by Eloisa James
But protective . . .
And helpful: He’d brought her another suitor, even if Lady Knowe deemed the fellow unsuitable.
He’s going back to London to fetch Elisa.
She slammed an imaginary door on Parth, on Parth’s bed, on Parth’s . . . everything.
And this time she meant it.
“I shall spend the rest of the day organizing all the work to be done,” she said to Lady Knowe. “If you will forgive me, I will have a simple supper in my room and greet the family tomorrow.”
“You are not here as a member of the household, but as a dear friend of the family,” Lady Knowe thundered.
“I have learned a great deal about myself in the last few months,” Lavinia confessed, “and it seems I am a stickler for perfection. I promise to join the family tomorrow, but today I desperately wish to organize the garments and trimmings that I brought with me.”
“You are an artiste,” Lady Knowe said, kissing her cheek.
Lavinia laughed. “Clothing isn’t a matter of artistry.”
“Pish-posh,” the lady retorted. “You are a virtuoso, and that’s all I have to say about it!”
Chapter Eighteen
September 3, 1780
The next morning
Parth emerged from his bath, dressed, and went on a search for North and Jeremy. Instead, he found Betsy in the billiard room, knocking around balls. The oldest of the duke’s daughters was enormously fanciable, with all the Wilde beauty, heightened by a mischievous flair.
“Oh, hello,” she said, glancing up. “If you imagine I’m dropping a curtsy to you, Parth, you can forget about it. I’m in a rotten mood.”
“How about if I take you at billiards instead?”
“Do I look as if I’m still a child? I’ve thrashed Father the last five games, and North will no longer play me.”
“You could tutor me,” Parth suggested.
“I suppose,” she said moodily. “I’ve nothing better to do. The girls have taken up paper dolls, which is unendingly tedious, and North has a horse with colic, in case you’re wondering where he is. You might as well go first.”
“Pearls before swine,” Parth said.
She rolled her eyes and set about demolishing his chance of winning before he even got his hands on a cue. He was leaning against the table when she flipped her cue and asked suddenly, “Why did you bring Lord Jeremy here?”
“He’s a good friend of mine from school, and he was in the colonies with North.” Parth hesitated, but it wasn’t as if Jeremy had demanded anything but his stay in Bedlam be kept a secret. “He hasn’t been well, and he had nowhere to go. His mother died while he was at war and he’s not close to his father.”
Betsy went silent while she pocketed a ball a bit more vigorously than Parth thought necessary.
“And?” he asked.
“He’s an ass!” she burst out. “He was in here all yesterday afternoon. He has this haggard look, so one might want to be sympathetic, but he says utterly withering things.”
“To you?”
“To everyone! Last night, before you came to the drawing room, he was even rude to Aunt Knowe.”
Parth raised an eyebrow. “North allowed that?”
“Oh, you know Aunt Knowe. She slapped him over the head with a glove and burst into laughter.” Scowling, she slammed another ball into a pocket.
“May I take it, then, that you don’t like him?”
“No one could like him. He’s insulting, sarcastic, and infuriating. North excuses him by saying ‘he had a bad war,’ but what does that mean, anyway? What excuse is it? At the very least, he could shave!”
“You don’t like beards?” Parth grinned at her. “How about mine?”
“You’re both absurd,” she snapped. “As if you imagine yourself a courtier in Queen Elizabeth’s court.” The ball missed and caromed across the felt.
“My turn,” Parth said. He straightened and grabbed his favorite stick from the rack on the wall.
“You had left for China with Alaric before I was allowed to pick up a cue,” Betsy said. “Did you know that Marie Antoinette is a brilliant player?”
Parth didn’t play billiards often, but his mathematical bent made the game more interesting than it might otherwise be.
It took a few minutes for Betsy to stop brooding over the grumpy soldier and notice his game. She slapped a hand on the edge of the table. “You’ve been holding out on me!”
“No, I haven’t.” He pocketed two balls.
“I wonder if you can beat Father.”
Parth gave her a rueful smile. “He refuses to play you? He stopped playing against me when I reached sixteen.”
