Duty Before Desire (5 page)

When the other woman, dressed in maid's garb, chased after the thief, Sheri went for the lady, catching up to her just in time to witness her casting her accounts on the ground. Normally, he could scarcely stand being in the presence of his own sick when that unfortunate event happened, much less that of another person. But he hadn't even wavered before drawing her to her feet. She'd pleaded with him in a strange, lilting accent before collapsing.

While Norman went loping after the miscreant, Sheri crouched and took a good look at her. The woman wore a dowdy bonnet. Her dress was matronly and plain, but pulled sinfully tight across her breasts, as though they wanted to spring free of the confines of their muslin prison.

A few dark, damp curls clung to the woman's cheeks. Her complexion looked waxen, except for twin fever-blooms on high, prominent cheekbones. She had a strong, angular jaw, with the hint of a cleft bisecting her firm chin. It wasn't a beautiful face, and the aroma of regurgitated bile did nothing to improve his impression.

A pained gasp burst from her lips.

Unattractive and odoriferous she might be, but she was a woman in need of aid. “She can't breathe properly,” he announced to no one, reaching behind her to release the fastenings of her dress and loosen the laces of her corset. His practiced adroitness with women's attire allowed him to accomplish the task in half a minute. At once, the unconscious woman's chest inflated as she dragged in a heavy breath.

He felt a touch lightheaded himself, with relief. “There's a good girl,” he murmured, soothingly stroking her back through a sweat-damp chemise. Beneath his fingers, he detected welts where the corset laces had nipped far too hard into her tender flesh. The physical discomforts to which women subjected themselves for the sake of vanity never ceased to amaze him. He rubbed the marks, encouraging circulation in the abused rib cage.

There was a burst of indecipherable noise, and then the maid was trying to pull Sheri away from his foundling. The servant's pinched brown face and sharp gestures communicated all the ire he could not deduce from her words.

He batted away the angry woman's flailing hands.
Mine
, snapped his brain.
He'd
found her;
he'd
saved her from death-by-fashion; he'd deuced well be the one to continue tending her. Besides which, she'd come to harm on the maid's watch; Sheri had doubts as to her ability to properly see to her mistress.

The servant spat a few venomous words at him; Sheri was grateful he didn't understand them.

He scooped the unconscious woman into his arms and rose. He was too attuned to female bodies to help from noticing that he held a very nice one, even if her unflattering clothes disguised it. Her curves snugged right against him as he jostled her weight. Out of habit, he lowered his head to her cheek for a whiff of her feminine scent; he recoiled at the acrid fumes from the vomit he'd managed to forget.

In a strained voice, he asked the maid, “What is your mistress's name?”

“My word!” said an unfamiliar voice.

A group of onlookers formed a short distance away. Curious ladies and gentlemen had, evidently, been drawn away from the social hour by the same commotion that had alerted Sheri to trouble.

“What's going on?” called one of the men.

“Who is that?” asked another.

“Why, it's Lord Sheridan,” said a lady. “Yoo-hoo, hello, Chère!” She tittered. The woman waved cheerfully. Sheri recognized her as someone he'd enjoyed a tumble with in the past. She gave him a saucy wink.

“Do you know this woman?” he asked, indicating the female in his arms. The lady kept preening, batting her eyelashes and smoothing a hand over her waist.

The crowd drew closer, forcing the maid to the edge of the path.

“Does anyone know her?” He looked from face to face, but his inquiry was met with blank stares, shrugs, and shaking heads.

Norman tromped back out of the woods, brushing leaves from his broad shoulders. He stood a full head taller than every other man present and addressed Sheri as though the crowd wasn't standing between them. “Sorry, Sheri, but the thief escaped. Has she still not come around?” he asked, pointing to Sheri's damsel.

“No,” Sheri ground out, frustration and the beginnings of fear lapping at him. Now that he'd been holding her for a few moments, he felt how much heat she was generating. The sick woman was fevered, in need of proper care. “And as much help as any of them are,” he said, jerking his chin at their audience, “you'd think she just fell from the sky. No one recognizes her.”

