Born to Be Wilde

by Eloisa James

  She was looking at him, but he couldn’t read her expression. His chest tightened as she remained silent.

  “If you won’t have me,” he added, “I will respect your decision. But you must eat more. Please, don’t ever go out in the rain again. Or the snow. You might fall ill.”

  “Not even to seduce a man?”

  He winced. “That was an absurd accusation, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t want to boast, Parth, but if I wanted to catch a man using my bosom, I need not wait for a rain shower.” A smile trembled on Lavinia’s lips. “I will divulge a trade secret: It’s all a matter of corsets and boning.”

  “It was the most erotic moment of my life. Until we went to the tower together. And until the following day.”

  Lavinia took one of his hands and turned it over. “I was unhappy to meet Elisa. Unhappier still to find how much I liked her. That’s what sent me into the rain.”

  He held his breath.

  “Why on earth would I know that your carriage was drawn up in an alley, anyway?” she added, throwing him a frown. “You left Felton’s by way of the front door.”

  “I was looking for an explanation for why you wanted to be with me,” Parth said, keeping his voice even. “I overheard you and Diana talking, and I lashed out.”

  “You already knew I had no dowry,” Lavinia said. “You presented me with eligible bachelors—although I would beg to differ, as far as Lord Jeremy is concerned. What could you have overheard that angered you so?”

  “That you ‘won’ me on Diana’s orders.”

  “Diana had very little to do with it. I believe that you love me. But I’m afraid that you will never respect me.” Lavinia hesitated. “The things that interest me, and for which I have a talent, will never benefit mankind, or—or make a million pounds.”

  “May I show you something?” Parth asked.

  She nodded. He stood and lifted her up in his arms again.

  “Really?” she demanded. But she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

  He carried her from the room and up the stairs, stopping before a closed door. He shouldered it open and placed her on her feet.

  “This is for you, if you’ll have it,” he said at length, when she didn’t speak.

  He’d created the room by knocking down a wall between two smaller bedchambers, forming a long, sunlit room with windows that looked east and south. Along one wall were rows of pigeonholes, filled with bolts of fabric.

  Like gossiping villagers, three dress forms stood before a window, just as they had in the Lindow sewing room, next to chairs angled so that seamstresses would have the best light. To the other side, boxes held buttons and spangles.

  And lace—all of it from his factory, naturally.

  “Where did you get the fabric?” Lavinia asked, sounding dazed.

  “Mr. Felton. He had it shipped here. To be honest, I have no idea what he sent, but he knows your taste better than anyone.”

  “You were so certain that I’d marry you?” Lavinia asked faintly, looking up at him.

  He put his arms around her and nuzzled her ear. “You made love to me, Lavinia. You loved me. And I loved you. I put in the orders the morning I left Lindow, and I’ve had men working on it ever since.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Lavinia wrapped her arms around Parth, and pressed her cheek against the wool of his coat. Though he had changed clothing, he still smelled of snow.

  Like snow and love. Because it turned out that love had a scent. It smelled of fresh wood, of bolts of silk and wool, of boxes of buttons.

  She swallowed hard, and a few tears escaped.

  “Lavinia?”

  Parth never sounded uncertain; it wasn’t his nature. But his deep voice was a bit unsteady.

  He rubbed his thumb over her wet cheek, and his large frame curved over her, as if to protect her from the world’s ills. “Sweetheart, please don’t cry. This was probably an idiotic idea.”

  “It wasn’t,” she said, her voice as unsteady as his.

  “No?”

  She pulled back her head, tilted it so she could look into his serious eyes. Love his serious eyes. “My mother wouldn’t have thought it appropriate. She—she doesn’t know me, and she’s not interested. Perhaps because of the laudanum. She is very ill, for lack of a better word.”

  Parth nodded. “I understand.”

  “She may live at Gooseberry Manor for the rest of her life, or she may be able to live with me someday, but I don’t think she can ever be alone.”

  He nodded. “I agree.”

