Duty Before Desire (15 page)

His tight smile didn't touch his eyes. “She was.”

“I'm so sorry.”

He didn't acknowledge her condolences, just gazed at the little picture cradled in his hand. “She loved doing that,” he said, nodding to indicate the children playing with their ball across the way. “Whenever I visited her, she'd cozen me into taking her outside to kick the ball, whatever the weather. Didn't matter if it was raining buckets, or if there was a foot of snow on the ground. The only ball she had was a castoff from Eli and me. Old leather cracked, falling apart at the seams. Eventually, I bought her a new one. When I gave it to her, she cried and wouldn't have anything to do with it, so we played with the ratty old one until …” His voice faltered. “Until the last time we played.”

“How long ago?”

“Ten years this past summer, a few months after this portrait was done. She was twelve.”

So long, yet his grief was still fresh. That Lord Sheridan was capable of such deep feeling wasn't precisely a shocking revelation, but it did unsettle her somewhat. He did a fine job of presenting himself as elevated beyond common mortals, with his perfectly tailored clothing, his withering insults, his debonair manners.

Clearing his throat, he closed the fob, then busied himself reattaching it to the quizzing glass chain.

Arcadia wanted to hear more about Grace. Had his sister not lived with Lord Sheridan's family? Why had he had to visit her? She didn't dare ask, though; clearly, it was a tender subject.

Tilting her face to the sky, she saw that the clouds that had blanketed the sky all day had taken on a lavender cast. “It's getting late.”

Lord Sheridan drew his feet in, propped his elbows on his knees. He plucked his hat off and raked his hair with his other hand. It was the first time Arcadia had seen his head bare. Thick, russet waves fell forward, concealing his eyes. His head hung low, shoulder blades jutting like wings trying to burst past the fabric of his coat. Between them, his back sloped into the vulnerable hollow of his spine. Arcadia longed to run her fingers down it, to soothe the long-ago hurts that pained him still.

Abruptly, he straightened and extended his arm along the back of the bench, his hand just behind her shoulder. Not quite touching, but she felt it there. “It's your choice, Arcadia. I've never taken a woman to bed with anything less than her avid consent. I'm not about to force my own wife, but neither will I take you to wife without your agreement to the consummation.”

“Must I choose now? May I have a little time?”

A thick brow arched, sardonic, above a dark eye. “While you dither, where is your ayah? Is Poorvaja safe in a warm bed, or has she been forced to labor in a Spitalfields factory, perhaps against her will? Maybe a pimp has offered her shelter and food, for which she will have to repay him by selling her body. Or—”

“Stop!” Arcadia cried. “Don't you think I've already imagined every dreadful thing that could happen to her?”

He chuffed a breath. “No, peahen, I don't believe you have. London is home to vices not yet dreamed of in your little Indian idyll and knows ways to hurt and demean that I pray you never see in your nightmares.”

He sounded older just then, and tired.

Tired, Arcadia understood. She was weary, too. Worn nearly to the bone by this bleak city and its strange ways. And yet, she knew her life was better than most. She'd been part of the Raj in India,
de facto
ambassador of the British Empire by virtue of her father's place with the East India Company. But she'd witnessed suffering there, deprivation and hardship that flashed through the chinks in the wall. Lepers begging outside temples, weaving women who earned extra coin by offering themselves to British soldiers, children who ate no more in a day but a single bowl of rice and a cup of goat's milk. Compared to them, Arcadia had been blessed with abundance. She'd never known a day of hunger or a night without a blanket. Who was she to now balk at giving herself to a man—an attractive one, at that—just once, in exchange for Poorvaja's safe return?

Even Poorvaja herself held a dim view of Arcadia's protests against marriage. It was what everyone around Arcadia expected of her. If she could not avoid the inevitable, might she not take some portion of that fate for herself and do something good with it?

Still … still. It was hard to reconcile the image of a younger Lord Sheridan happily playing in the rain with the man issuing this hard demand. Shouldn't he help her, for no reason other than she'd asked it of him? Wasn't that the English way?

