Duty Before Desire (35 page)

Suddenly his hand was gone, replaced by the round head of his member sliding up and down. He curved over her back, pulled her hair to the side, and mouthed her neck. “I love how wet you are,” he said. “I love making you feel good.”

Rearing up, he fitted himself to her entrance and drove forward, stretching and filling her in one long stroke.

The night's not over. It isn't morning yet.

But not even the most determined lovers could keep the sun at bay.

A week after the wedding, Sheri was quietly going insane. A beautiful woman with lean, strong limbs, perfect breasts, and a mouth he could kiss forever—if only he could simultaneously hear her bewitching voice fill his ears with the sounds of her rapture—was living under his roof but not sharing his bed. She was happy to discuss the news of the day over the morning papers, accompany him on fruitless expeditions to jewelers and pawnbrokers, and play cards after dinner. Then, like the friend she'd vowed to be, she bid him good night and retired to her room. Alone.

Night after night he lay in his bed, his eyes boring a hole in the door connecting their rooms, willing it to open. It never did. And he never stepped through it, either. They'd agreed on one night, and she'd willingly, enthusiastically, taken part. He'd even inveigled an additional session of morning sex into the arrangement. Asking for more would be ungentlemanly.

The trouble was, Arcadia made him feel quite ungentlemanly. Sleeping with her had only stoked his lust, rather than assuage it. He'd only had her twice, which left most of the school of copulation unexplored. Sheri'd never had Arcadia on top of him, riding him with abandon. He'd never had her against the wall or on a table. They'd never slipped away from a dull party to make their own entertainment in a convenient broom closet and return to the party with no one the wiser. Not once had they enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh beneath the open sky. Hell, he'd never even had her on a Tuesday.

Was he supposed to go the rest of his days without once having Arcadia on a Tuesday? It was an outrage. An affront.

Most of the time, he was perfectly content to enjoy a woman's company once or twice. Some affairs survived for a few weeks, with a notable few lingering a month or two. Arcadia was certainly the sort of girl he'd like to spend some time with. Beyond the supple body he couldn't get enough of, she was sharp and fun to cross verbal swords with. She called on Deborah and doted on his undeserving nephews. She'd even extended an olive branch to his mother, willingly shutting herself up alone in a room with the dowager for half an hour. Sheri had paced the corridor outside the drawing room door, ready to dash to Arcadia's rescue the instant he heard the
thwang
of his mother's fangs dropping in her jaws, positioned to strike.

But there had been no sounds of bloodletting from the room, only the soft murmur of feminine voices. When the door opened, his mother had patted Arcadia's hand fondly and called her “dear.” The dowager never called Sheri “dear.”

“Here's a note from Mrs. Dewhurst,” Arcadia said while going through her morning post at the breakfast table—on a Tuesday, he gloomily noted.

“What news from that worthy lady?” he inquired placidly whilst stabbing a knife into a beef kidney.

Arcadia's eyes scanned the correspondence. “We're invited to Elmwood to spend two nights, beginning on Friday.” She glanced over the paper at him. “Oh, may we? I've still not seen anything of your country besides London. It would be nice to see a little of the countryside. And I promised Claudia and Lorna a yoga demonstration, as well.”

His knife clattered to the table.
Good God.
He'd done his level best to try to not think about what he'd overheard Arcadia tell Claudia. It was just more fuel for his frustrated fantasies. And now there was to be a demonstration to toss into his seething cauldron of lust? “Sounds delightful,” he said.

She smiled. “Smashing! I shall write our acceptance at once.”

His brows drew together. “‘Smashing'? That sounds like Claudia De Vere talking. Don't let her influence you to foolhardy plans.”

“Oh, the yoga demonstration was her idea.”

“Of course it was.”

• • •

“So”—Claudia tugged on the arm she had looped with Arcadia's—“tell, tell. Is marriage to Lord Sheridan most agreeable?”

Arcadia, Claudia, and Lorna were taking a ramble about Elmwood's park on Friday afternoon. The overcast day was cold, naturally, but Arcadia lifted her face to the air and breathed deep, grateful for the clean scents of earth and autumn leaves. A large brown-and-black dog called Bluebell loped ahead of the trio, zigzagging wildly, her snuffling nose to the ground. Occasionally she bounded off after a chipmunk or squirrel, but always returned to Lorna's side before resuming her sniffing inspection of the ground.

