Born to Be Wilde

by Eloisa James

  “I do need a husband. A rich one. Very rich, so he can buy bonnets and emeralds.” Oh, dear. The fever must have come back, because she felt as if words were darting out of her mouth like little sparrows. “He has to like me, not dislike me. Money is important, but that’s important, too. I tried to tell Diana how you felt about me, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  His body stilled under hers. “Was it Diana who sent you—”

  She waved her free hand. “It’s no matter.” She watched him from under her lashes. He was studying her as if she were a set of numbers he had to calculate. “I’m not a lace factory.”

  A smile lifted one side of his mouth. “I know.”

  “Not many men can do that,” she observed.

  “Do what?”

  “Smile on one side. If you find me a husband, then you and I needn’t argue any longer. I’ll argue with my husband instead, the one who likes me.”

  His brows drew together.

  “I suppose you never argue with Eliza,” she said, and then, hearing wistfulness in her voice, “which is marvelous. And you like her!”

  “Her name is Elisa,” Parth said evenly. “I also like you, Lavinia. Would it be all right if I felt your forehead?”

  “Why not? You’re here in the middle of the night. I am sitting on your lap—in my nightdress.” A giggle flew into the night air. “I’m pretty sure that Diana would believe that was good enough, but she’d be wrong, wouldn’t she?”

  Parth’s hand wrapped around her forehead.

  “Your hand feels so good,” she said with a sigh.

  “More comfrey,” Parth stated, picking up her mug. “This is cold. Would you like me to have the housekeeper make you a fresh pot?”

  She rolled her head back, feeling as if it might drop from her neck. “Cold is better.”

  After making her drink two cups of comfrey, Parth settled her back on the pillows, pulled up the covers, and sat back down in the chair beside her bed.

  “You should not be here,” Lavinia said sleepily. “You might find yourself obliged to marry me if we were found out, and then what would you do?”

  He smiled wryly. “I’d marry you.”

  “You’re in love with Elisa,” she reminded him. “Diana thought you’d fall in love with me, but we both know that wouldn’t have happened. You mustn’t worry, though. I’ll be very, very nice to the man you . . . you find for me.”

  He didn’t say anything to that, just reached out and took her hand again. For the first time since Lady Gray broke the news of their impoverishment, Lavinia felt safe.

  She fell asleep like that, her fingers tight around his.

  But she woke alone.

  Chapter Five

  5 Cavendish Square, London

  Leased to Elisa Tornabuoni Guicciardini,

  the Contessa di Casone

  Six days later

  A morning call, paid in the afternoon

  Elisa was having a wonderful afternoon. If her father had any idea of what she was doing, he would have an apoplectic fit. But luckily he was in Italy and she was in England.

  Babbo would turn red and start huffing like a prize bull. He would howl, blaming her mamma for the part of Elisa that never succeeded in becoming a good Florentine signora. Mamma was from Rome, and every Florentine knew that Romans were decadent, if not downright debauched.

  When Elisa’s husband, Donatello, had been alive, she had tried very hard to be a proper Florentine signora: chaste (which she was), silent (which she wasn’t), and obedient (most of the time).

  Donatello was gone, and with him the requirement that she comport herself like a Florentine rather than a Roman. Not that she meant to be immoral . . . but unladylike? Definitely!

  Just at the moment, Elisa’s Roman blood had definitely risen to the surface.

  She gave Mr. Sterling her widest, most sparkling smile, hugging the feeling of rebellion to her bosom. During the past year of mourning, Elisa had discovered that there was nothing she liked better than breaking the rules drilled into her head as a child.

  For example, here she was, alone in her very own parlor, serving coffee to a man.

  And not just any man!

  Mr. Sterling was a man of the people. A man who owned a bank. A man who worked for a living. A man who wore a beard. This was the most exciting thing she’d ever done, other than bringing herself to London. And just now he had asked her a personal question, the sort that no proper Florentine gentleman would ask a lady!

