“I am happy to meet you, Lord Roland,” Elisa said, sinking into a graceful curtsy.
“My aunt, Lady Knowe, sent a message that she will join us shortly,” North said, smiling. “The ladies are still readying themselves. In the meantime, may I offer you a glass of ratafia?”
“No, thank you,” Elisa said. “Will Miss Gray join us? I understand that she is staying with you. I met her recently.”
“She will indeed,” North said, leading Elisa to a sofa. “My aunt, Miss Gray, and Miss Diana Belgrave, my fiancée, will join us.”
“Won’t you please address me as Elisa?” she said to North. “I am embracing English informality.”
“I should be honored,” he replied, seating himself next to her, “and you must address me as North.”
Parth threw himself into a chair and watched moodily as North put on the show one might call “perfect aristocrat.” All that was missing was a snuffbox and a feathery fan.
“Lavinia mentioned that you prefer to be called North!” Elisa exclaimed. “If you would forgive the impertinent question, why do you not use your given name? Roland is so romantic.”
“I made the decision as a boy, when romance was something I had not yet come to appreciate,” North explained.
He obviously liked Elisa. Hell, everyone to whom Parth had introduced Elisa liked her instantly. Parth liked her himself. She would be a perfect addition to the Wilde family. She would be a perfect spouse for him. She was . . . she was perfect.
He would marry her. It would be a sensible transaction.
“But you are named after the marvelous Italian poem, the best of its kind,” Elisa cried indignantly. “Orlando furioso!”
Parth translated. “Roland the Mad?”
“Well, yes,” she said, “but—”
Parth started laughing despite himself, and once Elisa recounted the sad story of Roland—or Orlando, in Italian—who went mad for love, North joined in.
“I’ve had mad moments in pursuit of Diana,” he admitted.
“I read about your betrothal,” Elisa said, giggling.
“The first or the second?”
“Both,” she said, dimpling at him. “I read about the demise of your first betrothal in the Italian papers, and last week I read in the paper that Miss Gray is helping your betrothed with her trousseau—although this I already knew. Your fiancée has excellent taste in accepting Miss Gray’s help!”
Parth barely kept a scowl from his face. When Elisa had dragged him into Felton’s Emporium, he hadn’t even recognized Lavinia, merely registered a lady who, from her plume to her boots, seemed to be a fashion plate come to life. She had reminded him of a dainty china statue: a pleasure to look at and display, but not something for everyday use, as it were.
But an hour later? Her hair darkening to old gold and her wet cheekbones shimmering in the rain? There, in the alley, Lavinia had looked like a siren who could lure every man into her snare.
Simpson appeared at the door. “If you will excuse me, Lady Knowe wonders whether the contessa would wish to join her and Miss Belgrave upstairs. They are in Miss Belgrave’s chamber.”
“Volentieri!” Elisa cried. “How delightful!”
The men rose automatically and remained standing until Elisa had followed Simpson from the room.
“That summons suggests that Diana will require at least another half hour for her toilette,” North said, after the door closed behind Simpson. He retrieved a deck of cards from the gaming table at the other end of the room and sat down at it. “How about piquet? We might as well use the time. I say, weren’t you bringing Jeremy Roden with you this evening?”
“He will meet us at Vauxhall,” Parth said, taking the chair across from North.
Another throb of irritation went through him. He had promised to find a husband for Lavinia, and Prince Oskar fit the bill, except he had grown into a dunderhead.
Jeremy was a better candidate: wealthy, titled, and a true gentleman. At least the fellow used to be, back when they’d been at school together.
But going to war seemed to have darkened his outlook. Parth would have to keep an eye on him. He didn’t want Lavinia matched with someone damaged by battle, even if Jeremy had returned a hero.
She deserved better.
Perhaps he should send word to Jeremy and call the whole thing off. Or go to Vauxhall now, in advance of the others, and intercept the man before Lavinia arrived.
When Lavinia came downstairs, having finished readying herself before the others, she found neither Simpson nor a footman waiting in the entry, so she let herself into the drawing room.