  Lavinia swallowed hard. “You bring the Wildes, and I . . .” She faltered. “I don’t have money, or a family, and it’s hard to believe that I’m worth—”

  He cut into her sentence. “I respect you, Lavinia.” His voice was raw with passion, his eyes intent on hers. “You are a brilliant woman, who sees the world as an artist does: in color, light, and shape. And like any other artist, you want to spend your days creating beauty. My only excuse for what I said is that I wanted you too much for sanity. My sanity.”

  “I love you,” she said. The words hung in the air like dust motes in the sunshine. She clung tighter, feeling her heart as if it were a lamp that could light her entire body. “I truly love you.”

  She smiled up at him. “From the moment I met you, I wanted you so much that I couldn’t be civil, which made no sense at all,” she said, the calmness in her voice masking a dizzy happiness in her heart. “You have to understand that I am civil to everyone.”

  “I assumed the worst,” Parth admitted.

  “Appalling Parth,” she said ruefully, “Proper Parth.” She came up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. “I couldn’t say what I really meant: Ravishing Parth. Seductive Sterling. Fascinating man. Love of my life.”

  “You couldn’t?” He sounded dumbfounded.

  “Most men smile at me. They bow and kiss my hand and sometimes propose marriage. You scowled at me, and yet you were the only one who seemed to be doing anything interesting. I wanted to talk to you—but I stumbled every time I tried. I felt like a fraud, as if I were trying to sound intelligent.”

  “But you are intelligent, Lavinia.”

  She shrugged a little. “The things that interest me are considered frivolous. I do love bonnets, Parth. I always will.”

  “I love your bonnets. I love every bonnet. I will listen to you talk about bonnets all the days of my life and count myself the luckiest man on earth.”

  He pulled her closer. Lavinia tilted her head again. “I’ve given you several opportunities to kiss me, but you haven’t.”

  “I want to be sure.”

  “Of me?”

  “Of us. I love you too much for peace of mind.”

  “Parth Sterling, are you saying that you’re afraid to kiss me?”

  “Only if you’re going to break my heart.”

  His dark eyes searched hers and he must have found his answer in the glimmer of happy tears, because he caught her in the strong circle of his arms and his mouth captured hers.

  They kissed in the quiet room, next to the dress forms, and the bolts of silk, and the bundles of Sterling lace. Outside the window, snow swirled down and began to fall more heavily. They were still kissing when Parth’s housekeeper came to find them.

  After hot tea, Lavinia put on her freshly pressed gown, though she left the footman’s coat to be properly laundered. They climbed into the coach, and without words, Lavinia collapsed onto the broad seat and opened her arms.

  Parth laughed, a belly laugh, a joyful sound that she’d never before heard him make. They kissed until Lavinia felt weakness take her limbs.

  “We don’t have time,” Parth growled.

  “Mmm,” Lavinia murmured, nipping his lower lip.

  “I told North that I looked for you everywhere.”

  Lavinia tried to focus on what he was saying, but desire had splintered her mind and sent it in every direction. “You looked for me . . . in London?”
/>   “Everywhere.”

  “You never came to Paris.”

  “By then I had told myself that I had to stop looking for you. I had to stop waiting for you. I felt like such a fool, falling in love with a woman whose laugh I coveted.” He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. “This hunger to have you all to myself, Lavinia. It’s unnerving.”

  She was silent. Then, very softly, “No one has ever said anything so beautiful to me, Parth.”

  “The day I stop looking for you, the day I stop waiting for you, will be the day that I die,” he said, meeting her eyes. “And then I’ll just wait for you to join me again.”

  Tears welled in Lavinia’s eyes. “Every man I met just strengthened this irksome, embarrassing love I have for you.”

  “You must be mad.” He kissed her.

  “No,” she gasped later. “Not mad. But in love.”

  “I’m bewildered by that,” Parth whispered. “But I’ll take it. Damn it. I’ll take it, Lavinia, and give you all my love in return. A bad bargain for you, but it’s everything I have.”