Betsy’s ill humor vanished as if it had never existed. Even as a child, she had had a mercurial temperament. “Brilliant!” she cried, clapping her hands. “I’m so glad you’re home. Please tell me that you’ll stay for a time and not run back to London.”
Before he could answer, she answered herself. “But of course you will go away, because you’re in love with a contessa! I can’t wait to meet her. Diana said that she’s absolutely delightful and we shall all love her. Is her name Elisabetta?”
“Elisa,” Parth said. He pocketed a few more balls. As his aunt had said, it was a tangled web.
Betsy leaned forward, stabbing a finger in his direction. “You must do something for me, Parth.”
“What?” He moved around the table, feeling a reasonable dislike of being cornered by exasperated females.
“Beat him,” she said with relish. “Tan his hide. Beat the . . . beat the stuffing out of him. Beat the beard off his face. Beat the—”
“Are we referring to Jeremy?” Parth said, raising his hand. “Why don’t you beat him yourself?”
“He won’t play me.”
“Why not? Afraid of losing?”
She sniffed. “Because he’s a misogynistic donkey with about as much finesse as . . . as Hamlet. Remember how Hamlet kept going around and telling women to enter a nunnery?”
“One woman,” Parth said mildly.
“One young woman,” she corrected. “‘Get thee to a nunnery,’ et cetera. If Lord Jeremy had his way, we’d all be in nunneries, unable to pick up a billiard cue!”
“In Shakespeare’s time, the word ‘nunnery’ was a euphemism for a house of ill repute,” Parth pointed out.
“Don’t you dare tell me that in your experience such women play billiards!” his sister squealed.
“I merely meant that those ladies likely have more opportunity to play than the average sister in holy orders,” Parth said. “At any rate, Jeremy will remain here until the wedding, so you have time to change his mind.”
“The longer he stays, the more opportunity there’ll be to . . .”
“What? Trounce him at billiards?”
“I was thinking more in the way of a knee to the balls.”
Parth looked up, startled.
He still thought of Betsy as a little sister, albeit one who debuted last Season. But there, across the table, was a glowing, gleeful grown woman. A woman who’d just expressed a desire to harm a delicate part of a man’s anatomy, and who’d mentioned a crude term for that part without stumbling or blushing.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “You grew up.”
She rolled her eyes again.
Chapter Nineteen
Lavinia tried to pay a visit to Diana, but she entered the room just as a maid was holding a basin for her cousin, so she hurriedly retreated, leaving Lady Knowe in command of the room.
“I’m sorry!” Diana called after her in a hoarse voice. “Please come back later; I’m not contagious!”
“I will,” Lavinia told the closed door.
Walking back down the hallway, she heard shouting, and a couple of children rushed by. The duchess appeared at the end of the passage, smiled at her, and shouted, “More slowly!” The sound of thumping signaled their retreat, not at a noticeably reduced speed.
“Good afternoon, my dear,�
�� Ophelia said, as Lavinia sank into a curtsy. “It is such a pleasure to have you join us. I’m longing to see the garments you’ve brought for me.”
Behind the duchess, Parth emerged from a room farther down the corridor, one arm around Betsy’s shoulder.
Right.
It was time to make it absolutely clear that no matter what those two kisses were, she had no interest in stealing him from the contessa.
“Oh, there you are!” Betsy cried, shrugging off Parth and running toward her. “I can’t wait to see my gown!” In lieu of a curtsy, she grabbed Lavinia and hugged her. “Aunt Knowe promised that you are going to make me look as beautiful as Venus. Beautifuler, in fact.”
“That won’t be hard,” Ophelia said, laughing.
Parth bowed. “Miss Gray, it is a pleasure to see you.”
“What a surprise, Mr. Sterling,” Lavinia said, curtsying. “The last I heard about you, you were bid to speak in Parliament.”
“It was a short conversation.”
She felt intently aware of every aspect of Parth: his dark-amber skin, his unpowdered hair, the breadth of his shoulders, even the way his blunt fingertips looked useful rather than graceful.
“Their loss is our gain,” the duchess said, wrapping her hand around Parth’s arm. “Are you aware of how marvelously Lavinia has taken over all the organization of Diana’s wedding, Parth?”
