Born to Be Wilde by Eloisa James
“Yes,” Lavinia replied, a tone of distinct satisfaction in her voice.
“Splendid!”
Parth frowned. His aunt sounded positively gleeful about Lady Blythe’s impertinent request for Lavinia’s advice.
“We’ll work out the details tomorrow,” Aunt Knowe said, waving her hand. “Now I must escort the poor contessa.”
Elisa had been gathering up all the bits and pieces that she always dropped around her, like a tree shedding its leaves, Parth thought uncharitably. She took his aunt’s arm and leaned on it gracefully. “I am sad to leave, caro,” she said to Parth. “Lavinia!” She blew a kiss.
“I’ll be back in no time!” his aunt caroled.
Chapter Fifteen
“How very awkward,” Lavinia said, seating herself again. “Luckily, you and I needn’t worry about compromising my reputation.”
“No, because I’ve already done that,” Parth said, joining her. He watched with deep satisfaction as her cheeks turned rosy. “I don’t mean in my bedchamber or yours, but once in the rain, and again this evening.”
Lavinia turned her nose in the air. “No one knows but us, and therefore those kisses do not exist.”
“We are ready for our meal,” Parth informed the waiter.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Lady Knowe?”
“I’m hungry, and my aunt has no sense of time. She’ll probably begin chatting with Elisa, and return in an hour.” In short order, platters of delicate savories, petits fours, and bowls of strawberries were placed before them.
Parth waved away the waiter, loaded a plate with food, and set it in front of Lavinia.
She slowly unbuttoned her gloves. “I’m not very hungry.”
“You must eat,” Parth said, hearing the clipped tone in his own voice with surprise. “You’re too thin.”
Lavinia scowled. “Someday, I shall grow tired of your insults and throw something at you. A glass of wine, perhaps.”
Parth cut back a laugh that nearly escaped. “Eat,” he said instead.
She picked up a ham tartlet and took a bite.
Parth threw one into his mouth. He’d spent the afternoon riding to Hampstead Heath and was ravenous. They ate in silence for a few minutes before he said, “I’d like to hear more about lace.”
“Because of Sterling Lace? The truth is”—Lavinia made an apologetic grimace—“handmade lace is more delicate and desirable than anything that can be fashioned by machine.”
“It is my understanding that it takes eight hours to create a tiny amount of Holland lace,” Parth said. “Of course it’s expensive. But why shouldn’t everyone wear lace on their collars?”
Lavinia’s beautiful eyes focused on him. “You shouldn’t attempt to compete with handmade lace.”
“Why not?”
Parth listened and ate two more tarts and a slice of ham, while Lavinia laid out the rationale for an excellent plan to increase his business.
“Sterling lace should be fashionable in itself, not as a substitute for Holland lace. That way, everyone from ladies to grocers’ wives will be looking specifically for your lace. Luckily, when Diana wears it at her wedding, she will set a precedent.”
Parth pushed another sandwich into Lavinia’s hand, but she was so interested in her point that she just put it down.
“For example, if I tell Lady Blythe that Diana’s gown is edged in Sterling lace, she’ll demand the same, from the same bolt, if possible.” Lavinia’s face was entirely earnest.
“Why?” he asked.
“Lady Blythe wants feathers because she has heard, wrongly, that Diana will have feathers on her bodice.” Lavinia rolled her eyes. “As if I would ever allow feathers on a wedding dress.”
Parth had no idea why feathers were such a bad idea, but he held his tongue. “Is that because Lady Blythe wishes that she were marrying North—or rather, a man who will be a duke someday?”
Lavinia nodded. He handed her a pear tartlet and she bit down on it.
“By wearing the same lace, she feels as if she too were a duchess-to-be?” He could hear the grating disbelief in his own voice. “That’s mad.”
“Clothing allows a woman to be whomever she wishes to be, however temporarily,” Lavinia said. He pushed a tiny meringue with a curl of orange peel on top in front of her.
“That’s madness.”