They paused for a moment on a rise overlooking the house. It was nothing like the grand homes Arcadia had seen in etchings in the books of Sir Thaddeus's library at home. Elmwood was a mismatched hodgepodge of architecture, each rambling addition a testament to a family history spanning centuries. It was lived in and comfortable and true, a family home, instead of a showplace. A wistful pang stirred in her breast.

“Lord Sheridan is most congenial,” she answered. “He's gone out of his way to ensure my comfort.” Besides the jewel box of a room he'd made for her, he had ordered that the rooms Lady Sheridan frequented be kept amply heated all the day through. Her own chamber was seemingly supplied with a bottomless scuttle of coal. Unless she went outside, Arcadia could almost forget she was in England.

Lorna looked at Arcadia askance. The slender woman wore only a single shawl over her walking dress, while Arcadia had, as usual, donned multiple layers of outerwear.

“Congenial?” Lorna repeated.

“That does seem a curious descriptor to attribute to Sheri,” Claudia said. She rocked back on her heels, her gloved hands tucked behind her back. “But he is … tending to your comfort?”

“He knows I don't like the cold,” Arcadia explained. “He tells the servants to keep fires burning in several rooms all day, though I'm sure it's expensive to do so.”

She hadn't been as warm again as she'd been the one night she spent in his arms, but the fires were a kind consolation prize.

“Very thoughtful of him, I'm sure,” Claudia persisted, “but is he
most agreeable
?”

Arcadia frowned. “Did I not answer the question?”

“Oh, look, there's Poorvaja with Daniel.” Lorna pointed to where the ayah had emerged from the house in the company of her younger brother. Bluebell woofed and galloped down the hill towards them, huge ears flapping in the wind. “It was so kind of Poorvaja to agree to join us for the demonstration tomorrow.”

“What I wish to know,” Claudia interjected, “is whether Lord Sheridan properly attends his Husbandly Duties.”

“You mean … ?”

Lorna tucked her hands into her shawl. “I'm afraid that is what she means.” She turned a pointed look on Claudia. “Although it's none of your concern and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Throwing her hands wide, Claudia affected a wounded expression. “We've all heard gossip about the great Chère Zouche's prowess. Can you fault me for possessing a purely academic curiosity in the subject when I am finally given the opportunity to learn from one with firsthand experience?”

Arcadia's eyes burned. Wretched man. Awful man. She'd have been better off by far remaining a virgin to the end of her days than to have been burdened with this knowledge of what they'd had together, and what she was losing.

“Yes,” she managed, her throat tight, “he is most agreeable.” The things he'd made her feel that night were exquisite. Her body had blossomed at his touch, responding to every caress, every whispered word.

Claudia chuffed. “
Hmph.
Reality does not conform to the myth, I presume. Typical male posturing.
Ow!
” She rubbed her shoulder where Lorna had just swatted her. “What was that for?”

“Stop it, you ninny.”

Arcadia sat down on the grass, tucking her knees up and resting her chin on them.

“Don't listen to me,” Claudia said, sitting down beside her. “I'm a dreadful hoyden. Comes from growing up in a large family, I'm afraid. I almost always say the first thing that pops into my head, and it's almost always something that I should have kept behind my teeth.”

“But we do wish you happy,” Lorna said, coming to sit on Arcadia's other side. “Lord Sheridan is loyal and kind, in his own way. And he is terribly handsome.”

“He's kind and loyal in anyone's way,” Arcadia said stoutly. She knew who he was inside, the boy who had defied his father to care for his illegitimate sister. “But he doesn't want to be married,” she found herself saying. “He had to marry, and so did I, and so we married each other.”

Lorna picked up a leaf and twirled it by the stem. “That's not so unusual. Many marriages begin like that. But there's every hope that it will become a love match sooner or later.”

“You don't understand.,” Arcadia said, shaking her head. “He doesn't want a wife. He wants to be married in name only to an absent wife so he may resume his life without the burden of a spouse nearby.”