  “I met Donatello shortly before we wed,” she explained. “My father is most strict and I seldom left the palazzo as a young woman.” In case Mr. Sterling disapproved, she added, “That is quite normal for an Italian lady, even a widow.”

  “Certainly,” he said, as courteously as if she’d offered an observation on the weather.

  That was part of Mr. Sterling’s intriguing aspect. He behaved precisely like a gentleman, and he was wickedly handsome to boot. No woman could overlook that strong jaw or that finely shaped nose.

  Yet it was all superficial. He might have resembled a gentleman, but he was in trade. Her father—if he knew—would be most displeased that she was serving him coffee, even if it had been under the vigilant eye of a chaperone. The thought sent a happy little thrill of freedom through her.

  “For this reason,” she went on, embellishing on their inappropriate conversation, “I decided to travel to England—against my father’s strict orders.” She beamed at him and said it aloud for the very first time: “I intend to choose my own spouse.”

  Mr. Sterling was not the sort of man whose face revealed his emotions, but she fancied that she saw approval deep in his eyes.

  Her father had wanted her to stay in Italy. He had even promised that he would permit her to choose her next husband, but she knew he didn’t mean it. For one thing, he would introduce her only to eligible men.

  Elisa was sick of honorable, respectable, stolid men. Her husband, Donatello, had been obliging to a fault. Her father and brother were both dutiful and loving—and excessively protective. They would never pair her with someone who wasn’t of their caliber.

  Another sedate Florentine willing to marry her. She could have groaned aloud at the thought.

  No.

  She wanted a sinful husband. She wanted a devil, a man whose nature was black as night, a man she could tame. Nothing and no one in her life so far had presented a challenge, and she was desperate for one.

  According to all the gossip columns, the most wicked man in all England was Lord Roland Northbridge Wilde, the future Duke of Lindow. He had broken off a betrothal after seducing the lady, and then made her work as a nursemaid for their bastard! Elisa had never heard of anything so terrible.

  He was perfect.

  She intended to marry him and have him at her knees, and she didn’t care which came first. A few years of marriage would turn him into a reasonably good man, if one with a decadent edge. She would break down the arrogance in his gaze. Make him look at her with desperation.

  Beg her.

  And if it didn’t work?

  That possibility didn’t worry her. She would set up her own establishment and make friends with other English ladies living in solitary splendor. She would be as wild and wicked as her husband.

  The marvelous thing was that Mr. Sterling—the sole person she knew in the British Isles—had grown up with Lord Roland. Such an astonishing coincidence was obviously a sign from Saint Adelaide, the patron saint of brides.

  Elisa intended to charm Mr. Sterling into introducing her to the devilish Wilde.

  “I wish you to call me Elisa,” she said now, reaching out and patting Mr. Sterling’s arm. “You see how English I already am? As a widowed lady, I am free to address you as I wish. We may become friends.” She paused expectantly.

  Mr. Sterling had been raised in the family of the Duke of Lindow, so quite likely he was aware that familiarity of this sort was allowable only within a family. Certainly not between a widow and a man who sca
rcely knew her—a man who was not a member of the peerage.

  But, on the other hand, no gentleman could refuse a lady’s direct request.

  His gentlemanly training prevailed and he nodded. “I would be most honored if you addressed me as Parth.”

  “Parth? What an interesting name!” Elisa exclaimed. “But then, English names are interesting, are they not? I have a footman whose name is Bumpsley.”

  Oh, no!

  She shouldn’t have compared him to a footman; perhaps he was sensitive about his rank.

  With a glance under her lashes, she allowed his expression to calm her. There was nothing sensitive about Parth Sterling.

  “Parth is not uncommon in India, where I was born,” he told her. He put down his coffee cup. “I’m very afraid that I must leave, Elisa.”

  He had stayed precisely the recommended twenty minutes. He really did have lovely manners.

  “This has been a pleasure,” Elisa said, rising. “Perhaps you could show me your favorite places in London next week. Unless you will be busy?”

