Duty Before Desire (25 page)

“
Quel âge avez-vous?
” Madame inquired, flattening her fingers against Arcadia's cheeks and tugging them back towards her ears. “How old?” she repeated at Arcadia's confused expression.

“Twenty.”

“Your skin is five years older than the rest of you. Too much sun.”

“I've lived in India all my life,” Arcadia defended. “It can't be helped.”

Madame Doucet muttered to herself in French, then resumed her appraisal of Arcadia's form.

Arcadia had assumed there would be measuring involved in the process, but Madame Doucet used no tape measure, only her hands and expert eye. Occasionally, she barked over her shoulder to an underling who jotted notes in a little notebook with a pencil.

In the midst of this chaos, Deborah and Claudia appeared, the front-room girl following, carrying a chair for Deborah. Claudia had managed to procure a refill of her champagne glass. Finding a spot to stand between a half-finished riding habit and a stunning ball gown, Claudia gave a jaunty wave and applied herself to her wine. Arcadia, who had never cared for the head-muddling effects of alcohol, now wondered if it would be gauche to take a slurp from her friend's glass in the spirit of making it through this ordeal with her sanity intact.

At the conclusion of Madame Doucet's inspection, Arcadia expected she'd be presented with a selection of colors and fabrics from which she might choose, and that there would be some discussion over what style of gown she might like to have. But in this, too, she was mistaken. Madame spoke to one of her girls, who scurried into another room and returned with a sketchbook and two bolts of cloth.

The Frenchwoman flipped through the journal to a page and, with a flourish, turned it for Arcadia and the other ladies to see. “
Et voilà,
” Madame declared. “This is the gown for you.”

Upon sighting the fashion plate, Lady Lothgard and Claudia gasped in awe.

Arcadia gasped in horror. She cast a stricken look at Madame Doucet. “I couldn't possibly!”

The modiste blinked. “May I ask mademoiselle why not?”

Her finger circled round and round the drawing's upper portions. “There's just so much … there. How about this one?” She pointed to the perfectly lovely—and far more modest—dress depicted on the facing page.

The sketchbook slammed shut on her finger. Arcadia yelped. “
Non!
That is a morning dress, foolish child. This gown has been waiting for your collarbones to come through my doors. They
demand
this gown.”

“It's lovely,” Arcadia prevaricated. “Perhaps just not for me.” Never in her life had she worn anything half so daring. Never in her life had she
seen
anything half so daring. Surely, no woman would actually step into public with so much flesh on display?

“You must!” Claudia interjected. “It's the absolute crack.”

“It's exquisite,” Deborah added. “Oh, Arcadia you'll look a dream. Sheridan will be beside himself with admiration.”

Arcadia balked. Claudia cajoled. Arcadia cringed. The modiste stomped and threw her arms about and declared that she would make mademoiselle this gown, or nothing. Deborah begged Arcadia to reconsider.

Outnumbered, outflanked, and entirely out of her depth, Arcadia capitulated.

“
Bon,
” Madame said with a sharp nod. Taking up a scrap of creamy silk, through which her hand was perfectly visible, the modiste's
lips carved a wicked smile. Arcadia cringed.

“Mademoiselle, your underthings.”

Arcadia whimpered.

• • •

The afternoon continued in a similar vein as the morning, only Arcadia wished even more to run screaming.

“Dancing master?” she yelped at Deborah. “I don't need … That is to say … I can't dance.”

On the voyage west, a couple of the ship's officers had offered to teach her a few dances, but Arcadia had gratefully fallen ill before she was subjected to their tutelage. The notion of an English ball was anathema to every notion of propriety Poorvaja had taught her.

Claudia, who had joined them in the carriage, playfully slapped Arcadia's arm. “Oh, it'll be fun. Henry—Mr. De Vere, that is—has agreed to come. He and I will dance with you, so you won't be alone.”

And therein lies the problem.
Arcadia was fond of dancing. In the
zenana
, she and the other girls had kicked up their heels to the infectious twang of sitars and swayed their hips to the beat of drums. It wasn't dancing itself to which Arcadia objected, but the idea of doing it in the company of men. In India, only dancing girls and prostitutes did such a thing. Already, by walking down St. James's Street, Arcadia had inadvertently advertised herself as a lady of questionable character. English society held differing views on the matter, but Arcadia could not so easily excise and discard a piece of her upbringing.