“Absentee wife?” Claudia snorted. “Where does he think he's going to put you? He's got no land. Is he planning to ship you back to India?”

Arcadia sank her eyes to her knees.

“Oh,” Claudia said.

“Well, don't go,” Lorna said. “He can't make you go to India if you don't want to.”

“But I promised.” Arcadia lifted her head and swiped a stray tear from her cheek. “That was the deal we struck. I told him I wanted to fulfill my duty to my family by marrying, then go back to India like it never happened.”

“But it did happen,” Lorna said.

“And now you're in love,” Claudia concluded, reaching an arm around Arcadia's shoulders.

She nodded miserably. “I'm afraid so.”

• • •

“You're cracked,” Henry observed.

“Quite possibly,” Sheri admitted, “but you cannot tell me you aren't curious. You, too, Dewhurst,” he shot to Brandon. “Stop scowling at me like I've tracked mud on the parlor rug.

Returning his mug of tea to the table, Brandon rubbed circles at his graying temple. “Naturally, I'm curious. From an anatomical standpoint, observing yoga postures would present an interesting study in the body's capability to—”

“Spare me your anatomical fee-faw-fum.” Sheri thumped the side of his fist to the table. “I'm talking about women.
Bending
women.”

A muscle in Brandon's jaw ticked. “It doesn't matter. We're not invited. The demonstration is only for the ladies.”

Stretching an arm to where Brandon was seated beside him, Sheri tapped the surgeon's forehead. “Which is why I suggested we observe discreetly. And we'd best get on with it, as they are set to convene in twenty minutes.” Arcadia and her friends had quit the table ahead of the men in order to prepare, affording Sheri the opportunity to pursue a harebrained scheme of his own.

“You want to spy on the ladies?” Henry sounded nonplussed. He crossed his arms across his chest, his face twisted in scorn.

Not
ladies
, just one lady. Sheri was frenzied with the desire to watch Arcadia at her yoga practice. “It's a demonstration,” he pointed out. “Your wives aren't going to do anything but watch. All I'm asking is for some assistance in admiring my own spouse.”

“
Pffft.
” Henry chuffed a breath, rustling the lock of straw-gold hair drooping over his brow. “And you're inviting us along to leer at her, too? You're despicable, Zouche, you know that?”

Wounded, Sheri pushed back from the table. He brushed toast crumbs from his waistcoat. “Mock all you wish. But if it was your wife planning to sail away to India, never to return—which sounds precisely like something Mrs. De Vere would cook up, you must admit—and you said to me, ‘Sheri, my dearest friend—'”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“‘—my wife is going to leave me, and I'll never again lay eyes upon her once she's gone, but there has arisen a golden opportunity for me to feast on the sight of her, will you help me?' I would. I would do whatever was needful to assist your romantic quest.”

On their way to his quizzing glass, his fingers paused to touch the silver fob.
Miss you, Sheri.
Would Arcadia miss him? Even a little? Or would Sheri once more be the only one suffering the sting of absence, as he still felt the loss of Grace?

Instead of plucking out his quizzing glass, he swiped his face, suddenly weary. “Of course I don't want you leering at Arcadia. I'm asking you to help me admire her from afar, and if the cost of your assistance is that you grab a gander at that beautiful woman, as well, then who am I to refuse? If you had the good fortune to be married to Arcadia, I would stare at her so much you'd have to call me out.”

Henry rolled his eyes, but his sneer softened. “It's not a romantic quest, so much as a mildly disturbing one,” he said without much heat, “but I take your meaning.”

Brandon's fingertips drummed on the table. “I've never seen you like this about a woman before.”

I've never been like this about a woman before.
There simply was no other woman like Arcadia. She was precious and rare.

The surgeon leaned forward. “Tell her you don't want her to go. Ask her to stay.” Henry murmured his agreement.

They didn't understand. How could they? Both had married for love, not in fulfillment of a cold
quid pro quo
arrangement. Arcadia had done her part. If Sheri refused to hold up his side of their bargain, not only would he be breaking his word, but he'd be asking Arcadia to sacrifice the only thing she wanted: to return to India.