“We saw each other in London,” Lavinia said, before Parth could reply.
“That’s right; Aunt Knowe told me that you went to Vauxhall,” Ophelia said. “With the contessa,” she added with a twinkling smile. “We’ll want to hear more about her before she arrives for the wedding, Parth. Now that she’s going to be part of the family.”
Lavinia just managed to catch herself before she stepped backward.
“Parth beat me at billiards!” Betsy announced, mercifully interrupting that subject of conversation.
“Astonishing,” Ophelia said.
Lavinia had the feeling Her Grace saw more than she let on; she had sweetly wise eyes that had watched ten—no, eleven—children grow up. Lavinia aimed a bright smile at Parth. “I had no idea that you were an excellent billiards player, Mr. Sterling.”
He was watching her uncomfortably closely. “When I have time.”
“I am desperate to see the wedding gown,” Betsy cried. “May we see it? Aunt Knowe brought home the sketch and a swatch of the cloth, and I’ve been trying to imagine it ever since.”
“Of course,” Lavinia exclaimed. She and Betsy followed Ophelia and Parth down the corridor.
Betsy chattered on, telling Lavinia about everyone invited to the wedding and masquerade ball to follow. Most of polite society, it seemed, had accepted the duke’s invitation.
Why wouldn’t they?
The Duke and Duchess of Lindow were charming, powerful, and gracious hosts. Their children were intelligent and amusing—not to mention beautiful and rich.
Lavinia felt a hollow conviction that she no longer belonged at the approaching celebration. Last year, two years ago, she would have looked forward to it with utmost confidence. But now? With her criminally-minded mother addicted to laudanum and her dowry lost?
She belonged in the seamstresses’ room, not in the drawing room with all the guests whom Betsy was happily enumerating. With a start, she realized that Betsy wasn’t merely listing guests—she was reeling off an account of all the single gentlemen expected to attend the masquerade ball.
She was counting them off on her fingers, rejecting this one or that one because he had proposed either to Lavinia at some point, or to Betsy, this past Season. “You don’t want my leavings and I don’t want yours,” Betsy said with a giggle.
Lavinia somehow managed to smile. She felt a million years from the young girl she had been when she’d first visited Lindow with Willa, more than two years before.
Fatigue was in her bones, perhaps. Or it was part and parcel of the understanding that her life had changed. She didn’t want to marry any of the men whom Betsy was so blithely naming. Not to mention the fact that they likely had no interest in her.
Ophelia came to a halt before a door and paused to allow Betsy and Lavinia to catch up.
“Perhaps Lavinia isn’t interested in your litany of prospects.” Parth’s voice was calm, as always, but there was a bit of an edge.
“While you were lucky enough to find this gorgeous contessa of yours without stepping into even one ballroom—and we all want to know how that happened!—the rest of us must rely on more time-honored methods,” Betsy retorted.
“Mr. Sterling introduced me to a Norwegian prince whom I found quite appealing,” Lavinia said to Betsy, averting further discussion of Elisa.
“What did you like about him?” Betsy asked.
“He’s very handsome,” Lavinia said, trying to remember what Oskar looked like. “Oh, and perhaps because Prince Oskar grew up in a royal court, he has an endless flow of amusing stories to tell.”
The way Parth raised his eyebrow made it very clear that he considered this to be a less than manly trait, not worth marrying for. Too bad, because he was the one who’d introduced her to Prince Oskar.
“Not to say anything about the Norwegian prince,” Betsy said dubiously, “but look who Parth just foisted on us, apparently telling Aunt Knowe that Lord Jeremy might be a good match for you, Lavinia! Tell me that isn’t true, Parth. You wouldn’t try to match darling Lavinia with that curmudgeon!”
Lavinia rather enjoyed the taut lines of Parth’s face. He looked as if he was in a foul mood. “I’m looking forward to meeting Lord Jeremy. If only I’d had Mr. Sterling as a matchmaker in Paris,” she said, “I expect I’d already be married.”
“Lavinia, please do us the honor of showing us Diana’s wedding dress,” the duchess said.
