Desire by Design

by Heather Boyd

  The lady sighed. “Sometimes it’s a pleasant pastime pretending to be a nobody again.”

  Sylvia wasn’t sure how to respond to that, or if she should encourage further confessions. She glanced around the room surreptitiously, but saw nothing of significance to mark the lady as a wealthy and powerful member of society. The furnishings around them were nothing at all like those found in Lord Wharton’s exquisite Cavendish Square home.

  And there was no battalion of servants lurking to wait on the lady hand and foot, either. How was she supposed to have known who she was? Lady Wharton had been alone in Berkley Square the day they’d met, sad and withdrawn. Sylvia’s sensibilities had been stirred to approach her again and again.

  From the beginning of their acquaintance, Sylvia had attempted to draw out the older woman, thinking her in need of a friendly ear and, like Sylvia, eager for the companionship of a sensible woman. But that was before she knew who she was and, more importantly, who she was mother to. “I’m sure it is, my lady,” she murmured, lowering her eyes respectfully.

  Lady Wharton clucked her tongue. “None of that now. I’m Lizzy.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but it would not be correct or proper for me to address you with no consideration for your position in society.”

  “Who would know tonight?”

  Sylvia gulped. “Your son would not approve.”

  Lizzy threw her hand up. “My son is well distracted by his own concerns most of the time. I’m sure he hasn’t given what I do a single thought in many years.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “That is the way of sons. They forget they mean the world to us when they come of age.”

  “I would have thought he’d be kinder.”

  “You and me both,” she said sourly.

  Sylvia quickly took a sip of water, praying her hand remained steady as she calculated how quickly she might take her leave without giving herself away.

  Sylvia was still reeling as Lizzy, Lady Wharton, spoke of her eldest son by his title, marquess, in the most candid fashion. “Of course, like any son, he refuses to oblige his mother and marry, too.” Lady Wharton took a sip of her wine, and then another. “It’s anyone’s guess where my eldest might be tonight. I’m sure he’s set his servants to watch over his sisters so he can slip off to parts decidedly unsavory. I know the company he keeps is unsuitable.”

  “I’m sure he hasn’t abandoned his sisters so quickly.”

  “He’s just like his father before we met and married. His head is easily turned by a pretty face or a scandalous party, but he’ll never find a proper wife that way. My eldest is far too puffed up and self-important to pay his family the attention they deserve. But they will need him very much, soon, I’m afraid.”

  How strange that Wharton could seem one way to Sylvia and another entirely to his mother. She might argue the good he’s done for others recently, but what point would that serve? It would only reinforce Lady Wharton’s belief that he cared about everyone but her. And the longer they talked, the greater the danger of revealing more than she should. “I only have my cousins now, and I’ve always enjoyed their company immensely.”

  “It is different when you are a mother, and without your husband. You alone worry about your children’s futures. You want them around but, even so, you do long for the day they are safely off your hands and settled with their own lives. I fear I will have to entrust that task to Wharton.”

  Sylvia chuckled softly, imagining Lord Wharton appearing even on the sidelines of the marriage mart. What a stir he would cause! “So do you intend to make the most of your family’s absence from your life and kick up your heels?”

  “Perhaps.” Lady Wharton pushed her plate away, and a servant suddenly slipped into the room to take it.

  “That was a wonderful dinner, my lady.” Sylvia could have eaten more perhaps but with Lady Wharton finished, she ought to finish, too.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Shall we repair to the drawing room for tea?”

  “Gladly,” she promised, but rose with her stomach in knots. What if Wharton did come and call on his mother tonight? If he found Sylvia here, what would he do or say?

  They made their way from the dining room to the drawing room and another servant shut the doors behind them silently. Tea had already been set on the low table ahead of their arrival. “Shall I pour, my lady?”

  “Yes, just for yourself.”