Across the room, Parth and North were playing cards at the gaming table. Neither looked up when she entered and silently closed the door behind her.
Both men were handsome, but to her mind, Parth’s male beauty was honed to a point, like a sword that flashed gold in the lamplight. She only had to look at him to feel awkward, shy, stupid . . . all the things she never felt in the company of other men.
That afternoon at Felton’s, Elisa hadn’t flirted with him. No, she had briskly sent him back to the carriage. No wonder Parth was in love with Elisa. She wasn’t giddy or foolish around him; she was herself.
It stood to reason that he would want to marry a woman who was independent and resourceful. A widow with experience and confidence. Who never found herself playing silly games, flirting to cover up her embarrassment.
Lavinia leaned back against the door, thinking about it. When was she most herself?
The answer came readily: when she was discussing fabric. Paduasoys and damasks, bonnets and petticoats, and all the other superficialities Parth despised about her.
And in that moment Lavinia realized that the odd, tangled-up desire she had felt for Parth Sterling was gone.
He wasn’t right for her, and he never would be.
She wanted a husband who, although he might not share her interest in bonnets, would nevertheless respect her fascination with the artistry of fashion, in the ways clothing could transform a person. That man would allow her to be herself around him, without feeling as if she had to flirt, or stumble into jokes that made no sense.
Her heart stirred at the sight of Parth, but now she understood why. Parth possessed distinct qualities in common with her beloved father: Both were calm, loyal, and assertive. After her father’s death, her mother had become fretful and often ill, which, now that she knew about the laudanum addiction, Lavinia could at last explain. Even a grievous explanation was better than none at all.
She had never really desired Parth. Rather, she had longed for the security that she’d known in her childhood. With that thought, she began walking toward the men, promising herself that from this moment she would look forward, not back.
“If Diana needs another half hour, Lavinia probably needs double,” she heard Parth say as she came nearer. “Perhaps I should leave for Vauxhall to meet my guest. The rest of you could join us.”
Lavinia froze.
“That’s because you . . . what was it that you said about her?” North was dealing cards so quickly that his hands were almost a blur.
Lavinia didn’t want to hear the answer. Before she could clear her throat, North answered his own question.
“‘Shallow as a birdbath,’ wasn’t it?” he asked. “No, ‘shallow as a puddle.’ I strongly disagree, but as Diana’s cousin, Lavinia is about to be part of the family. You have to stop this nonsense of not wanting to be around her.”
Lavinia was flooded with a fiery wave of humiliation that made even her ears feel warm. She sucked in a soundless gulp of air. She’d already known how Parth saw her. Learning now that he’d denigrated her to the Wildes? That changed nothing.
“Aunt Knowe says that you’re intrinsically incapable of lying,” North continued, blithely ignoring Parth’s scowl. “She’s wrong, though. When it comes to Lavinia, we both—”
Enough. She couldn’t bear to hear another word about what people she counted as her frien
ds thought of her.
“Good evening!” Lavinia cried, starting forward.
Parth’s head snapped up from his cards, and he stood so quickly that his chair went over with a clatter.
North rose more deliberately. “Lavinia! I didn’t hear you enter.” There was an unmistakable ring of trepidation in his voice.
She stopped a few feet from them and dropped a curtsy. “How pleasant to see you both.”
Lavinia didn’t look at Parth. It would take a while to convince herself that she didn’t care for him. Starting this evening, she would be herself around him: not flirtatious, not foolish, not insulting.
Herself. No more and no less than her true self.
A bonnet lover—an unabashed, unrepentant bonnet lover.
“Elisa tells me that the gossip columns are full of the news that you are putting together Diana’s trousseau,” Parth said.
Before she could answer, Elisa entered the room, Diana at her heels. “Lavinia!” she cried, clearly bursting with excitement. “How lovely to see you! I cannot wait to see Vauxhall. My husband was ill for a long time, and then I was in mourning for a year . . . I am just so happy to be among friends and to be going to such a celebrated place as Vauxhall.” She beamed and kissed Lavinia on either cheek, as if they were in Paris.
