Desire by Design

by Heather Boyd

  “It will only be theirs, since my son will not oblige me by making a match. I will, however, look forward to dancing at your wedding.” Mother smiled as she cupped Sylvia’s face. “I’ll eat so I might see you grace the floor as the wife of some handsome devil you adore.”

  “I don’t think that’s very likely,” she murmured.

  He could see Sylvia’s cheeks heating up even from a distance and felt bad for her. He stepped forward, surprising himself by feelings of protectiveness toward Sylvia. “Mother, you shouldn’t tease about such things.”

  “I’m not offended, my lord. It only proves she’s feeling better. Have you gotten out of bed yet?” Sylvia asked suddenly of Mama.

  “A few steps only,” Mama said with a wince, and then lowered her voice. “The maids help me reach the commode. I am so sick of this bed, and what I’m wearing, too. But I suppose a bath cannot be done yet, not for a good long while.”

  “You mustn’t think of getting up without assistance again. Perhaps there is a way to manage it, provided the physician approves the extra movements and we are careful. I’ll speak to the housekeeper before I go about how we might arrange a proper wash for you for tomorrow morning. Perhaps a chair over a large waterproof canvas sheet would work. You’ll feel better for fresh bedding, too, I’m sure. And you could sit up for a little while each day so you don’t suffer bed sores.” Sylvia loaded up a spoon and thrust it toward Mama. “Here, eat some of this.”

  Mother ate, allowing Sylvia to feed her bite after bite like she was a child and helpless, something she’d outright refused to let Alexander assist with, or either of his sisters, for that matter. Apparently, only the last nursemaid, and now Sylvia, seemed the two people capable of bending his mother to their wills.

  Made obsolete—by his own lover, no less—Alexander had no choice but to concede defeat for now and quit the room. He did want his mother well again, and disagreeing with her might set back her recovery. If Sylvia was truly good for her, he’d allow her to visit.

  But as he strode to the door, he was annoyed that he wasn’t needed the way he’d expected and wanted to be.

  As he went to shut it, he snuck another peek at the pair to see if they’d even noticed him leaving. Both seemed to have forgotten his existence the moment he’d stopped speaking. They were still discussing how best to manage Mama’s needs in the coming weeks, including things he hadn’t yet considered, and when she might accept other callers.

  Alexander felt he should be involved in those decisions, too. “If you need me, I’ll be downstairs going over some papers in the dining room.”

  “I won’t need you,” Mother muttered quietly.

  “Not for a few hours at least,” Sylvia called out quickly. “I’ll be sure to let you know, my lord, if anything changes here while you’re busy with your work.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly. “I’ll chase up that nursemaid the surgeon was to send us while I’m gone.”

  Mama laughed, and then complained to Sylvia that she shouldn’t laugh.

  Alexander shut the door, unsure what had been funny in what he’d said.

  Mother was up to something. He could feel it as he walked away—and it had something to do with Sylvia Hillcrest.

  Women! He might never understand the contrary creatures for as long as he lived.

  He stomped down the stairs because it made him feel slightly better, and he went into the dining room to work for the next few hours. On the way, he passed a female servant on the staircase. Not the new one expected from Prendegast, though. This one smiled warmly, and he recalled that the other, the first nursemaid Prendegast had sent, had always darted off if he got too close.

  No doubt a spinster.

  When he spread his papers out across the dining room table, he realized he couldn’t actually remember what the blasted first nursemaid had even looked like clearly. A lacy white mop cap over brown hair, thick wire-rimmed spectacles, and an appalling taste in fashion was all that came to mind. That one wouldn’t be catching anyone’s eye, especially not his—

  He suddenly looked up at the ceiling.

  Or had that been the point?

  He swore softly under his breath as he realized his error. He’d thought his control over the household absolute, but he had been deceived yet again!

  By both Mother and Sylvia, and now by the pair of them.

