Duty Before Desire (32 page)

He lowered the sari to her shoulders and fixed the jewels around her neck. They were cold against her skin and heavy enough to notice, a constant reminder of their giver. After drawing her sari back up, he offered her one arm, the other to Poorvaja, and escorted them both downstairs.

• • •

They stepped into the gallery, where the company was enjoying
apéritifs
. Sheri paused in the entryway and counted.

One … two …

The first gasp sounded off to his left. The second quickly followed. Soon, a chorus of soft exclamations swept the room as the heads swiveled to see the bride.

Arcadia was breathtaking. The filmy red layers of her ensemble gently caressed her curves, making of her a living flame. A soft tinkling sound accompanied her every movement. Sheri could follow at her heels for hours, just to hear the music of her passing.

She was ethereal and entirely unique and cast a spell on every man in the room. Sheri could not catch the eye of any of his friends; they were all staring at Arcadia. Even the happily married ones, like Brandon and Henry, were agog at the vision Sheri's wife presented, and for once, he didn't mind Sir Godwin's wistful expression.

Gentlemen, I know how you feel.

His modest little peahen was a fantasy come to life, erotically enticing without showing so much as an inch of her bosom. The rounded neckline of her dress revealed only a bit of clavicle, but they were the most arousing collarbones Sheri had ever seen. The hours between now and the moment he could whisk her away to privacy yawned before him, unreasonable in their number.

An expectant hush filled the gallery, as though everyone was waiting for someone else to be the first to make a move. It was Arcadia. Tucking that stubborn chin into the air, she dropped his arm and stepped forward, regal and so beautiful it made his chest hurt and graceful—and his.

His.

He wanted to whoop and pound his chest and run a lap around the perimeter of the gallery so his long-dead ancestors could marvel at the lucky bastard their line had produced.

Deborah broke from the crowd first, of course. In her quiet, kind way, she took Arcadia's hands and kissed her cheek. “How splendid you look, Lady Sheridan. Elijah?” She beckoned the marquess with a glance. Sheri's brother bowed over Arcadia's hand. “You are a vision, madam. My brother is a fortunate devil.” Lothgard then clasped Sheri's hand and clapped his shoulder. “Congratulations again, Sheridan.” A short distance away, the dowager met Sheri's gaze, her mouth pursed and brow raised.
Judgment withheld.

After that, the compliments came in a rush. Claudia was in rhapsodies over Arcadia's ensemble, while Lorna was more restrained, but no less sincere, in her admiration. While women flocked around Arcadia to heap praise on her daring gown, Elsa sauntered to Sheri's side and hooked her arm through his.

He felt a spike of dread. His spine stiffened.

“Lower your hackles. I'm not going to cause trouble. Tonight.” She shot him a rueful smile. When he saw that her eyes were clear, the tension between his shoulders relaxed. “She's quite the splash.” Elsa nodded to Arcadia at the center of a throng. After a moment of silence, she added, “I know it's not a love match, but I do hope you'll find happiness. I think you could, with her.”

There was a minor commotion from the back of the chamber. Finely attired countesses and barons hopped aside at the behest of one mightily insistent boy and the apologetic twin following in his wake.

Pushing past the last row of onlookers, Crispin pulled to a stop. His brown eyes locked on Arcadia and widened. He approached her as if in a trance. With a smile, Arcadia offered the boy her hand. He took it and continued staring, stupefied. “I wish you weren't married to Uncle Sheridan,” he breathed, “I'd marry you myself.” Suddenly, dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Might I give you a kiss, Aunt Arcadia?”

Cheeky scamp. “Bad form to covet another man's wife,” Sheri heard himself say as he joined his wife and nephew. Hypocrisy tasted bitter on his tongue. Other men's wives comprised half or more of the population of his prior bed partners, comely widows sometimes being thin on the ground.

With a laugh, Arcadia crouched and accepted the child's embrace. Webb appeared at his brother's shoulder and offered a stiff bow of his own. “Aunt,” he said, “Crispin and I happened to find ourselves in the kitchen a few minutes ago—”

“Nicking scones,” Crispin clarified.