  She happened to know that Parth Sterling ran an empire that spanned three continents. He had ships, mines, mills, and now a bank.

  But she had the sense he was lonely. And—how could he refuse her direct request?

  Sure enough, he bowed. “It would be my pleasure, Contessa.”

  “Elisa,” she reminded him. “I understand that the royal princesses address each other by their given names. But even if they didn’t, I am determined to make my own rules. You and I shall be the best of friends.”

  She smiled at him and—triumph!—he smiled back.

  Chapter Six

  Lindow Castle

  June 12, 1780

  Lavinia stretched cautiously. When her stomach didn’t immediately protest, a smile spread across her face. Thank heavens! After what had seemed like endless days of fever and vomiting, she believed she might be able to leave her bed at last.

  The doctor sent by Parth had visited her a few times, and her maid, Annie, had cared for her tirelessly. Diana had stopped by several times a day, as had the duchess, Ophelia, and Lady Knowe. She had a vague memory of her mother drifting in and then back out of the room.

  She also remembered that Parth had come by her bedchamber in the middle of the night, most improperly. But had he really promised to find her a husband? Or was that a product of her fever?

  Hopefully, it was only a figment of her imagination. She could find a groom without Parth’s help. All she had to do was identify a bachelor as rich as Parth. Richer than Parth, if possible.

  Lavinia was contemplating the pursuit of wealthy men when Lady Knowe bustled into the room and stopped short. “Look at you, my dear!” she exclaimed. “There’s a sparkle in your eye. I’m reasonably certain you’re not going to lose your breakfast today.”

  Lavinia pushed herself upright. “I’m very grateful,” she began, feeling an unusual flash of shyness.

  “Annie has done everything necessary for you,” Lady Knowe said, sitting down beside her. “You didn’t imagine that I’d bathe you myself, did you?”

  Lavinia shook her head, smiling. “Certainly not, Lady Knowe. But I do remember you coming at all hours of the night and making me drink a loathsome brew that cleared my head, so I have much to thank you for.”

  Lady Knowe’s eyebrow flew up. “You remember that, do you? I’m always fascinated by what people recall after a fever. You babbled so much that I’m surprised you knew I was in the room.”

  Lavinia felt heat creeping up her neck. Surely she hadn’t . . . “What did I babble about?” she asked cautiously.

  “Parth, for one thing.”

  Lavinia’s heart sank, but Lady Knowe burst into laughter. “‘Appalling Parth’! ‘Spoiled Sterling’! I thought I should take notes. When I next see Parth, I shall try out a few choice phrases.”

  Well, that was better than it might have been. “Those are merely play names I used to call him,” she said awkwardly.

  “I know the two of you don’t get along,” Lady Knowe said. “Parth isn’t for all appetites. He’s ours, and we love him, but the man doesn’t know how to dance a pretty measure.”

  “Yes, he does,” Lavinia said, surprising herself. Her flush grew even hotter at Lady Knowe’s newly raised eyebrow. “We danced together at midsummer two years ago . . . He couldn’t avoid it. That is to say, he would have avoided it, if he could have.”

  “Interesting,” Lady Knowe said, looking delighted. “I meant it metaphorically, but during the ball Ophelia is planning for the wedding, I shall demand a dance from Appalling Parth, and I won’t take no for an answer. We did have a dance master living here when the boys were young, so they have no excuse for ignorance.”

  “Mr. Sterling doesn’t seem to be inept at anything,” Lavinia ventured.

  What was the matter with her? It must be weakness left over from her illness. She felt as feeble as a kitten, as if she’d like to pour out all her troubles to Lady Knowe. The duke’s sister was so large and comforting, with her brusque demeanor and expression that did nothing to hide her kindness.

  She couldn’t do that. Her mother would never forgive her if she knew that Lavinia had told Lady Knowe everything.

  “Now, we need to get you fattened up again before I allow you out of this chamber. You are shockingly emaciated.”

  Lavinia glanced down at herself, but buried under a mound of blankets, she looked as round as ever. Now that she was well again, she had to go to London, and open the townhouse. She had to speak to her mother’s solicitors.

