah had to face cruelty from the
ton
's women. It wasn't fair that she was taunted with his indiscretions. The woman was innocent of everything except possessing a sweet, sensitive disposition. While Sheri's mother, the dowager marchioness, had a core of steel and could face down a hungry lion and have it purring at her feet inside three minutes, Deborah was not likewise hardened against the ravages of social scrutiny. She'd never understood that she couldn't be bosom bows with everyone, that some people were jealous of her lofty position and would pick and tear at her until there was nothing left.

His innards squirmed at the memory of the hurt in her eyes, at the courageous way she'd defended her children against Sheri's corrupting influence. Her idea of reforming him via marriage might be silly, but her heart was in the right place. She was a good woman, a good wife and mother. She didn't deserve the scorn of the
ton
.

Lifting his head, Sheri took stock of his surroundings. It was a nice day. The sun shone in a clear sky. The temperature was a little cooler than it had been the previous week, but a warm breeze—probably one of the last of the year—ruffled the hair peeking from beneath his hat at the nape of his neck. What to do on such a day, with the celestial orb spilling its glory on his quickly sinking spirits?

Where were the other Honorables on such a day, he wondered as he strolled past stately homes and gardens flaunting their Michaelmas blooms. Norman would have his nose in a tome, putting together a legal brief to assist some barrister's case. Brandon would be tending his patients, saving a life, delivering a baby, sawing off a gangrenous limb, something genuinely useful. Henry, meanwhile, was probably stuck behind his desk in the offices of De Vere and Sons, the shipping company he and his brother had founded. And Harrison, who'd recently taken a position with Henry's company, was probably in a stuffy warehouse or inspecting the dank cargo hold of a ship.

None of them would be out and about enjoying the fine weather. Instead, they were all busy being productive adults, a feat Sheri had never quite managed. It mattered little that, thanks to his inheritance and prudent investments, he didn't need to work to live a life of modest splendor; he was still bedeviled by the nagging suspicion that his life was utterly pointless.

Sometimes he thought he should do something better with his life, something more. An endeavor he could take pride in, such as the occupations of his friends. He'd spent a little time here and there dabbling with one idea and another. Last fall, Sheri had even taken it into his head that maybe he could be a surgeon, like Brandon Dewhurst. He'd gone so far as to attend a lecture and dissection demonstration. Even there, he'd only managed to squire Miss Robbins (now Mrs. Dewhurst) and her midwife friends past some disapproving men to their seats. Then he'd nearly shat through his teeth at the sights and smells that assailed him, putting a swift end to that professional calling.