“—and noticed the appealing aroma of the supper Cook is preparing.”

“The food smells good, and we want some. May we eat with you?”

“Oh, can they?” Arcadia asked Sheri, her mosaic hazel eyes filled with pleading. “I wish to be surrounded by family.” His heart stuttered. It was for family that Sheri had embarked on this matrimonial enterprise. The sight of the seductress in red laughingly accepting another of Crispin's juvenile gallantries made Sheri think of things he'd never thought before. A family of his own, a wife and children who loved Sheri as much as he loved them, who would never threaten to hack him from the family tree as Lothgard had. They would never have need to, because he wouldn't want anything more from life than their happiness.

Dangerous thoughts.

The marchioness granted permission, and places for the twins were shoehorned in beside Poorvaja and the dowager.

The meal began, and Arcadia's magnificent attire was replaced in conversation by the novelty of an Indian menu. Aromatic steam lifted from platters swimming with green and yellow gravies. Tonnish ladies and gentlemen who tended to affect fashionable boredom, now exclaimed in delight as they sampled curried lamb and lemon rice. The twins dared one another to try this or that fiery dish, a challenge taken up by other intrepid diners.

Sheri particularly liked a flatbread called
naan
, tasty in its own right, but useful, too, for sopping every drop of succulent curry sauce from his plate. He leaned back in his chair, stifling a groan of repletion.

“How did you manage this?” he asked his wife across the table.

Over the rim of her wineglass, her kohl-rimmed eyes were lively. “Deborah graciously permitted Poorvaja and me to share receipts with her cook. A spice merchant near the docks had most of the seasonings we required.”

After a sweet course of dense, fried dough balls dripping with a sauce of thick, sweetened milk flavored with saffron, Sheri raised a glass to his bride. The company joined him in toasting Arcadia's health, with Crispin contributing a particularly enthusiastic “Hear, hear!”

Arcadia stood, drawing the attention of all. Lashes lowered, her slim finger trailed the rim of her dessert dish while she seemed to search for words. God, she was lovely.

After a moment, she raised her eyes, meeting Sheri's gaze. A current of awareness, vital and strong, passed between them. Her cheeks colored, and she looked away before addressing the table, haltingly at first. “I don't know if it's customary for the bride to offer a toast. If not, I must plead ignorance, and I hope you'll forgive me.” Sheri saw Claudia offer a smile of encouragement. Mrs. De Vere was a thorn in his side, but he was grateful for the friendship she'd so readily offered Arcadia.

Drawing a breath, Arcadia continued, her voice steadier and melodiously accented. “I wish to thank the Marchioness and Marquess of Lothgard for hosting this lovely party, and thank you all for coming. Most of you don't know me, but you know Lord Sheridan, and you know my husband is a good man.” She met his eyes, the glance spearing him in the heart. “A kind man. Thank you, my lord, for all you've done for me, and for the promises you made.”

Promises, such as to track down her brooch and to send her back to India. To remain legally married, but physically separated, so long as they both shall live. A single night of conjugal bliss. Tonight.

Of all the promises Sheri had made, the last was the only one he didn't regret.

“Finally,” Arcadia said, “I wish to pay my respects to those who are not with us, whose company we miss.” She raised her glass; all others followed. “To the memory of my father and mother, Sir Thaddeus and Lady Lucretia Parks. To the memory of Lord Sheridan's father, the late Marquess of Lothgard. And to the memory of Grace.”

A cold stone dropped in his middle. His ears rang. Confused frowns passed over many faces, accompanied by murmurs of, “Who?”

“Who's Grace?” Crispin asked aloud. He demanded across the table, “Grandmama, who is Grace?”

The dowager's cheeks were white as bone. “I'm sure I have no idea,” she stiffly replied.

Arcadia's wineglass wavered. “Grace, my lady. Your late daughter.”

Eyes furious and brimming with hurt, Sheri's mother silently promised him a blistering set-to in the near future. Then she rounded icy hauteur on her new daughter-in-law.

Miss you, Sheri.

“You are quite mistaken, Lady Sheridan. I have no daughter.”

