Born to Be Wilde

by Eloisa James

  Her stomach knotted. “Just what a woman wants to hear,” she managed.

  “What do you mean I don’t find you attractive?” he roared.

  Rain ran down her forehead as she looked up at him. “I don’t believe we need to itemize the evidence, do you? Look, I lost some weight after falling ill. I’ll be fine in a few months.”

  His eyes burned down into hers. The problem with the way he was gripping her—well, there was more than just one—was that even here, in the rain, she felt safe because he was nearby. She twisted away again, turning toward Felton’s rear door.

  He pulled her back, too sharply. “The hell I don’t find you attractive.”

  Lavinia froze.

  “There’s not a man in this city who isn’t ravenous for you, Lavinia.” His face was hard, his eyes burning with desire.

  Yes: desire.

  And then his lips were on hers, his tongue deep in her mouth before her mind caught up to his words. Their bodies came together with a slap of wet cloth, and one of his hands slid down her back and trapped her against him, pulling her against the lower part of his body.

  What she felt was unmistakable. A hard . . . cock, to use the word that ladies weren’t supposed to know.

  Lavinia had never felt such a thing before—her previous fourteen kisses had been wan, polite encounters in comparison. She should have been shocked. Slapped him, perhaps. Instead, her treacherous body melted even closer. Without meaning to, she whimpered.

  At that small sound, he kissed her harder, deeper. It wasn’t a gentleman’s kiss; it was a raw, sensual exploration.

  He tasted like rain. But she could also taste frustration and lust, the same lust that was burning through her, making her tremble from head to foot and wind her arms around his neck as if their bodies weren’t already as close as they could be.

  She had never yielded to her other suitors. They had kissed her, and she had observed how it felt even as it was happening. But this time, she succumbed. She yielded. In a greedy panic, she surrendered to him, as if opposition might make him stop kissing her. As if that would starve her in truth.

  Which is when he made a harsh sound and pulled his head away.

  Lavinia opened her eyes.

  Too stunned to grapple with her pride, she searched his face. His skin was a warmer brown than that of most gentlemen; she’d never seen him blush with anger or shame. But now his color had deepened.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said faintly, stepping back. Her heart was thudding in the base of her throat.

  His eyes remained dispassionate, whereas she felt shaken to her core. “You said that I didn’t find you attractive.” He sounded rational, as if she’d asked him to prove a theorem, and in response he had scratched a proof on paper.

  Reaching out, he pushed a heavy lock of wet hair behind her ear. His fingers, rough and callused, brushed her temple.

  “So this was a . . . what was it?”

  “It was nothing. I merely wanted you to understand that you are desirable, even now, thin and wringing wet.” His mouth eased. “Perhaps even more so.”

  In the silence between them, she heard rain pattering on Felton’s slate roof. She was trying to sort through her feelings. Was it stupid to feel hurt? She was tired of being confronted with his indifference, not to mention his brutal honesty about her shortcomings, physical and otherwise.

  Apparently, he had been trying to be kind. She shouldn’t take that amiss and be insulted. It would be childish.

  “Kiss number fifteen,” she said, trying for a cheery tone.

  His eyes glittered, and she had the sudden feeling that mentioning her previous kisses might not have been a good idea.

  “Before he sailed, Prince Oskar thanked me for introducing him to his future wife,” Parth said, out of the blue.

  Lavinia was staring at him, surprised into silence, when the back door opened and Elisa’s head emerged. Her mouth widened into a beaming smile.

  “Hello!” she cried. “Here you are! Is this an English game you are playing? In Italy we try to stay away from bad weather for fear of a frescata, but this is fun!” She bounded out into the rain, turning in a circle, her palms up. “Molto divertente!”

  “I am grateful to have met the prince,” Lavinia said to Parth at last, shaking off the shameful, sweet ache that lingered in her body.

  He nodded and then turned to the contessa, and smiled at her the way he hadn’t smiled at Lavinia—ever. “Shall we escort Miss Gray to tea, Elisa? She hasn’t eaten.”

  Now she was ‘Miss Gray’ again. Of course.