In her marrow, she knew that dancing in front of men—with men!—wearing the scandalous dress Madame Doucet was creating for her, would seal her fate as a notorious woman.

“And perhaps her ladyship will join us,” Deborah said, her eyes brightening. “How much easier it would be to meet in an informal setting, rather than at something stuffier, hmm?”

Oh, this just took the cake. Lewd public behavior and a mother-in-law to witness. Fantastic. Marvelous.

“I shouldn't mind making her ladyship's acquaintance at a tea. Or a supper. Or during my next lifetime, perhaps.”

Claudia laughed. “Courage, Arcadia. Take heart: at least you aren't burdened with a mother-in-law who watched you grow up from infancy and continues to hold against you the time you had an accident on her century-old chair the first time you sat at her formal dining table at the age of six.”

Despite Claudia's valiant effort at distracting her with amusing anecdotes, Arcadia's apprehension grew. By the time they entered Deborah's music room and Arcadia saw the lithe man posed beside a grandiose pianoforte, her stomach was all queasy acid. At the ladies' entrance, a second man seated at the instrument played a few lively bars of music while the first man sprang into motion, skipping and twirling. Breeches so obscenely tight they might have actually been hose revealed every bulge—muscly and otherwise—of the dancer's lower body. Her cheeks heated, and she tamped down on the urge to bolt. He pranced to a stop just in front of her and made a pretty leg, his bow perfectly timed to the pianist's concluding flourish.

“
Buongiorno, bella.
Let's dance.”

Lady Lothgard and Claudia clapped appreciatively.

Arcadia died inside.

There was some small consolation in the fact that the dancing master, Signore Bonelli, did not strip her down and take inventory of her every defect as the modiste had done. (He did insist upon seeing her feet and substituting her own footwear for a pair of simple dancing slippers.) Yet it became readily apparent that he was dealing with an unwilling pupil, and the Italian struggled to maintain his equanimity.

“One, two, three,
hop
! In time with the music. If
signorina
would please hop. A small jump, that means. Your feet must leave the ground, signorina.
Si,
Signorina Parks, I am addressing you. Look at Signora De Vere, how she bounds like a majestic gazelle. Do as she does. Bend your knees, extend, and hop, signorina, hop!
Dio mio
, woman, do your knees not bend?”

“Signore Bonelli,” Deborah said from her seat off to the side, “perhaps a pause for refreshment?” She rang a small silver bell on the table beside her.

Though she did not understand the dark invective the dancing master muttered in Italian as he stalked past on his way to the terrace, Arcadia was coming to recognize that she was hopeless in any language.

The musician bent his head to the keyboard and continued playing quietly for his own entertainment while a footman pushed in a laden tea cart and poured the ladies glasses of lemonade. Claudia took her drink and strolled to the other side of the room to gaze at an impressively large landscape.

“I'm sorry,” Arcadia said as she sank into a chair beside Deborah. “You must think me quite inept.” She took a sip of her beverage. It was tart and wonderfully cool. In spite of making a hash of the several country dances Signore Bonelli had attempted to teach her over the last hour, she was damp from exertion and felt the beginnings of a blister on her foot.

“Not at all,” Deborah assured, her eyes crinkling with a smile. “These things take time. You're doing wonderfully.”

Arcadia knew perfectly well that she was not
doing wonderfully
. Though it was kindly meant, Deborah's undeserved praise left Arcadia feeling hollow. Incredibly, she found herself wishing Sheri were here to issue one of his biting witticisms. When he'd scolded her for setting foot on the wrong London street, at least she'd had something to fight back against. Countermanding the petite marchioness, on the other hand, was nearly impossible. How could one refuse a woman so unflinchingly good?

And yet, the ball was a sword over her neck. She had to try for a stay of execution. “Deborah,” she ventured, “is the ball really necessary—for a betrothal announcement, I mean? It is your birthday celebration, after all. May Lord Sheridan and I make our announcement at another event, such as …” Blast. Arcadia didn't know any other Society events. “A supper!” she blurted, suddenly inspired. “You mentioned earlier that you might have a supper. We could use that.”

