Duty Before Desire (38 page)

“When does the ship sail?”

“A fortnight.”

Poorvaja's needles flew faster and faster, her hands jerky, agitated. “So soon.”

She shrugged. “We haven't much to pack.”

Preparations for the trip would keep her busy, hopefully too busy to see much of Sheri. During the night, she had turned over and over in her mind what Sheri had said when he'd returned her peacock brooch.
I wasn't ready.
Wasn't ready for what? In the small hours of morning, it occurred to her that maybe—
maybe
—he'd meant he hadn't wanted her to leave yet, not because he feared she wouldn't follow through on their agreement, but because he simply wanted her to stay.

Hope had stirred in her chest, but it was tempered by uncertainty. And then, at breakfast, when he calmly suggested she inquire with Henry De Vere regarding her travel to India, the hope was snuffed out.

The strand of yarn tangled around Poorvaja's fingers. With a curse, she clapped the needles together and slammed her work to the seat at her side. She turned her face to the window, her eyes scanning back and forth over the busy scene on Piccadilly. “I want to walk,” she said abruptly. “Let me down.”

Arcadia knocked on the roof. When the carriage drew to a stop, the ayah struggled to open the door. “Poorvaja”—Arcadia touched her friend's shoulder—“are you all right?”

The Indian woman nodded stiffly. “I'd just prefer to be alone right now, Jalanili.”

“Very well.” Arcadia offered an uncertain smile. “I'll see you at home.”

As the coach moved on, Arcadia clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Whatever had Poorvaja in such a fettle? She knew her friend could look after herself, but still, Arcadia couldn't help but fret a little.

I'll see you at home.

Arcadia's breath caught. Her heart stopped.

Home.

Her head snapped up. She glanced out the window. Knocked on the roof. Her hands shaking, she struggled to open the door and could scarcely wait for the driver to help her down.

The teeming hubbub of the street engulfed her. Merchants hawked their wares while pedestrians jostled on the walk and a gentleman driving a high phaeton shouted invective at the driver of a wagon moving too slowly for his liking.

Arcadia darted and dodged her way through the traffic, finally breaking through onto a quieter street. One lined with imposing, stately structures that cast cool shadows on the cobblestone. She scurried down the street to where a particular window bowed away from the facade of a building.

• • •

A glass of brandy floated into Sheri's field of vision. He glanced up to see Harrison Dyer standing beside his chair.

“Thanks for coming, Harry,” Sheri said, accepting the proffered beverage.

“Glad to have your note this morning,” Harrison replied as he took a seat beside Sheri. “You've been a busy fellow,
hmm
? Married. Sorry I couldn't make it to festivities.” Harrison lifted his drink, the corners of his amber eyes crinkling. “Congratulations, old man. I wish you happy.”

It was the first Sheri had seen of Harrison since the morning of the duel. His friend was leaner than he'd been several months ago, his tawny hair long and unkempt.

Tipping back his brandy, Sheri drained the glass and winced, not from the liquor's burn but from the more potent pain jabbing his heart.

“Got married, yes,” he confirmed, his gaze sliding from Harry's interested expression to the mundanities passing by the bow window. A liveried footman dashed by with arms full of parcels. “And now she's leaving me.”

Harrison startled. A long pause followed. “I don't know what to say.”

Shrugging, Sheri shifted forward. He rolled the empty snifter between his palms. “I'm not looking for a shoulder to cry upon. I asked you here because I need you to do something for me.”

“If it's in my power, you needn't even ask.”

Sheri gave a weary smile. “I know.” He might not have the woman he loved, but he was abundantly blessed with loyal friends. In this, he had more than most. It would have to be enough. “Arcadia, my wife”—
my wife, My Wife, MY WIFE,
shouted his brain—“is making arrangements with Henry, even as we speak, to secure passage on his ship when it sails.”

Harry squinted and rubbed his temple. “Alone, I take it?”

He nodded. “I need you to watch over her for me. Keep her safe until …”
Until she's vanished over the horizon, carrying away the future you didn't know you wanted until it was too late.
“Until she's home,” he finished.