  Sylvia had been the damn nursemaid, a disguise, darting away whenever he came close so he wouldn’t recognize her! Using the servants’ entrance instead of the front door—which he’d forbidden her from using.

  Alexander sat there a moment, clenched his jaw, fuming. It seemed there were no limits to that pair’s reckless deceptions, and determination to have their way and circumvent his authority.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He would have to learn from this mistake, too, if he had any chance to control either one in the future.

  Chapter 19

  “You could have made him grovel,” Lady Wharton suggested a few hours later. “He never apologized.”

  Sylvia lifted her head from the alterations she was making to one of the marchioness’ oldest undergarments and considered what good pressing for an apology would have done her. Expressing an opinion seemed to bring out the tyrant in him. But at least now, they could no longer hear Lord Wharton stomping around outside the marchioness’ bedchamber. His going up and down the hall and stairs constantly to check on them had seemed unreasonably peculiar to her. “For what purpose?”

  Lady Wharton was holding a fresh glass of gin, a bit unsteadily now, too. But Sylvia was always ready to sweep in and catch it should it slip from her fingers.

  “He’s gotten too big for his boots since he took the title,” Lizzy confessed, “and you need the practice. One day, you’ll marry and have a man of your own to manage. It’s best to start out as you intend to go on. Don’t you think so?”

  Lady Wharton was in a talkative mood tonight. Perhaps it was the drink, or just relief that she was still alive to tell her stories to a captive audience. Sylvia found them fascinating.

  Her son had been the marquess for almost a decade now, and doing quite well at it, in his mother’s opinion. The coffers were full, the family estates thrived, but he had not married yet. That seemed to be Lady Wharton’s main complaint with him. Wharton was used to doing as he liked far too much. Bachelors were always like that, in Sylvia’s opinion.

  “He does wear impressively large shoes,” she mused, ignoring the lady’s remarks about Sylvia getting herself a husband. It was a subject that would cause friction between them, just as it did between Lizzy and her son. Lady Wharton did not seem to feel that love in marriage was entirely necessary, and Sylvia was a romantic about that sort of thing. Love, and only love, would compel her to the altar. She wondered if Wharton hadn’t married for the same reason.

  Lizzy snorted. “His father wore much the same size.”

  “I’m happy for you,” she murmured as she bit off a thread and inspected her handiwork. Fair enough to do the job at short notice. Lady Wharton could not move around easily, and, being of the aristocracy, liked to change her clothes often. To help make the job less painful, Sylvia had sliced up one side of a fresh nightgown and chemise so that Lady Wharton would not have to lift her arms at all. Her other outer wear, a pair of loose morning gowns, were being worked on by her daughters down the hall. When they’d come to their mother and seen what Sylvia was doing, they’d instantly volunteered to help.

  “Will you have a drink with me now?”

  Sylvia folded the soft garments and set them aside. “I shouldn’t. When your son returns, I wouldn’t want him to think ill of me.”

  Lady Wharton smiled a little sadly. “What he thinks doesn’t matter. I’m glad you are here with me.”

  “I am too.”

  Lizzy fidgeted with her bedding. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve felt this content to lie in bed and let the world move on without me. Not since my marriage h
ave I felt myself in the company of one who wouldn’t judge me for not looking my best.”

  “I’m sure you have a great many friends who would be overjoyed to visit you while you recover.”

  “I can’t think of one.”

  There were moments when Lady Wharton seemed uncomfortable with what she’d done to herself. The loss of her breast, a visible sign of her womanhood, seemed to worry her at times. She had so far refused any callers, saying she was too unwell. But she wasn’t unwell enough to have Sylvia sit by her bed and talk herself silent. Sylvia believed the company of other women would do Lizzy the world of good. “We should arrange that. Short visits so you don’t tire too quickly. I know just who the first caller should be, too.”

  The marchioness appeared only mildly interested, so Sylvia offered up a name. “Lady Exeter,” she suggested.

  The marchioness stared at her. “We are not acquainted. How did you come to be?”