  “You will remember that I am awaiting Miss Belgrave,” Lavinia said, maintaining a smile as she led the way back into the shop. She took her pelisse from an assistant and wrapped herself in it, covering the wet silk clinging to her figure.

  Through the plate-glass windows looking out onto Oxford Street, Lavinia glimpsed the Duke of Lindow’s carriage pulling up in front of Felton’s. Diana’s timing, however unwitting, was perfect. Lavinia dropped a curtsy like a manic butterfly.

  “I must say goodbye. Elisa, this has been a pleasure. I hope we will meet again soon.”

  “We will!” Elisa cried. “We are going to Vauxhall together.” Never mind that they’d just met; Elisa swooped in and kissed her cheek.

  “I’m not sure if I will join you,” Lavinia said. “I have many engagements.”

  “We will choose an evening when you are free,” Elisa insisted.

  Parth was staring at Lavinia with his usual somber look.

  An assistant opened the front door, so Lavinia escaped without bidding farewell to Mr. Felton. She would apologize some other time.

  “I’m so sorry to be late,” Diana said from the door of the carriage. Lavinia almost bowled her over on her way into the vehicle.

  “Please let’s go,” she gasped, throwing herself onto a seat. She jerked her chin at the duke’s groom and he closed the door.

  “Aren’t we going inside?” Diana asked, toppling into the opposite seat.

  “No,” Lavinia managed, trying to stop panting. “I told the coachman to take us home.”

  “Home? But why? It took me two hours to get here from the townhouse,” Diana cried.

  The carriage jerked into motion, and Lavinia welcomed it with such relief that she felt dizzy.

  “Parth is in there,” she said, her voice coming out queer and husky, cutting off Diana’s explanation about the traffic near Oxford Street.

  “Ah,” Diana said. “With his contessa?”

  Lavinia nodded. “Do you know if they are betrothed? I believe she is acquiring a trousseau.”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Diana said. “What is she like?”

  “She’s perfect for him,” Lavinia said, leaning back and feeling inexpressibly exhausted. “Her name is Elisa, and she’s utterly charming.”

  “That’s what North said.”

  “Perfect for Parth.”

  “Suitable for Sterling?” Diana countered, with a giggle.

  Lavinia felt as if her heart was trying to beat through a flood of treacle. “I’m not funning,” she said, waving her hand. “You’ll love her; I did.” She closed her eyes. “I’m so tired.”

  “Why are we running away, Lavinia?”

  Lavinia opened one eye. Diana looked worried. They might not have been very close during their debut, but now they had become something like sisters. Not that Lavinia could truly say that, since Diana had lost her little sister, and Lavinia had never had a sister or a brother.

  But she imagined a sister would be like Diana.

  “I already selected the fabric for your outerwear,” Lavinia said. “Mr. Felton will send the fabrics on to the mantua-maker.”

  Thankfully, Diana dropped the question of Lavinia’s escape from Felton’s. “Will you receive a commission? Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask: Has your solicitor produced a figure as regards the money your mother took from Willa’s estate?”

  “Yes,” Lavinia said. Sh
e bit her lip. “I shall be able to repay it and the emeralds from the clothing the Wilde family is ordering, because the tailor offered me a commission as well. Oh, Diana, am I taking advantage of friends?”

  “Certainly not, because we are paying precisely what we would otherwise,” Diana said. “I need a gown and a trousseau fit for a duchess, and there is no one else who could provide it for me.”

  “Lady Knowe has ordered so much, and the duchess keeps writing and asking for more garments. She has decided that she and His Grace will be dressed as sea gods for the masquerade party.”

  “What on earth does a sea god wear?” Diana asked.

  “Blue-green costumes,” Lavinia said. “I came up with an idea last night for using tulle so that it would look like sea foam. I have to speak to Madame Prague about it. At any rate, Ophelia also wants me to order clothing for the children.”