“Lady Blythe wouldn’t be happy as a duchess. It’s tedious and formal.”
“Ophelia likes it,” Parth said defensively. He’d been living in the castle when the duke fell in love and courted his third duchess.
“Ophelia likes parts of it . . . the duke, for example,” Lavinia said. Her dimple showed when she smiled like that.
“The feeling is clearly mutual.”
“I know,” Lavinia said with a sigh. “They’re a model of what to hope for in marriage.” She shook her head. “What am I saying? You hardly need consider models of marital happiness. You’ve chosen Elisa, and you’ll be a wonderful couple.”
Parth just managed to keep his jaw shut. Lavinia truly believed he would kiss her—not just once, but twice—while he was courting Elisa? He had been educated to believe that kissing a lady in a secluded alley was . . .
Well, it was practically a marriage proposal.
Lavinia, oddly enough, was feeling quite happy, even though she was having a tête-à-tête with Parth.
They hadn’t quarreled again, for one thing. Her new resolve not to care that Parth Sterling was in love with Elisa seemed to be successful.
“Why do you suppose that we rubbed each other the wrong way for so long?” she asked impulsively. She took a spoonful of delicious lemon pudding.
His eyes caught on her mouth. But then they had shared those kisses. It would be disingenuous not to admit that there was desire between them.
“Might it have been because you called me names?” he answered wryly.
“So I did,” she said, happily taking another spoonful. “But only you, Mr. Appalling Parth. I’ve never been rude to another person that I can recall.”
He looked at her closely. “I believe you sincerely mean that.”
“Of course I’m sincere. I’ve never seen the point of being rude for the sake of it. Unlike you,” she added, grinning at him. “If you and I are to be friends at last, Parth, we must acknowledge the fact that you think—or hopefully thought—me a brainless ninny.”
She ate more lemon pudding, and once again Parth’s eyes stayed on her lips. For someone practically betrothed to another woman, he seemed terribly attracted to her mouth.
“I thought you a shallow puddle only because you deliberately led me to that conclusion,” Parth stated.
That was fair. Almost.
There was also the fact that she’d been smitten with him, and hadn’t known what to do with the feeling, because—unlike most other eligible bachelors—he hadn’t wooed her.
No, not every bachelor. Alaric and North never looked at her appreciatively either.
“I am shallow; I freely admit to it. I love clothing,” she said, laying down the truth. “I enjoy studying and playing with fabric, lace, selvages, and feathers.” He looked startled, but she just kept going. “Corsets, umbrellas, gussets, spangles—”
He held up a hand. “I understand.”
Lavinia smiled at him again, a big smile, the one she gave to Willa and Artie and all those she truly liked. “Whenever I mentioned something that interested me, you acted like a pompous ass. To be honest.”
“I apologize,” Parth said. “I can be either or both at times.”
“I am always shallow as a puddle,” Lavinia said. “I can’t help it. It’s simply my nature. Just now some part of my brain is noting the green shade of that lady’s bodice to your right. Green was a regrettable choice to pair with orange skirts.”
“An appalling lack of taste?” Parth asked, eyebrow crooked.
“Lack of judgment,” she said with a sigh. “That green does nothing for her skin.”
“She’
Good thing she’d shed her affection for him and no longer cared.
“You’re not shallow; you’re fascinated by clothing,” Parth said.
“Fascinated by puddles,” Lavinia pointed out, and shrugged. “Willa is my closest friend, and she has always chosen to read ancient history, if given a chance. Whereas I spent three years deeply besotted with Lord Wilde, and I do mean, deeply.”
Parth cleared his throat. “I trust your adoration has waned, now that Willa has married the object of your affections?”
“Very disappointing,” Lavinia said, staring at her empty pudding bowl and contemplating using her finger, though that would be intolerably ill-bred.
Another bowl of pudding nudged the first to the side. She looked up. “Oh, you mustn’t give yours to me! I’ve had more than enough.”