Mayhap it was the English way, but it wasn't
his
way, not this creature with his eyes rendered fathomless by the gloaming, his exquisite male beauty shrouded in linen and wool. Had he been the spice merchant in the village marketplace, she might have known how to haggle with him; had he been a Company factor, she might have known how best to appeal to his sensibilities; but this aristocrat was something entirely beyond her ken. What could she do but accede to his bargain?

Back on the station in the
mofussil
, when the
memsahibs
gathered and complaints started flowing along with the tea, this oft-repeated advice would flow from one of the senior women:
Think of England
. Whatever hardship India threw their way, women of the Raj could master. In India, they were ambassadors of the Empire and were expected to behave as such. Thoughts of Home inspired them to buck up and do whatever needful to see things through.

Well, Arcadia's thoughts of home flowed across the sea in the opposite direction, but the advice held. If she wanted to help Poorvaja, if she wanted to return to her version of Home, she must do whatever it took.

Firming her spine, she told him, “I will marry you, but I want my brooch, too. You offered to help me find it, as well, remember.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Naturally. While we're turning London inside out to find your wayward servant, we might as well dig up your lost treasure, too. Anything else you'd like to add to the list? The Holy Grail, perhaps?”

Arcadia scowled at the grinning Lord Sheridan. “Don't you dare laugh at me! This is serious.”

Chuckling softly, his arm insinuated itself around her shoulders and slid down her back. His hand wrapped around her waist, and he tugged her close to his side. “I'm not laughing at you, I swear.”

“You're laughing right now!”

His other hand cupped her cheek while the hand around her waist slid down to her hip and hitched her even closer. Arcadia suddenly found herself pressed against a warm, solid wall of male chest, her face just inches from his.

“You shall have your brooch and your ayah and anything else you want, my dear little peahen.” His eyes darted to her lips; his head angled closer to hers. “Now kiss me, Arcadia. Kiss me and be mine.”

Arcadia took a deep breath.

Closing her eyes, she lifted her chin to seal her bargain with this laughing devil. More gently than she could have thought possible, he covered her mouth with his. A deep shock thudded through her body. Her chin trembled beneath the tender onslaught of his kiss, her teeth lightly chattering, as if she'd taken chill. Yet it wasn't the cold that possessed her, but the overwhelming sensations he'd aroused in her.

She brought a hand between them, thinking to push him away. Instead, her disloyal fingers gripped his lapel, clinging for all she was worth.

Back and forth his lips moved over hers, devastatingly tender. His hand moved to her nape; his fingers slid beneath the back of her bonnet and tangled in her hair. For long minutes, he sipped from her bottom lip and teased the corners of her mouth. Soft exhalations of contentment vibrated through his throat, as if he'd slipped into a hot bath and planned to stay for a while. Not once did he press for more.

More.

The idea possessed her like an imperative. She wanted more of his kiss, of his hands on her body. And heaven help her, she wanted to touch him, to see the marble statue wrought in living flesh.

With a groan, she tipped her head back, wantonly offering herself.

Abruptly, he drew back, ending the kiss just as she was desperate for more of it. She blinked her eyes open. The corner of his mouth, that weapon of sensual destruction, quirked. Was he laughing at her again?

Drawing a shaky breath, Arcadia fought to steady her wrecked nerves. “I suppose you could tell that was my first kiss. I'm sorry if it wasn't to your liking.”

“
Shh, shh, shh ...
” Pressing a finger to her lips, he bent his head to her ear. “It was entirely to my liking, Arcadia,” he whispered. The sound,
the feel
, of her own name carried on his breath, hot against her earlobe, sent shivers dancing across her skin. “Consummating our union won't be a hardship to either of us. Already, I'm anticipating the next time I can taste your sweet lips. But today …” He retreated a bit, cut his eyes to the promenade. “Today I'd rather not embroil my fiancée in a public indecency scandal.”

Following his gaze, Arcadia gasped. A knot of five or six men stood not ten feet away, leering at them. Merciful Krishna, she'd forgotten they weren't alone; it had only felt that way when Lord Sheridan's kiss obliterated her wits.

“Don't stop now,” called one of the men in a rough accent.

“Aye,” added a second, “this is better'n the show at Fanny Mae's. She was jus' startin' to get hot, man. Keep at it—this way!” He pumped his arms and hips in a lewd gyration, accompanied by grunts of
ungh-ungh-ungh.
The entire group burst into raucous guffaws.