  Diana leaned forward and took Lavinia’s hand. “The Wildes are wildly wealthy, if you’ll forgive me all the alliteration. They would buy clothes for the wedding and the ball, no matter whether you were involved or not. Your commission is subtracted from the merchants’ fees.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Imagine how frequently they must have been defrauded by unscrupulous tradesmen,” Diana said. “Her Grace often sends off to London for a new gown, with no regard for the cost of the fabric or trimmings. I would expect you are going to provide them clothing that will cost less than they are used to paying.”

  Lavinia brightened. “That may be true. I am certain that your mother paid double the worth of your gowns during our debut.”

  “Without question,” Diana said. Then, “Lavinia, you’ll have to see the contessa when we go to Vauxhall.”

  Apparently her cousin grasped exactly why Lavinia had dashed out of Felton’s in the rain.

  “Lord Jeremy Roden will be there,” Lavinia said, not bothering to pretend. “With luck he will be wildly infatuated with me.”

  Diana shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were in love with Parth when we came up with the plan to ask for his hand, Lavinia? I never would have sent you to his bedchamber.”

  Lavinia dropped her gaze to her fingers, which were busy pleating and repleating her damp pelisse. “He’s never thought me interesting. If there was any chance, I had to take it.” She raised her eyes and gave Diana an unsteady smile. “The fact is, you offered an excuse, and I took it. I wouldn’t have had the courage without your prompting.”

  Diana moved to the seat beside her and put her arms around Lavinia. “I want you to be as happy as I am.”

  “I will be,” Lavinia promised, hugging her back. “Parth would make a wretched husband. In fact, I pity Elisa.”

  Diana held her tongue, and Lavinia knew why.

  Sisters don’t point out obvious lies.

  Chapter Twelve

  July 27, 1780

  The next fortnight passed in a flurry of visits to cobblers and milliners, but day by day, Lavinia was happily aware that they were making progress. By the day that North was due to arrive, her notes regarding the trousseau had swollen to haystack proportions, so she remained home to catalogue every item, while the bride-to-be bounced from window to window, peering from the morning room out at Mayfair.

  “What can possibly be taking North so long?” Diana moaned. “The groom he sent ahead said we could expect the carriage by ten in the morning!”

  “You know what the press of carriages is like in London,” Lavinia said, not looking up.

  “I hate London,” Diana said. She hiccupped inelegantly, and wrapped her arms around her waist. “No, no, no! I’ve thrown up three times today.”

  Lavinia winced with sympathy. “Perhaps if you sit down?”

  “The only thing that helps is Lady Knowe’s peppermint tea,” Diana said, ringing the bell as she plumped down on the settee beside Lavinia. “I can’t wait to tell him. Do you think he’ll guess?”

  “Absolutely not,” Lavinia said, glancing at Diana’s still-slender waist.

  “I mean when he opens his present.” Carriage wheels rattled in the street and Diana jumped up and ran to the window. “He’s here!”

  Lavinia went to the same window and watched as her cousin flew out the front door and hurled herself at her fiancé. North’s arms closed around her, and Lavinia caught just a glimpse of his face as he bent his head to kiss his fiancée.

  Right there in broad daylight, in the middle of Mayfair, where any number of people from polite society might see them.

  Obviously, he didn’t care.

  Lord Roland Northbridge Wilde, future Duke of Lindow, didn’t give a damn.

  It gave Lavinia a queer feeling. North was embracing Diana so tenderly—and it wasn’t because of the baby; he had no idea about that.

  It was because Diana was precious to him. In herself. In everything about her.

  Lavinia discovered she was pressing her forehead to the cool glass, and made herself turn away and cross the room. She had never before understood that loneliness doesn’t come from nowhere.

  It follows moments in which one’s own poverty was exposed. Not lack of money, but lack of love. She’d written another letter to her mother that morning, although Lady Gray hadn’t yet responded to a single missive.

  Diana and North entered the room, saving Lavinia from a bout of withering self-pity. “North is here!” Diana cried happily. “And just look: He brought me paintings made by Godfrey and Artie! This is clearly Fitzy.” She held up a bluish blob that was graced with a spreading tail.

  “That one is Artie’s,” North said, moving toward Lavinia. “Godfrey told me his is a portrait of one of the ducal pigs.”

