Duty Before Desire (9 page)

“About that, my lord,” she started, then pressed her lips together, uncertain what to say. The attack in the park was shocking, completely beyond anything she'd ever experienced. In the matter of seconds, she'd been robbed of her most valuable possession, become violently ill, and intimately handled by a strange man. Everything about it was twisted up inside her in a knot of fear and pain and the tiniest bit of pleasure. She had no idea how to begin to unravel that morass of emotion, or whether she should even attempt such a thing.

Instead of anything sensible, she blurted, “I do wish you had retrieved my property from that thief, as I asked you to do, instead of tending me, which my ayah could have done better.”

He suddenly stopped, jerking her to a halt at his side. For a moment, he stared straight ahead. Then he looked down at her. “Did you just say all the words I think I heard? Surely, my ears must deceive me.”

“I hesitate to complain, my lord,” she rushed to assure him, “as I'm sure you did what you thought best. But Poorvaja could have taken care of me while you apprehended the criminal.” She blinked against the sun, surprised to find that it—so much less intense than in India—pained her eyes.

“Miss Parks,” the gentleman said, his polite tone a thin, icy crust over a lake of vexation, “I understand you are recently come to this quaint little island of ours. I don't know how you were raised in India, but here in jolly old England, a gentleman values the life of a lady above a reticule. Furthermore, most of us were taught from the cradle to thank those who have rendered us service, not to berate them for it.”

Arcadia's mouth popped open in a surprised
O
. She'd meant to thank him; she had! She was building up to it, offering some constructive criticism, in the event he ever again found himself in a similar situation.

Before she could speak a word in her defense, he barreled on. His voice raised a notch in volume; the skin around his nose whitened. “
Further
furthermore, you have wandered onto St. James's Street, a bit of pavement entirely
verboten
to the gentler sex. Owing to your obvious physical impediments and general ignorance, I refrained from bringing this indiscretion to your notice. But as we are making free with one another's shortcomings, you should know this”—without taking his angry gaze from her, Lord Sheridan pointed behind himself to the bow window she'd seen him in, where she still detected the shadowy figures of a crowd watching them—“all those men in there believe you're offering yourself for sale. They think you're a whore.”

“No.” She shook her head in dismay. How could simply walking down one particular street mark her for a prostitute? How could she have known? There should be a sign, a warning.

When she offered no additional reply, Lord Sheridan tightened his hand around her upper arm and tugged her forward. She stumbled. Muttering to himself, the aristocrat gentled his grip. He put an arm around her waist and supported her elbow with his other hand. He was strong and deliciously warm, and smelled of leather and tea, good English aromas. In spite of herself, she leaned into his side and experienced a second of relaxation, of reprieve, as he bore her weight. Arcadia whimpered, wishing she could pull away, hating her weakness, detesting the way her body was so willing to accept comfort from this man who so clearly begrudged her the aid. She wished she could faint again, or better, die, and escape Lord Sheridan's wrath.

Down the street, oblivious to her mistress's plight, Poorvaja was speaking to one driver after another.
Whatever is going on?
Musing on the scene provided a useful distraction from the stern lord at her side and the blistering message he'd delivered.

The angry current of his silence made her innards squirm. She had no idea how to rectify the offense she'd given. From the mountain regions in northwestern India had come bloody tales of feuding tribes forever slaughtering one another over the smallest perceived insult. Had she unwittingly set off a fight between her family and his? The English didn't seem the type to engage in actual, physical combat over ownership of a goat, but there was undoubtedly some social equivalent. Arcadia's agitation rose in counterpoint to her quickly failing strength. Increasingly, she needed Lord Sheridan's support as her steps slowed.

“Shall I carry you again?” asked the infernal man-beast, his drawl rich with derision.

“Certainly not!”

Gritting her teeth, Arcadia dug deep into every reserve of fortitude she could muster. She would not wilt in his presence. She would carry herself all the way to … Where were they going, anyway? The distance between herself and Poorvaja seemed endless, and then what? She'd have to turn around and walk back to Delafield House. No matter. She'd haul herself to France on her own two feet before she let Lord Sheridan take her up in his arms. Her desperately needed nap would wait.