  “I attended Exeter’s estate at Christmas, a guest of Lord Carmichael’s new wife. We are old friends, and he wanted her to have additional company at her first house party.”

  “My son was at Exeter’s for Christmas.”

  “Yes, he was,” Sylvia said. “I had a glorious time and became friends with the duchess. I’m sure she’d be very pleased to meet you, too. She’s not at all top lofty, even though she’s a duchess. She has a wicked sense of humor you’ll enjoy. I think you two will get along famously.”

  “I’ve heard about her, of course. Is it true she grew up running wild on the Grafton estate?”

  “I don’t know about running wild, but she’s as common born as I am.” Sylvia worried her lip. “I hope you don’t hold that against her.”

  The marchioness hissed in a breath as she shifted slightly on the bed. “Sylvia, what do you know of my family?”

  “Nothing but what you’ve told me.” Sylvia did often discover a great deal about the Hillcrest Academy clients—families and connections and scandals in the end—but had never had any inclination or reason to investigate Lord Wharton or his family.

  “My own family come from Wales. We had a little falling-down house above the township and overlooking the distant sea. My father earned his living as a tutor. My mother took in piece work for a nearby seamstress to make ends meet. Our house had three narrow bedchambers, and I had four brothers and two sisters. We were all squeezed in like rabbits in a burrow…quite happily, I might add.”

  Sylvia gaped. “You didn’t come from society?”

  “Oh, gracious no. My father had a fortune of precisely two hundred pounds to his name, and too many offspring to support. He did have one passably pretty daughter of marriageable age that he was keen to marry off.” Lady Wharton pointed to herself. “Thanks to my father’s profession, I was a great reader, but my intellect made me less than desirable to the local gentry, unfortunately. I’m sure you’ve experienced this yourself. Wealthy men often want a pretty thing between the sheets, but wish for them to have nothing between their ears.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Wealthy women like that, too, sometimes.”

  Lady Wharton laughed at that. “Oh, don’t make me laugh. But you are right. I have one particular friend whose husband is a complete dullard. She has her way in everything.”

  “How fascinating,” she murmured. “Do you mind if I ask how you met your husband?”

  “It’s no great secret. I was walking home from church with my sister and the scoundrel was lurking on the path, in our way, and wouldn’t let us pass without us offering up a kiss. I slapped his face, of course.” Lady Wharton fell silent then, staring off into space.

  It might be rude to press, but Sylvia wanted to hear the end of the story very much. “And…”

  “I had been brought up to give men like him, scoundrels, no encouragement at all, so along with the slap, I also let him have a piece of my mind.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He let us pass but followed us home, spoke with my father, and began to court me the next day.”

  Sylvia spluttered. “But why?”

  The lady shrugged. “He said he found my disinterest refreshing. I had no idea how important he really was, nor cared, either. I thought him annoying and frivolous from the offset but that hardly seemed to matter to him. He kept coming back, and I kept arguing with him when he tried to steal a kiss. We were married within two months of meeting. He was a good husband for a few years.”

  “A romantic one, too, I hope, for your sake,” Sylvia asked, and Lady Wharton nodded once. “They do make the best husbands.”

  “The best husbands live a long life and don’t die in their mistresses arms.” Lizzy sighed. “I do miss our arguments sometimes.”

  “Probably more often than you let on, I suspect,” Sylvia suggested.

  Lizzy closed her eyes. “You will come back tomorrow, won’t you?”

  The need in the marchioness’ voice tore at her conscience. By rights, she should begin to withdraw from the woman, her lover’s mother. But Sylvia liked her. It was a hard choice to make. She knew what it was like to feel so alone in a crowd, among family and friends. She couldn’t turn away. “Tomorrow. One way or the other, and we can discuss you having visitors again, too.”

  “If we must. But I’ve a thousand things I want to say to you first, and I can hardly keep my eyes open tonight.”

  “The drink is working well then,” Sylvia noted, climbing to her feet and taking the glass from the marchioness’ limp grip. “I’ll put this away for tomorrow night, shall I?”