“That must have been difficult,” Lavinia said, kissing her back. “Did you and Mr. Sterling meet in Florence?”
“You are using ‘Mr. Sterling’ tonight?” Parth said, on her other side.
Elisa had turned to North and didn’t seem to be listening.
“I should never have called you ‘Appalling Parth,’ or any other disparaging name,” Lavinia said. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
She had no right to feel wounded by his opinion of her; after all, she had begun the round of insults. All else being equal, was it worse to be called “shallow” than to be called “appalling”?
In her own defense, her insults had been a foolish, foolish attempt to get his attention. Childish, indeed.
A muscle in Parth’s jaw ticked. “I was not insulted.”
“Assuredly not,” Elisa put in, turning back to join them. “It’s quite clever because the two words sound the same, do they not? Although you must explain to me what ‘appalling’ means.”
“‘Terribile,’” Parth said flatly.
His translation sounded too much like “terrible” to possibly be anything else. The best Lavinia could do was to behave with punctilious politeness toward Parth in the future.
Lady Knowe poked her head into the room. “Who is ready for an exhibition of tightrope walking?”
Parth frowned. “Tightrope walking?”
“Handsome men walking overhead,” Lavinia said. She smiled at Elisa. “I went to a similar exhibition, and those who don’t resemble Adonis resemble Apollo.”
“What does a mythological male look like, Miss Gray?” Parth asked.
Like you, she thought. Big and tawny and muscled. Thank God, she was so much more mature than she used to be. “Slender and strong, with the ability to put one foot in front of another,” she told him.
“Well-endowed,” Elisa put in rather unexpectedly, a naughty grin on her face.
“Not that ladies are interested except for comparison purposes,” Lady Knowe put in, adding, “I’m not even interested in that, having no grounds for comparison. So for me, this will just be an informative visit.”
Parth looked as if his face had turned to granite.
“That is true for me as well,” Lavinia said, feeling more cheerful.
“Diana has no need for comparisons,” North said. Not only was his tone smug, but he crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps she and I should stay home.”
“As one with experience of marriage,” Elisa said, “I must tell you, Diana, that you must never allow your husband to control whether or not you attend a pleasurable event.”
“Although I can’t claim the contessa’s experience, I agree,” Lady Knowe said. “I would never allow a husband to influence my choice of entertainment.”
“It is your marital duty to demonstrate to your husband the errors of his ways!” Elisa added.
“I can scarcely imagine a situation in which I would allow any man to make decisions for me,” Lady Knowe announced. “My brother has occasionally made feeble attempts, but I set the duke straight every time.”
“Aunt Knowe, you are not helpful,” North growled.
“I am grateful for the advice,” Diana announced. “Naturally we are going to Vauxhall, so I can appreciate all the wonders on display there.”
“We’ll bring our own version of Adonis with us,” Lady Knowe said, tucking her hand into Parth’s arm.
Parth couldn’t help smiling at his aunt’s roar of laughter. That was one of his earliest memories, after his arrival at the castle, five years old and terrified. Aunt Knowe had crouched down before him, eye to eye, and he had inadvertently said something that made her laugh . . . and after that, it was fine.
“You might as well give up,” he said to North. He glanced at Lavinia and saw that she was giving Elisa a mischievous smile. Desire washed over him like firelight.
“North can escort us if you have no interest in tightrope walkers, Mr. Sterling,” Lavinia said to him, her expression cooling. “According to the Morning Post, you have an important meeting at the Bank of Scotland tomorrow morning.”
“You read the newspapers!” Elisa cried in delight. “None of my friends at home read more than the gossip column in the Gazzetta Toscana.”
Parth registered further evidence that Lavinia was far from shallow, but he was focused on Vauxhall. The hell he would permit Lavinia and Elisa to wander down dim garden paths gazing at men in tight breeches prancing about overhead.