Home.
What a stupid word. Like
friends.
Stupid when it came to Arcadia, at any rate, he amended, shooting a look at his companion. What home would he have without her? An empty house he didn't want? Endless days with interminable hours he'd try to fill with frivolity and mindless pleasure? What was the point? Without Arcadia, he would feel just as homeless as his wife did now. Why, he might as well—

Harrison clapped his shoulder. “I'll see to her safety. You have my word.”

Sheri shook his head. “No, never mind. I'll see to it myself.” He deposited his glass on a table. Arcadia would be returning from her call to the De Veres' house shortly. He wanted to be there when she arrived.

Harrison's brows drew together. “See to it yourself?” he echoed. “You mean to stop her from going?”

The corner of his eye caught the flutter of a familiar paisley Kashmir shawl. Sheri turned his face, and there she was, right back on St. James's Street, where she had no business being, the difference being that this time she was his. She was his, and he wasn't giving her up.

For a moment, he studied her without reaction. Then, he lifted his quizzing glass to his eye.

Arcadia giggled and showed him a smile. God, how could he have ever thought to let her go?

Several other gentlemen were gathered in the window, and more were jostling for position, once again entertained by the spectacle of Sheri and Arcadia.

Let them look.

“No, Harry, I mean to accompany her,” he informed his friend. “I'm going to India, too.” Sheri slipped out of his seat and hurried to collect his things. A few minutes later he exited, nodding to the footman at the door.

“Lady Sheridan,” he said, pulling on his gloves, “you are provokingly scandalous.”

She hitched her shawl higher. “You told me to be as scandalous as I wished. You told me to be myself.”

He slanted a wry smile. “Words I may live to regret, I see.” He should get her home, he supposed, before putting his heart in her hands and hoping she didn't chuck it into the rubbish bin. He proffered his arm.

She shook her head and didn't budge. “I spoke to Mr. De Vere. He offered me passage on his ship.”

Sheri's face fell at her determined tone. She didn't sound like a woman with any doubts about leaving her husband. But he had to try. He offered his arm again. “What can I do to facilitate your preparations for the voyage, Arcadia?”

She batted his arm. “Nothing, Sheri. You can't do anything. I'm not going.”

He frowned. “You're not—I beg your pardon?”

“I'm not going,” she repeated. She lifted her chin. “All my life, I've resented my mother for dying. I blamed her, you see. She was too much a
memsahib
, too much part of the Raj. She refused to let India touch or change her. She went right on wearing her petticoats and trying to make English flowers grow in her garden, talking always of Home. After she died, I couldn't help but think, if she hadn't put so much energy into fighting India, it could have been home, and maybe she wouldn't have died. Or at least she'd have been happy there, instead of always missing England.”

Sheri's expression was guarded. “I'm afraid I don't see—”

“
I'm
my mother,” Arcadia said, throwing her hands into the air. “I've spent every moment fighting England and missing India. I've tried not to let England touch me. But it has. I have friends here now, and even if my aunt and uncle haven't been all one could wish in a family, Deborah and Elijah have welcomed me into theirs. But, most importantly …” She held out her palm.

He raised a brow. Then he took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.

“I have you,” she finished. “I love you, Sheri. This is my home, and I don't want to leave.”

He brought his hand to her jaw, a wondering smile forming. “I love you, too, peahen. But you don't have to stay here. I'll come to India with you. You haven't seen a winter here yet. You may find it too cold—”

Her brows twitched over a naughty twinkle in her eye. “I was perfectly toasty when we were in bed together. Will you help me stay warm?”

His mouth lifted in a crooked smile. “I should like nothing more.”

He tipped her face and lowered his head. His heart sang as their lips met. Arcadia loved him, and she was his. Sheri couldn't imagine possibly being out of countenance with the world again.

He lifted his head, his eyes scanning her face. “You really want to stay? With me?”

“Yes. But maybe you don't want me to,” she said, apprehension trickling through her words.