“I don’t like lemons. Tell me. Were you disappointed when Alaric fell in love with Willa?”
There was an odd strain in Parth’s voice, as if he really cared. Perhaps they could become true friends, even after he married Elisa.
She gave him a lachrymose smile. “My heart was broken. Shattered. Tears every night, weeping into my bath, sobbing over my bacon.”
Parth narrowed his eyes.
“It was as if a piece of my heart had been torn away,” she added. “Torn on the bias, frayed, and never to be the same, impossible to patch back together.”
“It appears you could rival the murderous playwright who was also infatuated with Alaric,” he said, digging her spoon into his pudding and bringing it to her lips.
Lavinia obediently opened her mouth, her eyes laughing at his over the spoon. And, after swallowing, “‘Never shall I love another man!’ That’s a quote from Wilde in Love, in case you’d forgotten it.” She took the spoon from him and put it to the side. “I shall be ill if I eat any more, delicious though it is.”
“Wasn’t the line ‘Never shall I love another woman!’?” Parth asked.
“I altered it for dramatic purposes.”
“So Lord Wilde ruined you for other men?”
She rarely saw Parth laughing; it took her breath away and made her feel tipsy.
“You must admit that it’s difficult for ordinary men to compete with a man who wrestles giant squid into submission and scales mountains merely for the joy of planting a flag on top.”
“Would you accept a stallion rather than an octopus?” he asked, his face alight with amusement.
“I would accept a trip to China. My favorite Lord Wilde book is his first, in which you and he travel together.”
“We were young fools,” Parth said. “But then most eighteen-year-old men are.”
“But the trip to China had an actual objective! You brought home pekoe tea, which happens to be my favorite.”
“The objective of Alaric’s books is his wanderings,” Parth said, pouring her more wine. “They captivate many people.”
“Yes, I read them over and over,” Lavinia said. She was eyeing the last piece of chicken. It would be very peculiar to eat chicken after pudding.
Parth took the remaining piece and began cutting it up, so that settled that question. “Why?”
“‘Why’?” No one had ever asked that question, and she’d never asked it to herself, beyond the obvious answer: She adored Lord Wilde, as did most of the women in the kingdom. “I suppose because Wilde—as author of the books, you understand—can do anything and go anywhere. That notion is always implicit: if he’s not enjoying himself, he’ll simply move on to the next adventure.”
“Precisely why the cannibals depicted in the play Wilde in Love were absurd,” Parth said. He cut the last piece of chicken, removed the empty bowls, and set the plate of chicken in their place. “Alaric has no interest in being cooked in a stewpot, and he’d never bring someone he loved within reach of murderous peoples either.”
“I can’t eat chicken after sweets,” Lavinia said, completely disconcerted. “I thought you were going to eat that slice.”
“No, you are.”
He held her gaze calmly, unrelenting, until she realized that the chicken smelled very good. Better than anything had smelled in a long time.
“You’re very high-handed,” she observed, and then ate a bite.
“I do own eight businesses.”
“Eight?” Lavinia squinted at him. “Surely you exaggerate.”
“I never exaggerate,” Parth said, beginning to peel an apple. It had the slightly shriveled look of an apple that had ripened last fall, but it, too, smelled good. “Yes, for you,” he said, catching her eye.
“I must finally be entirely well,” Lavinia said happily. “Although it would be terrible to tailor all my gowns again. Impossible, considering how much fabric we cut.”
“‘We’?”
“My maid and I,” Lavinia explained. “Annie and I have been slowly altering my wardrobe.”
He gave her a frown. “If you need more servants in your mother’s absence, Lavinia, I am happy to help.”
“Please understand, I like doing it. The truth is, I love it. I’ve learned so much about how to make women feel beautiful.”
“Women are either attractive or they are not,” Parth said, demonstrating a typical man’s complete ignorance.
She gave him a kind smile. “Nonsense. For example, with proper boning, padding, and seaming, a modiste can make every woman’s bosom a work of art.” Too late she realized this was an invitation to look at her breasts, but characteristically, Parth’s eyes didn’t waver from her face.