  Sylvia thought that a little odd at first until she saw the marchioness head for the decanters of spirit lined up on a heavy sideboard. The lady seemed to enjoy spirits and had consumed quite a number of tiny glasses during the dinner she hadn’t really eaten. “So what will you do without your family to stop you?”

  “A great deal they will not approve of.”

  “Oh?”

  Lady Wharton turned from the sideboard with another glass of spirits in hand. She cradled the small crystal sherry glass against her chest, and then drank it all, her mind obviously elsewhere.

  Sylvia sipped her tea, perched on a chair, waiting for Lady Wharton to finish whatever inner consideration she was engaged in. After the tea was drunk, Sylvia would find a way to leave Lady Wharton sooner than she’d originally planned.

  She set her teacup back in the saucer and Lady Wharton startled. “What did you say?”

  “You were about to tell me of your plans while your daughters were away from you.”

  The lady blinked. “Was I?”

  Sylvia swallowed. By rights, she shouldn’t pry, however, there was something about the lady’s demeanor that troubled her, and had troubled her from the start of their acquaintance. “No, but I must admit to great curiosity. There is something on your mind that worries you. I can feel it.”

  “Then you are more observant than those who’ve known me all their lives,” Lady Wharton told her, and then inclined her head.

  Sylvia set her teacup and saucer on the table. “What’s wrong?”

  “I will tell you, but only if you give your solemn vow to keep that knowledge to yourself until I release you.”

  Lady Wharton returned to the sideboard and refilled her glass as Sylvia considered the request carefully. What Lady Wharton did was truly none of her business, and yet something prodded her to agree to her terms. Sylvia knew the value of keeping secrets in a competitive society such as the ton. “I will not tell a soul, I swear.”

  “On your mother’s grave?”

  She nodded but then dread washed over her. What was she about to learn?

  Lady Wharton moved to sit at Sylvia’s side. She raised her free hand to her right breast and rested her fingers there a moment. “There is an unnatural growth, here.”

  “Oh, my,” Sylvia gasped. “Are you sure?”

  The woman nodded decisively. “I have consulted with several doctors and they all agree it is increasing in size.” Lizzy took a long sip, and then her attention settled on the far side of the room. Her face, finally, relaxed enough to reveal the awful terror she must be feeling. It was only a brief glimpse, and then it was deftly hidden by a wry smile.

  No wonder the marchioness had hardly eaten a bite at dinner. She must be so afraid, so in fear for her life that she had no appetite at all.

  Sylvia took Lizzy’s glass and set it aside. Then, presuming a great deal on the woman’s tolerance, she took up both Lady Wharton’s hands in hers and tried to warm the chill from her fingers. “What can be done?”

  “They say my best hope is removal.”

  “Surgery?” Sylvia flinched away from the notion. “That would be very dangerous.”

  Lady Wharton patted Sylvia’s hand, and upon release, picked up her glass again, only to find it empty. “Yes, it will be, I expect.”

  How could she sound so calm? “What does Lord Wharton say?”

  “I have not told him.”

  Sylvia gaped. “Why not?”

  Lady Wharton’s chin lifted but her lips trembled. “Because he is much too busy to talk to his mother.”


  Sylvia shook her head. “He must be informed.”

  “No.” A furious expression crossed her face. “I have tried to speak with my son alone for the past year, and he has avoided me. Now, it is much too late to influence my decision to go ahead. He will not be informed until afterward.”

  “But your daughters will surely tell him.”

  “They, too, ignore their mother in their own way. My daughters prattle on about having suitors, and pretty new dresses, and never notice my pain. If I told them now, they would not be a comfort to me. They will try their best to stop me, or delay me, so their lives are not inconvenienced.”

  Sylvia’s emotions reeled again. How cruel to have a family ignore you so completely you’d confess your worries to a stranger you met just a week ago. “Are you not afraid?”

  Lady Wharton stood suddenly. “I am terrified.”

  She went to the sideboard and, upon consideration of the decanters, returned carrying one with her…and a much larger glass. She sat them on the table before them and her hand shook as she poured herself a fresh glass.