  “It’s everything I want.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The wedding of Miss Diana Belgrave

  to Lord Roland Northbridge Wilde

  The Wilde Family Chapel

  October 31, 1780

  The wedding was held in the morning, and the cream of high society had begun pouring into Lindow Castle the day before.

  Every member of the immediate Wilde family except for Alaric and his wife, Willa—who were voyaging abroad—was home for the event. Betsy, Joan, and Viola had given up their bedchambers and were sleeping in the nursery with Artie and Godfrey. Leonidas, Alexander, Spartacus, and Erik were bedding down in the governess’s bedchamber, where Diana had slept not so terribly long before.

  By All Hallows’ morning, the castle throbbed with activity, as if it had finally been invaded by a conquering force.

  “You look pretty but so modest.” Annie sighed, examining Lavinia’s pale gold gown, which had been designed to complement the bride’s attire but certainly not outshine it. Then she laughed. “Anyone who finds you demure this morning will be shocked to see you tonight at the ball!”

  The door burst open and Elisa stuck her head in. “Lavinia, you must come! Lady Knowe has decided that purple feathers would look better—”

  “Oh, no, she hasn’t!” Lavinia cried, and flew past her into the corridor.

  The duchess’s bedchamber was enormous, but filled as it was now with the female half of the Wilde family, the contessa, and a number of maids, it was as busy and crowded as a beehive. The bride was standing before a large glass as her maid carefully adjusted the jeweled flowers in her hair.

  Ignoring the purple-feather crisis for the time being, Lavinia headed for Diana. “You look so beautiful!” she cried. “How do you feel?”

  Diana kissed her cheek. “How do I feel?” She gave a giddy smile and turned back to the mirror. “Look at me, Lavinia! When I debuted, the gowns my mother chose made me feel gaudy and unattractive.”

  “You were never that,” Lavinia said. Behind her, the room quieted, as others stopped to listen.

  “It’s part of the reason that I ran away from my betrothal party,” Diana said, her eyes glinting with tears. “I didn’t believe that North could possibly be attracted to me because I looked like a scarecrow set up to frighten children. My wigs and skirts were always the largest and the most garish in the room.”

  “Not today!” Betsy cried.

  Diana’s gown framed the bride, rather than claiming all the attention. She wore no wig; her hair was caught up in ringlets and lightly powdered. On her face, she wore lip paint, a little more powder, and a single patch, high on her right cheekbone.

  And she was radiant.

  “You are wearing this dress, not the other way around,” Ophelia said softly, coming forward and tucking a handkerchief into Diana’s hand. “I am so proud of my lovely daughter-in-law.”

  Diana gave her a watery smile. “I know that North loves me. I do. But today everyone else in that chapel will believe it as well.” She turned to Lavinia and embraced her. “I will be confident walking into that chapel, sweetheart, because you made me feel beautiful. This is the best gift that anyone has ever given me.”

  After that, Lavinia borrowed Her Grace’s handkerchief, and both she and Diana had to be powdered again, after which Lavinia wrested the purple feathers away from Lady Knowe. But it wasn’t until Elisa modeled the chic pouf especially designed for Lady Knowe’s gown that the plumes were banished.

  Two hours flew by, and before Lavinia knew it, she was standing at one side of the altar, with Parth and North waiting opposite. The chapel ceiling was decorated with an elaborate design of rosettes, which Lavinia stared at in order to distract her attention from Parth.

  If she met his eyes, she would blush. So she kept her eyes resolutely on the rosettes, first counting them, then naming them, until—out of ideas—she finally settled on watching the door.

  Lavinia had pictured Diana in her wedding gown countless times. She had considered the way the morning sunshine would enter the chapel’s high windows and be reflected and multiplied by the gown’s pearls and spangles. She had imagined Diana’s slow procession, giving the assembled guests time to absorb her magnificence.

  But Lavinia had never imagined that when a bride appeared at the back of a chapel—perhaps especially a bride who had once taken flight—her groom might be overcome by joy. So overcome, in fact, that he might desert the altar and stride down the aisle toward the woman of his heart.