  “Hmm. It is pink,” Diana said, looking at the other. “I miss them both so much!” She put down the paintings and picked up a silk-wrapped parcel.

  Lavinia curtsied before North, who bent and kissed her cheek, because she was “part of the Wilde family now.”

  If only.

  “This is for you,” Diana said to North. She held the parcel out with a huge smile.

  “It’s not my birthday,” he observed, taking it. “Hmm, it’s soft.” He squeezed it, giving Lavinia a squinty look as he did so. “This isn’t a garment designed to replace those fancy embroidered vests that my valet stole, is it?”

  “Lavinia had something to do with it, but no,” Diana cried. “Please open it, North!”

  “You might wait until Lady Knowe joins us,” Lavinia interjected.

  He looked up, surprised. “Is this a family occasion?”

  At that, Diana broke into a stream of giggles. Lavinia reached for the bell, intending to ask Simpson to call for Lady Knowe, but the door swung open.

  “Nephew!” the lady shouted. “You wicked boy, why didn’t you come to greet me directly?”

  “Forgive me, Aunt; I was ambushed by my fiancée,” North said, setting the parcel aside in order to bow and kiss Lady Knowe’s hand. He hugged her for good measure. “How is my favorite aunt?”

  “Your only aunt is doing very well,” she said tartly. She sat down beside Lavinia and gestured at the parcel. “Open it!”

  “I don’t remember this much excitement over a gift even when I came of age,” North said. He sat down beside Diana, who retrieved the parcel and placed it in his lap.

  The three conspirators watched intently as he untied the braided ribbons and then slowly unfolded the silk wrapping. Lavinia could feel her heart speeding up, and a smile curling her lips.

  North slowly raised his present into the air. It was a tiny gown, made yet tinier by his large hands. Light blue silk was covered with a delicate azure gauze, caught up by embroidered roses flirting with lace.

  It was exquisite—as well it should be, since Lavinia had ordered it based on her memory of a gown worn by Marie-Thérèse, Queen Marie Antoinette’s infant daughter.

  North turned to look at Diana, and the laugh died in Lavinia’s throat. If she’d thought he looked tender before? The fierce glow in North’s ey
es was too private to be shared.

  Lady Knowe apparently agreed, because she hopped to her feet and pulled Lavinia up with her. “Time for a visit to the ladies’ retiring room,” she trumpeted, steering Lavinia straight out of the room.

  In the corridor, Lady Knowe pushed the door closed behind them and then shook her head. “I need a brandy. Too much sweetness in the air makes my teeth hurt. Don’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely,” Lavinia said.

  Though she wasn’t certain it was her teeth that hurt.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Duke of Lindow’s residence

  A gathering before a visit to Vauxhall Gardens

  July 29, 1780

  Parth arrived at the ducal townhouse in an irritable mood. He hated being in the grip of complicated emotions, and no one could say his life at the moment wasn’t complicated—not with Elisa on his arm, and the memory of that kiss with Lavinia in his mind.

  His mind?

  That kiss had sunk into his bloody bones. He could almost taste her wild sweetness just by picturing her lips.

  Pushing the thought away, he escorted Elisa into the drawing room, which was uninhabited save for North, seated at the far end of the long room. North immediately rose.

  “This is Lord Northbridge Wilde,” Parth said sotto voce, as North crossed the room toward them. “Is he as splendid as your prints led you to believe?”

  “Alas, I have read in the paper that he is betrothed,” Elisa said, twinkling up at him. Then, in a whisper, “Not my only disappointment, as His Lordship is less elegantly attired than one might expect from those prints. È deludente!”

  North was wearing a perfectly respectable bronze-colored costume, but his wig was modest, his stockings white, and his shoes black. He bore no resemblance to the peacock he had once been.

  They met in the center of the room. “Contessa, may I present Lord Roland Wilde?” Parth said. “North, I am honored to introduce Elisa Tornabuoni Guicciardini, Contessa di Casone.”

  North bowed and kissed the slender fingers that were held out to him. “It is a pleasure, Contessa.”