“I love you, Arcadia,” he repeated. He'd tell her a thousand times until she believed it, and then a thousand times more because the words were the song of his heart. “I love you, and I want to be with you. Now. Always. You're the most spectacular woman I've ever known. You're brave and intelligent, and you're
strong
.” He gripped her hip in emphasis. “So strong. In every possible way. And I can't stop thinking about getting into bed with you. Or just getting into
you
, really, because I've no druthers as to the location, so long as I can touch you. I need you, peahen. I need you to be proud of me for dancing with wallflowers. I need you to love me for being me, in all my ridiculousness. If you got on that ship, I would follow you. To the other side of the world and beyond.”

She tugged his mouth to hers; her tongue brushed his lips, and he responded with a groan, drawing her tongue into his mouth and twining it with his. His arm clamped tight about her waist, and his other hand tangled in her hair, and he held her close, so close that there wasn't any room for cold or uncertainty.

They kissed long and thoroughly, stopping only when they heard knocks on glass and the muffled hoots of their forgotten witnesses in the window. When Sheri broke away, they were both breathless. His brow creased with one nagging thought.

“What about Poorvaja?” he asked.

Arcadia rested her hand on his chest, a frown finally appearing on her face. “If you and I are staying here, I have to tell her she's going home without me.”

• • •

Sheri offered a hackney, but Arcadia said she didn't mind walking home, provided he stayed close. He was more than happy to oblige. They took their time strolling, pausing to look in shop windows and listen to a street sweep sing while he worked. Sheri flipped the urchin a penny.

Contentment suffused every part of him.

That feeling lasted until they arrived home and found Sir Godwin Prickering in the drawing room.

He shot to his feet at their entrance. His hair stood on end, and he had a wild look in his eyes. His red neckcloth, Sheri noted, had been removed. It was presently located in the poet's hands, being twisted and shredded to an ignoble death.

“Lady Sheridan,” he cried, “Poorvaja has told me you're leaving.” He turned slightly, looking to where the ayah sat on the sofa. The Indian woman's pretty face was creased, her eyes bright with moisture. Having to tend an overwrought Sir Godwin would drive anyone to tears, Sheri mused.

“This will not do, my lady, indeed it will not.” He stomped a foot. “I cannot permit this.” His prodigious nose shone bright pink.

Sheri almost felt sorry for the bloke. He knew what it was to be hopelessly in love with Arcadia and want to rip one's own heart out at the prospect of being parted from her forever. Still, the sod was throwing himself at Sheri's wife in an unseemly display. He cleared his throat meaningfully and shot the man a stern look.

Arcadia looked around the blubbering poet to her friend. “Sir Godwin, I regret your distress, but I must ask you to excuse yourself. I need to speak with Poorvaja.”

The older woman made a choked sound. Sir Godwin pivoted and rushed to her side, taking her hand and covering it with kisses.

“Whatever you have to say to Poorvaja you must say in front of me, Lady Sheridan. We will not be parted. I won't permit you to snatch my muse, my love, from me.”

Sheri blinked. Shook his head. Was there a pebble lodged in his ear, perhaps?

Arcadia recovered first. “Your love? What … what is this? Poorvaja?”

“Oh, Jalanili.” Poorvaja twisted her hand into her braid. “You are grown now, and I am still young enough to marry again and maybe—Lakshmi willing—have another child of my own. Godwin is a good man and very kind, and he has asked me to marry him. I cannot stop you from this folly of yours”—she cut a look at Sheri—“but I will not accompany you. I'm sorry, Jalanili”—her voice hitched—“but I'm staying here.”

Arcadia brought a hand to her head. She looked at Sheri and laughed, a sound of disbelief and relief rolled into one. “But Poorvaja”—she sat beside her friend and took her hand—“I'm staying here, too.”

“With Lord Sheridan?” the ayah asked.

“Yes.” Arcadia nodded. “Are you really staying, too? We were just on our way to tell you that Sheri and I are staying—”

“Or going,” Sheri interjected. “Whatever you want, Arcadia. I meant it.”

She glanced at him with eyes shining with love. She laughed, and his heart radiated joy that suffused every fiber of his body. “Or going. Perhaps we'll stay here a while, then all go back to India together to visit your family, Poorvaja. Could we do that, Sheri?”