The older woman tilted her head quizzically. “A supper for our two families only. You must be introduced to Society, Arcadia dear. A ball is customary.” She frowned. “Is it …” She sounded as uncertain as Arcadia felt. “Is it not what you wish? The ball?” Moisture rimmed her brown eyes; she pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I've overstepped, haven't I? It's your wedding, Arcadia, of course you must have whatever you'd like.”

“Oh no,” Arcadia breathed, taking Deborah's hand, feeling the very worst villain for upsetting the delicate woman. “No no no. The ball is … it's fine. Wonderful. I just hate to put you to so much trouble. The dress, the dancing lessons.”

On a sigh, Deborah's fretful frown vanished. “It's no trouble, my dear. You cannot know how happy you've made our family. We would give you a hundred dresses. A dozen balls.”

Arcadia shook her head. “How can that be? I've done nothing to earn your regard.”

On the contrary, she'd done everything to earn the sweet lady's scorn. If Deborah knew what Arcadia and Sheri had planned, she would not be so free with sharing her modiste.

The door opened, admitting a gentleman Arcadia did not recognize. But Claudia's adoring smile revealed the identity of the handsome, golden-haired man.

“I heard there was to be dancing,” Mr. De Vere announced to the room at large, “but I see only three splendid beauties at their ease. If this is what passes for a dancing lesson these days, then I'm happy to learn the steps of the latest craze.”

Laughing, Claudia looped her arm through her husband's and drew him to Deborah and Arcadia. “We were only recovering our breath for a moment, Henry. Beware, Signore Bonelli is quite demanding. Before the day is out, Miss Parks and I shall be ready to make our debut at the ballet, will we not?”

Before Arcadia could protest the assessment, Claudia said, “Miss Parks, this is my Mr. De Vere.” Awareness pulsed between the married couple. Arcadia didn't think she imagined how Henry's shoulders squared a bit more, that his chin notched upward with pride at being named
her
Mr. De Vere.

“A pleasure, Miss Parks.” Mr. De Vere's hooded green eyes studied her with friendly assessment. “Claudia has been in alt since making your acquaintance the other day. I've heard little but rhapsodies over the delightful Miss Parks.”

“Your wife is all kindness, sir, but I fear she has poised you for disappointment.”

“Ladies are always too modest,” Henry declared. “My darling bride is many things, Miss Parks, but
all kindness
is not one of them. Believe you me, if she has something other than a stellar opinion about you or any other person, I should hear about it. For my money, you're as good as beatified.” He winked at his wife, then cast his gaze about. “Where is that wastrel, Zouche?”

Yes, where was her betrothed, Arcadia wondered.

Signore Bonelli, looking much more composed than when she'd seen him last, re-entered from the terrace. Waving his hands, he stopped the pianist's melodic trifling. “Are we ready to try again, ladies?”

“Perhaps skip ahead to the waltz, signore,” Deborah suggested. “We'll leave the country dances to another day.”

“Si, si!” he enthused, clasping his hands at his chest. “Every lady can waltz and, what's more” —he punctuated with a finger thrust skyward—“every lady
loves
to waltz.
Grazie,
my lady, for the excellent suggestion.”

“Would you mind continuing without me?” Deborah asked. Her face looked a bit drawn, the luster of her eyes dimmed. The day's activities must have fatigued the poor lady. After assuring her they would soldier on in her absence, the dancing master escorted Deborah to the door, bowing and scraping every step of the way.

“Partner with Henry,” Claudia whispered. “He's excellent at leading. You won't have any trouble.”

But when Mr. De Vere gallantly offered Arcadia his hand, Bonelli would have none of it. “Signorina requires the very best instruction. She must have my guidance.”

The Italian's palm rested on Arcadia's waist, and he caught her hand up in his other. She felt caged. Besides Arcadia's father, Sheri was the only man who had ever touched her like this. Her heart had beat faster when he'd held her, but with pleasure, not the unease currently squeezing through her limbs.

“Place your free hand on my shoulder, please.” Bonelli's voice was low, his head canted close to her face.