  “Bless you, my dear.” Lizzy sighed sleepily. “You never told me what your mother’s name was.”

  “It was Millicent.”

  “A pretty name. Mine was Laurel. I do miss talking to Mama sometimes. What was your father’s name?”

  Lizzy smiled. “Harold.”

  “A sensible name for a man of learning. Were they like you? Bold and funny?”

  “Both serious and very quiet. It’s taken me all my life to find my voice, not that everyone appreciates a woman with an opinion,” Sylvia admitted. “Now they are gone, I regret that they never really knew my thoughts differed from theirs.”

  “I quite like the way you speak your mind.”

  “So you said before,” Sylvia noted as she hid the bottle of gin better under a clean wool blanket and closed the drawer. “Is there anything else you need tonight?”

  “A kiss good night, and a promise of more laughter tomorrow.”

  Sylvia returned to the bed, pressed her lips to the marchioness’ outstretched hand and, upon feeling a wave of strong emotion that threatened tears, she straightened the bedding around the woman until she’d pushed the impulse away. “Remind me tomorrow to tell you about the first ball I attended, and how I ended up flat on my bottom in the middle of the dance floor in front of the reining beauty of the village.”

  “Is it a scandalous story?”

  “I don’t want to give you nightmares,” Sylvia teased. “I’ll tell you the whole of it tomorrow when I come back. Sleep well, my lady.”

  “And you.” Lizzy sighed deeply, already half asleep. “Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll tell you of my first ball as a marchioness. Now that was a scandalous night to curl your hair.”

  “I can’t wait to hear of it.” Sylvia put a little silver bell under Lady Wharton’s hand on the bed. “In case you need to call for assistance during the night.”

  “Shouting is highly undignified at my age.”

  “Mine, too. Good night.” Sylvia snuffed the candle. Using the fire’s light to guide her way, she let herself out of the room—and jumped as she found herself face-to-face with the marquess in the shadowed hall.

  “She’s almost asleep,” Sylvia warned quickly, hoping he wouldn’t speak too loudly as she closed the door. “She’s worn herself out talking.”

  “Given the late hour, I hoped as much,” he murmured, and then gestured for Sylvia to precede him down the hall, away from his mother’s room.

  She took a few s
teps in that direction, and he followed. She reached the head of the stairs, and he stopped, too. “Can I help you, my lord?”

  “You’re on your way home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll show you the way.”

  “I know the way perfectly well, my lord,” she promised. He was trying to get rid of her again. He’d made his opinion clear enough already that she didn’t want to give him the opportunity to do so again.

  “Don’t argue,” he warned. “It is better to reach home safely than not at all.”

  “Your escort is not necessary, and inappropriate, too, but I do thank you for your concern.” Sylvia pressed her lips tightly together and started down the stairs quickly.

  Wharton scrambled to catch up. “I think we left inappropriate behind some time ago,” he suggested in a low tone that sent a warning racing over her body. “London is a dangerous place for a beautiful woman alone.”

  Sylvia struggled not to smile that Wharton thought her beautiful as they started down the next flight together. For a moment, she considered what he might do if she disagreed with him again. Last time she hadn’t heeded him, he’d tossed her off the property like a barbarian. Would he sweep her into his arms tonight if provoked, too?

  Maybe he’d try to kiss her.

  Maybe she’d let him.

  But Sylvia quickly concluded that it probably was not wise to risk her reputation further by encouraging that sort of thing with him again. She did want to come back tomorrow to see his mother, and she didn’t want Wharton to take her favors for granted, either. She was no light-skirt, too willing and eager to please him.

  Sylvia liked Lady Wharton too much to risk losing her good opinion. She and Wharton had had a fling, and that was it. It was over and best forgotten now. They both cared about the marchioness, and her recovery, so Sylvia would behave herself, and he should, too. “I have my maid.”

  “I had her escorted home hours ago.”