“Neither do you, Zouche,” said Marcus Tyson, whom Sheri recognized from his club. “But I see it hasn't stopped you taking her clothes off.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

A flush of embarrassment heated his neck. Sheri's jaw ticked. His hands tightened on his burden. “There are ladies present, Tyson.”

He made a decision. If these Society ninnies couldn't help him, he'd take care of the woman himself. “Come, Norman,” he called. “Collect the maid. Is Dewhurst in Town? He'll know what to do.”

Norman plowed through the crowd. “I don't see the maid. I think she's run off.”

The whinny of a horse announced yet another newcomer. At the back of the crowd, Sir Godwin Prickering sat atop his mincing little gelding. Sheri would never have thought to apply the word “foppish” to an animal before he encountered the poet's mount.

“I say, Zouche,” the man called, “whatever are you doing to Miss Parks? Your offensive touch has killed her!”

Sheri's brows shot up. “You know her?” he asked, incredulous.

A hush fell over the witnesses as they followed the exchange, eager to lap up new gossip.

The poet wiggled his shoulders as he straightened. “But of course,” Sir Godwin said in a smug drawl, relishing his moment of superiority. “And I don't suppose Lady Delafield will care to hear you've molested her niece. Give her to me, and I'll deliver her back to her aunt.”

“The hell I will,” Sheri snapped. Homely and smelly she might be, but damn it all, he felt compelled to make sure his mystery woman was all right. He wouldn't trust Sir Godwin with the welfare of a slug, much less a young lady. He'd waltz in hell before he gave the obnoxious little oaf the satisfaction of claiming undeserved heroics.

Sir Godwin's lips thinned in a hard line. “See here, Zouche, I'm acquainted with the lady, while you have no such claim …” His voice trailed off as a distant rumbling quickly became louder.

The group parted to make way for a landau drawn by four horses. Lady Delafield craned her neck, the missing maid perched on the bench behind her. While Sheri had been locking horns with Sir Godwin, the servant had done something useful, namely, go for help.

“Lord Sheridan,” cried Lady Delafield. “If you'd please be so good as to return my niece?” Her tone was brittle.

Sheri quickly made his way to the carriage. “My lady,” he said, “your niece was accosted by a ruffian. I was only trying—”

A whimper drew his attention to the woman in his arms. Miss Parks was rousing from her swoon. Sharp pleats creased her brow as she regained consciousness. He watched, suddenly fascinated, as her eyes rolled behind lids before blinking open, her hazel gaze slowly focusing on his face.

Something in Sheri's chest lurched. “Hello again,” he murmured. “Welcome back.”

The footman and maid hopped down from the back of the carriage. In a few seconds, Sheri would have to hand over his charge. He held her a little tighter, reluctant to release the woman who, for a few moments, had been his to safeguard and protect.

A shadow crossed Miss Parks's eyes. She let out a fretful sound.

The footman opened the carriage door and let down the stairs. The maid tugged on Sheri's arm. He ignored them all.

“It's all right,” he assured Miss Parks. “I've got you. You're safe now. If there's anything I can do to be of assistance—”

“Lord Sheridan!” snapped Lady Delafield.

Sheri looked up to see several women tittering into their hands, while the men shuffled and coughed uncomfortably. Norman met his eyes and jerked his head towards the landau.

Sheri deposited Miss Parks beside her aunt.

“She was sick,” he informed her ladyship, “and I believe she has a fever. You must have her attended right away. Have you a carriage blanket? Oh, yes, here it is.” He covered Miss Parks's lap and started tucking the rug snugly about her.

“What do you think you're doing?” hissed Lady Delafield. “Unhand my niece this instant, you rogue.”

The insult stung Sheri like an angry wasp. He'd been called many a foul epithet in his time, and deserved most of them. But this time—this time he was trying to help the lady, not despoil her. That his reputation was so far gone that he couldn't rescue a maiden without drawing suspicion sat ill with him.

A rebuttal formed on his lips, but then he glanced at Miss Parks. Her cheeks blazed—far more color than could be accounted for by the fever. She was embarrassed to be seen with him, mortified by his touch.

Recalling Deborah's intelligence that half the
ton
's ladies believed Sheri to be wickedness incarnate, he felt certain Lady Delafield and her niece were in that camp.