  In that case, the bride might stop and smile. No one present would scrutinize her dress; they would be too busy applauding, laughing, and wiping away tears.

  Even Lavinia neglected the wedding gown until Diana and North finally stood at the altar. And then she saw it through a haze of tears. The bride and groom had been through so much pain before this moment, and now at last were surrounded by adoring family and any number of guests sighing with envy.

  Joy and gratitude filled Lavinia’s heart, so much so that she had to close her eyes for a moment and compose herself.

  When she opened them, she instinctively looked at Parth, opposite her. His eyes were hungry and respectful.

  He looked like a king.

  Like a happy man.

  Like a man in love.

  He nodded at her and mouthed two words. “Nice dress.”

  No one is supposed to laugh during a wedding service. But Lavinia couldn’t stop herself, and then Diana started giggling, and in the end the vicar began again.

  “Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of his congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable state, and therefore is not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy man’s carnal lusts and appetites.”

  The giggles that broke out at that point came not from Lavinia, but from the raucous group of young Wildes in the first pew.

  No one laughed when North took Diana’s hands and looked down at her with all the joy he felt.

  “I, Lord Roland Northbridge Wilde, take thee, Miss Diana Belgrave, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part . . .”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  A Masked Ball

  Lindow Castle

  That evening

  A ball at Lindow was an event people would remember for their entire lives. The castle was tailor-made for frolicsome evenings when the flourish of violins filled the ballroom, guests chattering behind painted fans filled the drawing room, and whispering couples filled the alcoves. People invariably fell in love or in lust, with all the attendant consequences: happy marriages, lost reputations, broken hearts.

  But a masquerade ball was even more exciting. Young ladies prepared their toilette in shivering anticip
ation. In particular, those who had no diamond brooches to flaunt on their bosoms or pearls to wind around their arms were elated.

  Wealth and hierarchy would be hidden by costume. If a lady dropped her fan, anyone might pick it up . . . a viscount, for example. Or a duke’s son. Even one of the famous Wildes!

  Chaperones were less enthusiastic, especially those mothers who generally lined ballroom walls, watching their daughters with forbidding expressions. No matter how often they had recourse to smelling salts—or laudanum drops—their precious charges might well take the hand of a dissolute rake or a penniless third son.

  Thus the reckless, the prudent, and the hopeful saw the Duke of Lindow’s masquerade as an evening in which hierarchy would be flaunted. They dressed in a quiver of excitement, intoxicated by the idea of freedom.

  Lavinia knew better.

  At a masquerade, hierarchy shifted from one’s ancestry to one’s costume. A few tiresome men would come with a simple strip of black over their eyes. But most guests would have put months into planning their costumes.

  And she—whose betrothal to one of the richest men in England was being announced that very evening?

  Her costume had to be intoxicating and delightful, not an easy combination. In the end, she turned to Shakespeare. She wouldn’t be the only Queen of Fairies at the ball, but she would be the most enchanting.

  Lindow’s ballroom had been added to the castle by an early Wilde; the architect had taken advantage of a slope that necessitated it be lower than the ground floor by creating a huge sweep of shallow stairs that led into the room.

  Lavinia waited in the entry, hearing the hum of voices that rose when Prism announced, “Poseidon, God of the Sea, and the sea goddess, Amphitrite.” In other words, the Duke and Duchess of Lindow. Voices rose again when Prism bellowed “Diana and Actaeon,” and the newlyweds descended the steps.

  Not having a mother or a spouse to accompany her, Lavinia had chosen to come with a troupe of fairies, all of whom were attired in elegant rose velvet that harmonized with her fanciful gown. She wore a confection of exquisite gold lace layered over pink silk. The lace was made in the Sterling factory, but the daring idea of using the newest dye, quercitron, to color an entire bolt gold, was entirely hers. In a nod to fairyland, she wore strings of pink silk flowers that gathered into rosettes around the hem, and formed a small train. The effect was extravagant, daring, and altogether delicious.