As she struggled onward, something in the nature of Lord Sheridan's demeanor shifted, became less hostile. His arm around her waist, while still as solid as a branch, softened.

“You know,” he said, at last breaking the silence between them, “I have done a bit of thinking about your stolen reticule. The loss of it seems to mean a great deal to you.”

“I care nothing for the bag,” she said on a weary sigh. “It was an item inside the bag that I was heartbroken to lose.”

“Heartbroken?” His hand patted her waist in a friendly fashion. “I do so regret hearing that the deprivation of this mystery trinket has caused you such anguish. As it seems to be my calling in life to render you aid, perhaps I might be of service in recovering your property.”

Arcadia was the one to stop abruptly this time. It had not occurred to her that her lost treasure might be returned to her. She would have no idea where to begin looking, but a mighty lord would know just what to do.

A street vendor pushing a cart laden with fruits and vegetables swerved to avoid her. The merchant shouted a colorful remonstration, but he paled when Lord Sheridan produced a quizzing glass and stared icily at the man. The force of that glower had the man tugging his forelock, begging Lord Sheridan's pardon and offering Arcadia abject apologies.

Warmth pooled at the base of her spine as she watched Lord Sheridan silently cow the street vendor into submission with nothing more than the force of his glance. How noble he was, she thought, just like a Mughal prince. And she'd been foolish enough to offend him! His sharp response had hurt her feelings, but powerful men were entitled to demand respect from their inferiors, were they not? Some princes were known to have the tongues of overly chatty wives and concubines cut from their mouths.

In the future, she would be more cautious with her words, she decided. “Thank you, Lord Sheridan,” she said when the grocer had rolled away with his wares.

“Not at all,” he said lightly, as though he hadn't just demonstrated his superiority over another.

“If I may be so bold as to inquire,” she said formally, “what is your title, Lord Sheridan? Are you a duke of the realm?”

The man threw back his head and laughed. At Arcadia's bewildered look, he explained, “I'm the son of the Marquess of Lothgard.”

“So the title is your father's, not yours?”

His head bobbed side to side. “It belongs to my older brother now. My father is dead.”

“As is mine,” Arcadia supplied.

“You have my condolences.”

She frowned. “Why are you called Lord Sheridan, if you are actually lord of nothing?” She was certain she'd learned this years ago when the tutor who served the station's children read her lessons, but it was all dusty and far away now.

“It's merely a courtesy title.” The smile he bestowed upon her had a brittle edge to it.

She pondered this while they resumed their journey. “A courtesy to your father, you mean?”

“I wouldn't put it in such—”

“Because he,” she said, gaining some clarity on the subject, “is the great man—not you. You merely shine in his reflected glory, without any of your own.”

Lord Sheridan sucked a breath through his teeth. “You have an uncanny knack for striking a man where it hurts the most.”

“I do not mean to insult you, my lord, merely to understand.”

“For an Englishwoman,” he said, “you know remarkably little about your own country, its customs, and its people.”

As if that were Arcadia's fault! What say had she in her own raising or education? How dare this man with his undeserved arrogance find fault with her? To think she'd begun admiring him!

They were almost to Poorvaja now. Her ayah glanced over her shoulder, looked from Arcadia to Lord Sheridan and back again. “Jalanili!” she called, hailing them with a wave. “Shall I tell you what these carriages are for? They are all for hire. These drivers park here waiting for people to ask them to carry them places. Let us hire one and ride back to your aunt. It will be fun!”

“Oh, thank God.” Arcadia could have wept for being delivered from having to trek back to Delafield House.

Arcadia started to step away from Lord Sheridan, but he pulled her back to his side. “Do you want my help recovering your stolen property or not?”