  Perhaps her mother had exaggerated the situation. Hopefully.

  “I’m sure my mother is longing to return to London,” she said, wiggling upright again, as she had somehow slipped down in bed.

  Lady Knowe sighed at this, and put a hand over Lavinia’s.

  Lavinia froze, then looked up slowly, her heart thumping. Lady Knowe’s eyes were filled with sympathy.

  “She’s not dead, is she?” Lavinia asked with a gasp. Her mother was . . . She wasn’t very maternal, but Lavinia loved her.

  “No, certainly not! I’m dreadfully sorry to have given you that idea for even one moment,” the lady cried. “But she is ill.”

  “Did she catch the influenza?”

  “No, thank goodness! In all, four members of the household caught it, and for someone as delicate as Lady Gray, the consequences could have been devastating. Just look how ill you were, and you are young and strong.”

  “She has a different illness?” Lavinia asked.

  “Your mother is not herself.” Lady Knowe’s hand tightened. “Lavinia, I will be direct. Lady Gray has developed an addiction to laudanum.”

  “An addiction to what?”

  “Laudanum.”

  “Do you mean her cordial? The drops the doctor prescribes for her nervous condition?”

  “Exactly. How long has she been taking those drops?”

  Lady Knowe’s voice didn’t suggest even a hint of condemnation, but Lavinia felt defensive of her mother just the same. She didn’t respond immediately, mostly because she was trying to remember a time when her mother hadn’t carried those drops with her everywhere. Could it have started with her father’s death?

  “The addiction is not your mother’s fault,” Lady Knowe said, when Lavinia didn’t respond. “Laudanum can all too easily result in an addiction, and, regrettably, doctors rashly prescribe it without concern for the consequences. That said, we must wean your mother from the drug; it can lead to irrational behavior and, at the worst, death.”

  Oh.

  They had that first symptom covered.

  “Your mother has been taking enough laudanum to knock out a horse,” Lady Knowe added.

  “What?”

  “The longer one takes the drug, the less effective it is,” Lady Knowe explained. “Apparently, it is agonizing to stop, so people take larger and larger doses.”

  “I see,” Lavinia whispered. And she did. A number of hitherto confus
ing things clarified themselves, including her mother’s precious valise full of clinking bottles.

  “The night you fell ill, Lady Gray did not wake for almost forty-eight hours. The doctor whom Parth sent to attend to you spent most of his time trying to rouse her, and mercifully, he finally succeeded. But he felt strongly that if she were left to her own devices, she would not survive another such dose.”

  “Oh, no,” Lavinia cried, slipping her hand away from Lady Knowe’s, pushing the covers down, and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I had no idea. I will speak to her. I’ll take her drops away and I’m sure that she will—”

  “Lavinia, my dear, she would not understand. At the moment she needs the drug more than she needs her daughter.”

  In truth, her mother spent most of her time reclining, drops in hand, and had done so even during Lavinia’s debut. Willa had been a more effective chaperone than her mother; Willa didn’t allow Lady Gray to accept any of the fortune hunters who had asked for Lavinia’s hand.

  Her mother would have agreed to the first man who offered.

  There were whole weeks in Paris when her mother’s weak nerves had kept her in a darkened room while Lavinia rode around the city in the company of whichever gentleman first appeared at their door.

  “I didn’t know,” she whispered, looking up at Lady Knowe. “I thought . . . the doctors always said that her nerves were fragile. Even when my father was alive.”

  “In my opinion, a great many doctors in this kingdom should be hanged, drawn, and quartered. They are all too likely to hand out dangerous medicines—to women, in particular—without a thought for what it does to the body and spirit.”

  They sat in silence as Lavinia tried to focus. When he’d known he was dying, her father had told her that she would have to take care of her mother. She hadn’t done a very good job.

  “Don’t blame yourself; there’s nothing you could have done to fight it,” Lady Knowe said gently, as if she’d read Lavinia’s mind.