  “You must tell them. You cannot endure something like this alone.”

  “I will,” Lady Wharton insisted.

  Sylvia considered the matter. “I’ll go to the marquess myself tonight, I know where he lives. I can tell him what you intend to do and bring him here to comfort you.”

  The woman glanced at her coldly. “Will you now? Do you always forget your promises when they become inconvenient? You promised to keep my secret. Was I wrong to place my faith in you?”

  Sylvia gulped. “But Wharton will be furious if he is not informed. With me, too. Not that I matter to him, of course.”

  “I will not give him the opportunity to stop me or decide who is to doctor me at this late stage. Every day I delay brings the risk of failure and certain death closer. Everything is arranged for tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning!”

  “It must be done.”

  Sylvia studied the woman, the determined set of her jaw as the bleakness of her stare returned. “How long have you known you would do this now?”

  “A few weeks. I made arrangements to have the surgery performed in London, here in this house, so I could have the best physicians attend me.” The woman looked at her sourly. “Did you believe I’d let just anyone cut into me on a whim?”

  “No. No, of course not.” Sylvia took a breath. “I’m simply astonished by how unconcerned you sound.”

  “I assure you, I am not at all calm, but the spirits help tremendously,” she said as she drained her glass.

  Sylvia rushed to refill it.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Lady Wharton said as she leaned back. She put her hand beneath her breast a moment, a slight wince crossing her features briefly. “I will be under the care of ten experienced butchers and their underlings.”

  “Surgeons,” Sylvia whispered in horror. It was not a given that a person could go under the surgeon’s knife and expect to live to tell the tale later. There would be great risk and unimaginable pain for the patient. Lady Wharton would suffer, and suffer without support. That was a terrifying prospect to her, but Sylvia put her own distress aside in a bid to understand. “What exactly are they to do?”

  “They will brandish their sharpest knives and cut off my afflicted breast.”

  Sylvia blanched. “All of it?”

  “All of it. I hope they can.” Lady Wharton sipped again. “The lump has increased in size very quickly. It hurts to wear stays already, and my arm gives me great difficulty at times, which is why I no longer dance or enjoy the carriage. Too much jostling about is painful. I’ve no other choice but to have the lump removed from my body.”

  “You could die,” she whispered. Such surgeries had been done, she’d heard, but the risk was enormous. The chance of infection great afterward. The loss of blood would make recovery a difficult and lengthy process.

  Lady Wharton should prepare her family. She should not try to go through this alone just because her children were selfish.

  “Yes, but I’m dying regardless” the marchioness conceded. “I prefer to hope I can be saved and live to see my grandchildren grown.”

  Was that all she cared about? Seeing the next generation born had often been a topic of conversation between them. Sylvia hadn’t been asked for her opinion about the surgery but, given a choice between early death and a chance of one much later, she too might take the same risk with her life.

  She captured Lady Wharton’s hand and squeezed. “If you will not call your family to keep vigil, I’ll stay with you,” she offered.

  “I cannot allow that.”

  “You must have someone, and if not your family, then you have me.” She quickly considered what might happen on the day of the surgery and afterward. Lady Wharton would not be in any fit state to make her wishes clear. “The surgeon’s will need to speak to someone who is capable of making decisions on your behalf. You might not be able to talk to them. And your care afterward? Who will decide when to inform the marquess that you will be all right or not? You cannot leave a servant to convey that sort of news, especially if you were about to die. He—they would be devastated.”

  The marchioness considered her a long time and still shook her head. “It will be an ugly business. I cannot ask someone to see or hear what happens to me tomorrow morning. I expect I will scream very loudly.”

  Sylvia shuddered at the thought of what she’d volunteered herself for, but she wouldn’t back down from her promise now. “You didn’t ask me to stay. I offered,” Sylvia reminded her friend. “I will be at your side tomorrow morning, and nothing you say to me now will change my mind.”