His pride was gravely wounded, she saw. Anger stiffened his spine so much she thought it might crack like dry tinder. But her own pride still smarted, too, from his remarks about her ignorance and insinuations against her morality. What sort of gentleman would go out of his way to make a woman feel so low?

“Thank you, Lord Nothing,” she taunted, wanting to strike back at his cruelty, “but that won't be necessary.”

“Very well.” Lord Sheridan swept his hat from his head and bowed grandly, a gesture she felt sure must have been meant to insult her further. He straightened, turned, then paused. “I'll probably hate myself for asking,” he said, pivoting back to regard her once more, “but would you please tell me what it is that was stolen from you? Just in case I happen upon it, you understand.”

Reaching for Poorvaja's extended hands, Arcadia huffed. “A brooch,” she said over her shoulder, “a jeweled peacock.” The smirk slipped from his lips. “My father had it made for my mother when they first arrived in India, before I was born. If I still had it in my possession, I would take it and Poorvaja and sail back to India on the next ship.” His eyes widened in something like wonder—or perhaps horror. “It's my father, my mother, and India, all wrapped into one, the only object I felt any attachment to, and now it's … Why do you look at me like that, Lord Sheridan?”

His eyes bored into hers, the intensity of his stare once again making her distinctly uncomfortable. His hand went to his waistcoat, his fingers toying with a silver fob.

Shaking his head slightly as though snapping himself out of some sort of daze, Lord Sheridan bowed. “As ever, Miss Parks,” he said as he handed her the rest of the way into the carriage, “our time together has been uniquely experiential.” He shut the door.

The words flummoxed Arcadia's vocabulary.

“What does that mean, ‘uniquely experiential'?” Poorvaja asked as the carriage pulled forward.

“I think,” Arcadia said, parsing out Latin roots, “it simply means ‘an experience.' Something that happened.”

“Hmm. That was certainly something that happened.” A hint of mischievous smile twitched at her lips; Arcadia suspected her ayah had found the man rather dashing.

She just couldn't understand Lord Sheridan. Had his offer of help anything to do with what he'd told her, about a woman walking down that particular street?
They think you're offering yourself for sale.
Perhaps he was trying to protect her. Arcadia snorted at her own conjecture. The man was arrogant, selfish. He used a title that had nothing to do with him. There wasn't a benevolent bone in his body.

Well, it didn't matter. She wouldn't be seeing Lord Sheridan Zouche again.

But his statement that the peacock might be recovered had intrigued her. Resting her head against the carriage window frame, Arcadia tried to think how she might go about finding her stolen property, and tried to forget about arrogant, handsome men with strong arms and hollow offers of service.

Later that evening, Sheri met with some of his friends for supper. They congregated in the dining room of an inn called The Sea Maiden, which catered to the local shipping businesses.

 The décor was of a nautical bent, which made no sense to Sheri. If he spent his life upon the waves, the last thing he'd want to see on the walls of an inn would be pictures of more infernal boats and battles at sea. He'd wish to lay eyes upon majestic mountains and verdant meadows, picturesque cottages and stately manor houses. And women, naturally; glorious, naked women. But then, there was no accounting for the tastes of those who deliberately flung themselves upon the deep, with only a thin shell of wood parting them from a cold, salty death.

At a round table, Sheri was joined by Henry De Vere and his bride, formerly Miss Claudia Baxter. Norman had managed to sneak off from the Inns of Court to dine with them, as well.

“Where's Harrison?” Sheri asked, lifting a glass of wine. “He's still in the city, is he not?”

Henry and his wife exchanged a concerned look. “You know how Harrison gets sometimes,” Henry said. “I think he prefers to be left alone right now.”

Sheri's heart sank. His glass hit the table with a
thunk
; some claret sloshed over the rim and puddled around the base. “Are you sure he's all right? Should he be left alone right now?” Harrison Dyer had always been the most reserved of their set and was sometimes given to bouts of melancholy. The others liked to tease Sheridan for his superficial airs and his little vanities, but he was just as capable as the next man of noticing the pain that sometimes lurked in the depths of their friend's eyes, and it worried him.