As he climbed out of the carriage, Sheri noted that the curious gazes of his peers were more mocking than admiring. Sir Godwin Prickering sat tall in his saddle as though he'd just won in the lists at an ancient joust.

“Damn it all,” Sheri muttered, shouldering his way to Norman.

He really was a blackguard. A rogue. A rake.

Worst of all, he was a joke.

Sheridan stared out the window, watching gray clouds cross the sky like an armada of ships under full sail.

One of Henry De Vere's merchant ships was leaving soon. Perhaps, Sheri mused, he should be on it. Floating out there in the isolation of the deep blue sea held a great deal of appeal, as did the thought of a destination at journey's end where no one would have any reason to scorn him.

“Have you gone to sleep again?” Elsa asked.

Lifting his head from the back of the chair upon which he was reclining, he met Elsa's amused gaze in the mirror of her vanity. This little tradition of theirs, meeting in her dressing room once a week to exchange gossip, had begun while she was still married to the late, and little lamented, Lord Fay. It was one of the great attractions of married and widowed women, this being able to conduct a friendship with something of the same degree of intimacy he enjoyed with his male compatriots.

He sipped from a dainty Sèvres teacup and shook his head. “No,” he drawled, “but I won't be long for the world with no more than a thimble-sized serving of tea.” He directed his attention to Elsa's maid, who stood behind her mistress, styling her hair. “Foster, aren't there any cups in the house large enough for a man to properly fortify himself against the impending day?”

The maid shot him a disapproving look. “My lady doesn't cater to gentlemen, my lord.”

Perhaps not in the tea service department, but Sheridan knew perfectly well that Elsa entertained lovers at her home with some degree of regularity, if not in the same numbers as Sheri's own bed-hopping. Elsa's honest sensuality was one of the things he admired most about her.

From the front pocket of his waistcoat, he plucked his quizzing glass. Squinting through it, he made a show of watching the maid work. “Is that hairstyle
meant
to resemble a basket weave, or is it just an unfortunate coincidence?”

Elsa sighed. “Please see if Cook can scrounge up a mug for Lord Sheridan.” After the maid stalked from the room, her spine ramrod straight with wounded pride, Elsa chided, “Must you antagonize Foster so?”

Sheridan waved a dismissive hand and leaned back in his chair again. “
Pfft
. She enjoys our little sparring matches. You know, I think she nurtures a bit of a
tendre
for me.”

“You
would
think so.” Elsa opened a vanity drawer and withdrew a flask, silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She tipped a generous measure of clear liquid into her teacup. “You wanted some fortification, Chère. Here it is.” She proffered the flask.

“Thank you, but I'd prefer to remain conscious, at least until afternoon tea. I've a fitting with my tailor at two.”

Shrugging, she returned the bottle to its hiding place, took a sip of her drink, then adjusted the sash of her rose silk dressing gown. Elsa turned in her seat to face him and patted her knees. “So. What did you do yesterday?” She raised a brow, a teasing smile tugging at her full lips. There were dark circles beneath her glassy eyes, as if she hadn't gotten enough sleep, despite the advanced hour.

His right knee rocked side to side while he studied his friend's shrewd expression.
Hell
. She already knew about the incident in Hyde Park; he'd stake his best pair of gloves on it. Still, he saw no reason to hand over his balls on a silver salver.

“I had a consultation with my solicitor,” he said. “Asked whether this proposal of Lothgard's is entirely legal. It turns out, the law holds no opinion whatsoever on disinheriting unmarried brothers.”

“An unforgivable oversight,” Elsa replied, reaching again for her cup.

This whole marriage business had Sheri's guts in knots. He wasn't cut out for it. He'd never be as religiously devoted to a woman as Lothgard was to Deborah, or as obscenely in love with his spouse as Brandon and Henry were with theirs. If he was to marry, he needed a wife who understood she was getting a bad deal, but would marry him, anyway.

There was only one such woman in existence.
In Case of Crisis, Wed …

“Marry me,” he said.

Elsa snorted.

“I'm in earnest.” Sheri sat up. “Marry me, Elsa. My only option for keeping my place in my family is marriage, so why not you?”