Arcadia wondered that her face didn't incinerate from the humiliation. Laughing, Lord Sheridan wrapped his arms about her, shielding her face against his shoulder.

“Sorry, lads,” he called in return, “show's over. But you're the first to know that this lovely girl just agreed to marry me.”

A rousing cheer rose from their small audience. Pulling Arcadia to her feet, Lord Sheridan led her to the group and handed out coins. “A drink on me,” he told the men.

His gift was met with more cheers and congratulations. The men all pumped Lord Sheridan's hand and kissed Arcadia's cheek. “A bonny bride,” announced one of the men in a Scots burr. “She'll give you a fine passel o' bairns.”

Arcadia's cheeks flamed once more. Lord Sheridan caught her eye and winked.

The man who'd first called to them slapped the back of his hand against Lord Sheridan's waistcoat. “'Oo shall we drink to?”

Clapping the fellow's shoulder, her affianced husband turned a beaming smile on Arcadia. “Raise your glass to the health of my bride, Miss Parks, and to me, Sheridan Zouche, the luckiest man in England.”

His tone was so affectionate, she almost believed he meant it.

We have to make them believe.

“Never say you're Share Zouche!” cried another of the men, his hands clapped to his head, his expression one of disbelief.

“The very same,” Lord Sheridan affirmed with a nod.

“Oh, ain't we seen somethin' tonight, boys! Share Zouche slain by a bit o' muslin.”

After another round of good wishes, more kisses on her cheek (and one adventuresome pinch on her bottom), Arcadia and Lord Sheridan took their leave of the group and returned to the carriage.

Lord Sheridan whistled while he drove, a jaunty melody Arcadia did not recognize.

“Why did you do that, my lord?”

Stopping abruptly, his lips still pursed, he tossed a questioning look at her. “Do what, peahen?”

Why did you kiss me like I was precious to you?
she wanted to ask.
Why did you introduce me with such pride?
But she was intensely aware of the groom seated on the perch behind them. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other. “Those men back there. They were familiar and rude, yet you did not correct them. In India, no one would dare speak that way to a Company official. And should a peasant offend the person of a Mughal prince or any of his wives or concubines, the penalty would be severe and immediate.”

He looked at her askance. “Did your father ever have anyone chucked in gaol for impugning his dignity?”

Arcadia shook her head. “No. But I remember a neighboring factor who boasted that he'd had seven Indian men lashed the month before, one of them for staring too long at his wife.”

“Good God! What did the other six do?”

“Nothing. He said it was good policy to remind the natives who's in charge. There are always rumblings of uprisings against the Raj. He was doing his part to suppress it.”

“And you wish to go back there? Doesn't sound a very appealing place.”

How could Arcadia explain? Sitting high in Lord Sheridan's curricle afforded her a good view of the street. The buildings here were too tall, caging her in. Her ears were fatigued from hearing nothing but English all day long. Every breath filled her nose with unfamiliar smells. When it wasn't actively stinking, London's aromas were heavy and dull. Arcadia missed the lively scent of curries cutting through the hot morning as she and Poorvaja did shopping in the market, the heady aroma of incense wafting from the Hindu temple, the sultry fragrance of flowers scenting the nighttime air.

“Yes, I'm sure,” she said. “Besides, can you honestly tell me England is any better?”

After a moment of charged silence he cleared his throat, then returned to the earlier topic. “Well, this is London. Here, the unwashed masses hold no one in reverence, excepting perhaps our ailing king and the Duke of Wellington. Note, if you will, that I am neither of those august persons. Given half a chance, any butcher or laundress would think nothing of marching right up to Prinny and giving him a scold over how much he spent renovating Carlton House yet again, or the abysmal state of the roads. An exceedingly minor aristocrat such as myself, living a worthless life of pleasure and indulgence, is just the sort to attract the well-deserved anger of honest laborers. I'm better served currying the mob's favor, rather than feeding their antagonism. Heroically strong I may be,” he said, waggling his brow as he rounded the corner to her street, “but not even I can fight off an entire pack of the irate downtrodden.”