“Your beauty has nothing to do with the size or shape of your breasts,” he told her, his eyes as placid as his voice. “Or the fit of your gown, either.”
Lavinia managed to snap her mouth shut.
“Men fall in love with the way you smile at them,” he said, putting the apple, sliced into perfect white segments, before her. “They can’t resist your smile, and the way you flush when you’re happy, and the curve of your bottom lip.”
Lavinia was having trouble breathing. Joy flickered through her.
“That has nothing to do with your breasts, though I, for one, miss their former glory. Even if men decide—erroneously—that you care for nothing but frivolities, they are likely to be driven mad by you anyway.”
Lady Knowe drew out a chair and dropped into it while Lavinia was still staring, silently, at Parth’s face.
“My dears!” the lady cried. “You are not quarreling, which I am so happy to see!”
Lavinia pulled herself back together. “I’m glad you returned,” she said warmly. “Would you like some . . .” She looked at the table with dismay; somehow she and Parth had managed to eat a great deal of the food.
Parth had already caught a waiter’s attention and was ordering more.
“Of course, I returned,” Lady Knowe said, looking astonished. “I could scarcely allow you to be compromised by Parth, could I? There’s nothing more uncomfortable than those marriages in which husband and wife are constantly at each other’s throats.”
“I couldn’t be compromised,” Lavinia said, laughing. “Parth is courting Elisa, remember?” It was a relief to be so open about it. And she was almost certain that her eyes didn’t show the least bit of regret.
“Poor Elisa,” Lady Knowe said. “Married all those years and without a single child. One has to hope that the problem stemmed from her elderly husband.”
Parth said nothing, so Lavinia found herself taking up the cudgels in Elisa’s defense. “That is not something one should consider when choosing a spouse, Lady Knowe.”
“No?” The lady held her right hand out to Parth. “My dear, undo all these buttons, won’t you? My gloves are adorable but irksome.”
“I have a pair with forty-two buttons,” Lavinia said, leaning closer to take a look. “At least yours ha
Lady Knowe coughed. “A time and place, Lavinia, a time and place. This is not button time.”
Lavinia felt herself turning pink. “Forgive me. No buttons.”
“If not button time, what time is it?” Parth asked, turning to his aunt.
“Well, I believe that Lavinia was about to give me a lecture on the requirements of a spouse before she was distracted by my buttons.”
“All I said was that one shouldn’t choose a spouse with an eye to offspring,” Lavinia said.
“But that’s just what one does,” Parth said, pouring more wine for Lavinia and refilling his aunt’s glass as well. Despite his usual imperturbable expression, Lavinia had the idea that he was enjoying himself.
In fact—who would have thought it?—Parth Sterling had a well-honed, sardonic sense of humor.
No wonder he hadn’t considered her as a wife. She was never wry. Or even sarcastic. You’re probably not smart enough for that, a self-defeating voice inside her suggested, but she shoved it aside.
She wasn’t well-read, like Willa, but she was smart.
She looked up and found him gazing at her, and there wasn’t any humor in his eyes. Instead, they were deep and searching, as if he wondered what she was thinking.
“I meant,” he said, “that one may act as if children are irrelevant—though people like North, with the burden of being heir to a dukedom, cannot pretend—but I assume that one considers offspring when making a choice.”
“I can imagine your children with Elisa,” Lavinia said, throwing more enthusiasm into her voice than was called for.
“Can you?” Lady Knowe said, looking up from her plate. “This is excellent chicken. Did you have some, Lavinia?”
“Too much,” she said firmly.
“What would those children look like?” Parth asked, wry humor in his eyes again.
Fine. She was willing to be a source of amusement. It was better than the way he used to look at her.
“Naughty cherubs with loose curls,” Lavinia said, picking up a tartlet, even though she wasn’t hungry. “Your children will be adorable, and they’ll speak two languages!”