It was going so well.
That thought looped through her brain, over and over.
It was going so well.

Until it wasn't. Until she'd unwittingly committed a grave
faux pas
so serious, Sheri had thanked his sister-in-law for a lovely evening, dashed off a joke about his eagerness for his wedding night for the benefit of the stunned audience, and all but tossed Arcadia over his shoulder in his haste to remove her from Lothgard House.

The short carriage ride was tense and silent. When Arcadia tentatively said, “Sheri …” he raised a hand. “Grant me a few moments to reflect on that excellent repast, if you would,” he said and turned his stony stare out the window, his exquisite profile taut.

A small staff met them outside the house Sheri had let, and French welcomed them home with a brief speech offering his felicitations and best wishes for a happy and fruitful marriage. “Why don't you give Lady Sheridan a tour of the place?” Sheri requested, then slipped away. Arcadia blankly looked over furnishings her husband had cozened her aunt and uncle into purchasing while French proudly led her from room to room.

She interrupted his description of an ebonized footstool. “Where did Lord Sheridan go?”

The servant blinked. “Perhaps to his chamber?”

“Please take me there.”

French led the way and knocked on the indicated door, but there was no reply. Nor was Sheri in the room that served as a study and library for a small collection of books. Flummoxed, French looked at Arcadia and shrugged. “I don't know where he's got off to, madam.”

She heard a thump. And a few seconds later, another.

“Where is that coming from?” Following the sound, she discovered a hidden door for the servant stairs that led up to an attic. There, she located her missing husband.

He sat on the dusty floor in his wedding finery with his back to the wall, one long leg extended, the other drawn up, his left arm propped on his knee. His coat had been tossed over the back of a rickety chair. He was rolling a cricket ball against the opposite wall and catching it when it bounced back.

Arcadia went to the wall opposite him and sank to her knees.

“You'll spoil your pretty dress,” he said.

“You'll spoil yours.”

The corner of his mouth raised, but it wasn't really a smile. He rolled the ball to her. The leather was warm against her palm, the dark surface roughened from use. She rolled it back.

They continued like this, back and forth, for some minutes.

“Grace was my half sister,” he said, his voice hitching. “We have different mothers.”

“All right.” She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. “Am I meant to be shocked?” she gently teased. “Did you forget about the
zenana
? I grew up with dozens of children fathered by one man, with ten different mothers.”

His shoulders relaxed and he answered with a grin, a flash of white teeth in the dim attic. “Peahen, knowing you lived part of the time in a harem is my favorite fact of anything I've ever learned. That one's not slipping from the old memory any time soon.” He waggled his brows roguishly.

Heat stirred in her belly. She ducked her face, palmed the ball, returned it.

“But things are different here. Grace was illegitimate. Her mother was the wife of one of my father's tenants. Pater took her for his mistress, put her up in a small cottage, but had her brought to our house whenever he wished to see her. My mother was mortified. That was the point, I suppose. And the woman's husband, a poor crofter, had no recourse against the mighty
Marquess of Lothgard.
” He dripped scorn on the name. “Pater couldn't acknowledge Grace, of course, so he'd send me to visit her on his behalf. Wouldn't have his precious heir's hands sullied with the task of seeing to a baseborn daughter, but it was an assignment on par with my station, he said.” He addressed the ball in his hand as he continued. “By the time Grace was three or so, it became obvious that she wasn't growing normally, not walking or speaking anywhere near as well as other children her age. Pater wanted to send her away.”

“But you didn't let him,” Arcadia guessed, scooting across the floor and placing her hand atop the ball resting in his. “You loved your sister.”

“Caring for her was a challenge. She couldn't tend to her own cleanliness, and she easily became frightened or upset and acted accordingly. I couldn't imagine her being shuffled off to some asylum or foundling home where she'd have been mistreated.”

“So you cared for her.”

He chuffed a laugh. “Let's not overstate things. I was a boy myself. Grace's mother did the difficult work. I just stood my ground with the old man and made sure Grace got to live at home, where she belonged.”

“And you played ball with her,” she reminded him, rolling the cricket ball between their hands. Sheri's fingers brushed her thumb.