Lavinia pushed open the door, feeling a queer tightness in her chest. She had thrown everything into this dress; she and Madame Prague had discussed each detail, from the precise drape of the pale satin to the placement of every spangle and pearl.
They entered a large chamber to find Lady Knowe chatting with the seamstresses.
There, in the middle of an open space, the wedding dress sat on a dressmaker’s form, glowing in the sunshine. It was constructed of a gleaming champagne taffeta that laced tightly up the front, with a low bosom marked with a small lace ruffle that framed the breast and neck. The skirts opened over a petticoat of the same silk, embroidered with blush roses. Pale rose taffeta strips edged in lace formed a wide band down the side of the open skirts, and along the bottom.
“It’s exquisite,” Ophelia said, her voice awed.
“Oh, what beautiful tucks,” Betsy breathed, reaching out.
“Don’t touch!” Lady Knowe cried.
“Last April, Marie Antoinette wore a gown that tucked down the front like this,” Lavinia explained.
“Oh, my dearest Lavinia,” Lady Knowe cried, clasping her hands under her chin. “You are a genius! No one will ever have seen a gown so beautiful!”
“All the lace is Sterling lace,” Lavinia said, turning to Parth.
He nodded.
She waited a moment for him to say more, and when he didn’t, turned back to the duchess, Lady Knowe, and Betsy. “The overskirt silk was woven on French looms in Lyon. But the embroidered silk comes from looms in London, in Spitalfields.”
“I would never know,” Lady Knowe said, peering. “They look like the same thread to me!”
“Silk always has variations,” Lavinia explained. “The overskirts are a trifle more lilac, but we decided that the roses lend a blush that would offset the shade.”
Lady Knowe laughed. “We? We, Lavinia, or you?”
“Mr. Felton and I together, with Madame Prague’s help,” she said. “Here is the headdress.” It was a delightful pouf of rosy satin and lace, with ribbons in the back. “Diana requested no plumes.”
“Pearls!” Betsy squealed, bending closer to the dress. “I didn’t see the pearls at first!”
Lady Knowe squinted. “Why, there are pearls all over it! Lavinia, this is a gown fit for a queen!”
“Those appear to be amethysts,” Ophelia said, pointing to the centers of the roses. “Sewn on with silver thread. The gown is magnificent, Lavinia!”
Parth was examining the lace. “I don’t remember any lace this color coming from my factory.”
“I dyed it,” Lavinia explained. She picked up one sleeve, which ended in two generous lace ruffles. “The lace was a bit stiff for what I wanted, so first we boiled it, and then bathed it in black walnut to give it a golden tinge.” She smiled at Parth. “I would never have dared be so experimental with handmade lace.”
“This is beautiful,” Lady Knowe said with conviction. “Better than handmade.”
“The spangles?” Parth asked.
The edge of the lace was sewn with interlocking silver spangles that would catch the light. “It needed something,” Lavinia explained. “A touch of luxury.”
“It’s so beautiful,” Betsy crooned. “Please tell me that the gown you made for me is half as gorgeous! Parth, you must leave because I want to try on my gown.”
“No telling anyone, Parth, about the wedding gown,” Lady Knowe said, leaning over to drop a kiss on his cheek. “I don’t trust the stable boys not to pass on a hint in exchange for a shilling.”
“I won’t,” Parth said, bowing. With a glance at Lavinia, he left.
Mary and Tabitha were hovering, so Lavinia summoned them and introduced the seamstresses to Ophelia, and Betsy. Now that Parth was gone, Lavinia felt more like herself. “We have much work to do,” she said, smiling at the girls.
“We should leave you to it,” Lady Knowe announced. “I can’t sew a seam to save my life, and never could.”
“I thought we’d be sewing belowstairs,” Tabitha said, clearly awed.
“Miss Gray couldn’t join us there,” Annie said, a bit sharply.
“What Annie means is that I am terribly interfering and I’m likely to pick up a needle myself,” Lavinia said. She turned to Betsy. “Your gown isn’t unpacked yet, but I’ll let you know just as soon as it is pressed and ready to be tried on.”