  The woman who Sylvia had befriended on a whim without knowing her connections burst into ugly tears there and then.

  Sylvia soothed her, stroked her back, and when Lady Wharton turned away, they pretended the outburst had never happened.

  Lady Wharton drank more spirits until her glass was empty again. “Thank you.”

  Sylvia glanced around the room, at the darkness of the entrance hall, and shivered. The emptiness of it now made her afraid for tomorrow, too. Lady Wharton shouldn’t be alone the night before her surgery. She should have her family around her, but she was too proud to beg for their attention. Sylvia understood but she didn’t like it.

  She stood. “I need to write a letter.”

  Lizzy glared at her.

  “To my cousins, Lizzy. I have to give them a reason why I will not return home tonight or they will worry. I know just what to say not to rouse suspicion, I promise. I will also need a few things sent over so I can stay with you until you are on the mend.”

  “Over there.” Lady Wharton tossed her head toward a far desk, and sank back in the chair, nursing her drink.

  Sylvia hurried to the writing desk and, finding paper and ink, quickly scrawled a note to say she had been invited to stay with her new friend for a few days. She made it sound like a holiday of sorts to cheer up the lady. She did not mention who Lizzy really was in her letter.

  Sylvia didn’t have time to explain everything so she left a great deal out. However, she had told them already that the lady she’d met in the park was melancholy. They would be pleased just to know Sylvia could help, and that she was doing a good deed. And since she was close by still, they wouldn’t be the least bit concerned or think to pay a call. She’d write to them again in a few days.

  Sylvia sent the letter off with a hastily summoned servant, and then returned to Lady Wharton’s side to keep her company. The marchioness had poured yet another glass for herself, and had procured a second glass, too. “Indulge me?”

  Sylvia took up her glass. “What is it?”

  “Brandy.”

  She took a cautious sip. “Ooh, at least it is not as strong as gin. A few sips of that and I’m not fit for company.”

  “Gin is in that far left decanter. Remember where it is for after the surgery.”

  Would there be an after for
Lady Wharton?

  Sylvia shook off the terrible thought that there might not be and raised her glass high. “To victory over adversity.”

  “Victory.” Lady Wharton smiled dreamily now. “If you don’t mind, I would like to overindulge tonight so I don’t have to think about tomorrow.”

  Sylvia drank deeply, feeling the burn of spirits slide down her throat. “Indeed we both will,” she gasped out.

  Lizzy studied her glass, and then lifted it again. “To the only brave woman I know in London.”

  Sylvia took a hasty sip before she burst into ugly tears, too.

  Chapter 13

  Alexander put a finger in his ear to dim the sound of his sisters’ squabbling over nothing again, and then gave up trying to be subtle. He put his hands on the breakfast table and rose slightly. “Enough! Silence the pair of you before I lock you in your rooms for the day.”

  Amelia and Jocelyn stared at him in shock.

  But they were finally, blessedly silent, and that was all he wanted. “Eat your breakfast.”

  He sat again, tugging down his waistcoat, and resumed eating. The news sheet was open at his side as it always was. He preferred to read at least a quarter of it before he left the breakfast table and began the real work of managing his vast interests.

  The silence lasted all of two minutes. Silverware tapped on a breakfast plate. “Mama never yells at us,” Amelia accused. Amelia was the eldest of the pair, and quite prone to pouting about the injustices she believed she suffered in life.

  “Our mother is too much of a lady to yell at anyone,” he replied.

  “Except that one time in Bristol when you nearly walked into the path of that carriage,” Jocelyn teased.

  Jocelyn was very good at pointing out everyone’s flaws. For that reason, she was an absolute disaster around other people. He’d had to carefully choose from a limited number of social engagements so Jocelyn didn’t risk offending everyone in London in one season.

  “I did no such thing,” Amelia exclaimed, her voice rising to a shrill tone that really stabbed into the mind. “It swerved toward me.”