It wasn’t safe for the performers: He could easily imagine one of them glancing down at Lavinia’s big blue eyes and plummeting to the ground.
“My meeting is not important,” he stated.
“Yes, it is,” Lavinia countered, frowning. “Sterling Bank may well be given responsibility for setting the banking guidelines that will be used throughout the kingdom.”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ll present the standards we established; it’s up to other bankers to employ them or not.”
“Unfortunately, the room will be full of numbskulls,” North said. “It seems that I will be accompanying my fiancée, so you might as well go home and get some rest.”
“I shall come with you, because I invited Lord Jeremy to join our party at the gardens,” Parth said, glancing at Lavinia to make sure she understood why he had invited the man.
He hadn’t realized until he watched Oskar make a cake of himself that the prince would take Lavinia to another country. To a royal court somewhere else. The very idea was . . . unacceptable.
But if Lavinia married Jeremy, she would stay here in England, where she belonged. As Diana’s cousin, she would be at Lindow on occasion. For holidays, for example.
He pushed away another image of that rain-soaked kiss because it was obviously an aberration. As Aunt Knowe was so fond of saying, he was damned protective. Seeing a woman he—he cared about, standing in the rain, paying no attention to her health, made him lose his head.
“Andiamo, caro,” Elisa called, turning and holding out her hand.
When had he become her “dear”? One moment he’d agreed to use first names, and then suddenly he was her “dear.”
“No more scowling,” Elisa continued. “I can sense you are grumpy, caro, but you must place a smirk on your lips, no?”
“A smile, not a smirk,” he said, taking her hand.
The pleasure gardens of Vauxhall were arranged into a mile or more of curving, tree-lined paths, lit by dim lanterns. Ladies and gentlemen—and anyone else with a shilling for admittance—wandered about, randomly encountering the garden’s diversions.
As soon as they arrived, Parth paid for a box on the edge of the dance floor. No sooner were the ladies seated in the t
hree-walled enclosure than they jumped up and demanded to stroll about.
He looked around for Jeremy. Seeing no sign of him, he left word with the waiter that they were wandering the grounds. It was a warm evening, and Lavinia, Elisa, and Diana shed their pelisses. The three of them were so beautiful that every man in the place turned to stare.
North drew Diana’s arm through his. “This place isn’t entirely safe.”
“True,” Aunt Knowe said. “Vauxhall is a pleasure garden, but it has a darker side.”
“We are aware,” Lavinia said. “We won’t be foolish.”
Strangely enough—given that he had concluded two years ago that Lavinia was one of the most reckless women he’d ever met—Parth believed her.
“Lady Knowe, you will be my escort for the evening,” Lavinia cried, tucking her arm through the lady’s.
“My dear, there is nothing I’d like better,” his aunt responded.
Elisa nestled against Parth’s side, her eyes sparkling. “Isn’t this fun?”
Lavinia was walking directly in front of him. She possessed the sort of curves that a man could never get enough of. Except that now she was too thin. Her mother was—
The moment the thought occurred to him, he could have cursed himself for thoughtlessness. Her mother’s illness must be nagging on her spirits, perhaps making it difficult to eat.
He’d never truly known his own mother; he had only a dim memory of a woman in a shimmering sari adorned with gold thread. But if Aunt Knowe—the closest thing he’d had to a mother inasmuch as the duke’s marriages during Parth’s childhood had been short-lived—were to become addicted to laudanum, he’d be . . . upset.
Very upset.
“Your face is so stern,” Elisa said, whispering as if they were in church, rather than ambling down a pathway. “You really must smile more often, Parth.”
His smile must not have been very convincing, because she shook her head at him with a roguish pout. “One might imagine it was you who had been in mourning, instead of me. Not that I am any longer. My dearest conte wouldn’t wish me to spend my life grieving for him.”
Ahead of them, the first of many tightropes crossed the footpath, and sure enough, his aunt, Diana, North, and Lavinia stopped directly underneath.