He frowned. Having ruled out pregnancy, he couldn’t think of a problem that would have driven Lavinia into his arms. Financial difficulties? That didn’t make sense. Any number of gentlemen would be happy to take her on, dowry or no.
He had no intention of telling North about Lavinia’s visit to his bedchamber that morning, let alone her absurd proposal. He could make no sense of her peculiar visit—but he damned well meant to find out before night fell what had driven her to such an extreme.
That feckless girl with her lavish bonnets and disrespectful manners had always perturbed him, but now he felt a prickle of guilt. She’d shocked the hell out of him with that proposal, and he hadn’t responded as well as he might have.
“Watch out!” North barked.
Parth didn’t bother to answer. He had already sensed the change in his mount: a tensing of powerful haunches, a shudder running over the glossy coat.
Abruptly, the gelding arched his back and jumped straight into the air, four hooves off the ground, landing only to do it again, trying his best to dislodge his rider. Parth clung to him like a burr, relishing the battle of man against beast, respecting the tremendous power that Blue put into his fight to rid himself of the nuisance of a man in the saddle.
When the horse finally settled, blowing hard, hair darkened by sweat, Parth leaned forward and said, “That was an excellent effort, Blue. I wish you’d put all that energy to better use.”
Blue pulled his lips back and trumpeted his aversion to that idea. Parth braced himself, his knees pinning him to the saddle as Blue threw his front half up into the air, trying with every acrobatic twist to free himself.
When they were both on the ground again, Parth ran a soothing hand down Blue’s powerful neck.
North was still leaning back against the fence, arms draped over the top rail. “I paid over eighty pounds for him, but it was worth it. He’ll make a fine hunter.”
While Blue began another bid for liberty, Parth made up his mind. He shouted over his mount’s enraged trumpeting, “I’ll pay you double.”
North waited until Blue settled back on all four hooves. “If you want him, he’s yours. I only had the money to buy him because you made it for me.”
“I’ll pay a fair price.”
“No, you won’t. Family doesn’t make family pay.”
Parth’s last name might be Sterling, but he was a Wilde in all the ways that counted. His parents had sent him from India to England, a ward of the Duke of Lindow, at age five, and the duke was the closest thing he had to a father. Horatius, North, and Alaric—the duke’s first family—were his brothers. Hell, the duke’s younger children were his siblings as well, right down to little two-year-old Artemisia.
“I’ll put the purchase price in your account,” Parth said, because he’d be damned if he took Blue for free.
“We never should have let you open a bank,” North said, jumping over the rail of the training ring and heading toward the open stable door, pausing to shout, “The power has gone to your head.”
Parth ignored that. A couple of years ago, his companies began returning such high profits that he had trouble reinvesting them in solid ventures. A bank’s security was reliant on its management, and Parth didn’t care to depend on other people’s ability to judge investments.
What could be safer than a bank of his own? The Wilde fortunes—all of which he had managed since he turned twenty—were promptly moved to his bank.
After that, the nobility lined up to beg him to shelter their money. Sterling Bank was no competition to the Bank of England, but it was—to Parth’s mind—much more solid and a better risk.
Blue was blowing air, his sides pumping in and out. His head slipped downward. Parth immediately leapt off. Incongruously long lashes blinked as the gelding raised his head to examine the man whom he hadn’t managed to throw off his back.
“Damn, you’re good,” North said. He had returned with a horse blanket over his shoulder, and was leaning against the fence again.
“He’s an excellent fellow,” Parth said, giving Blue a rub between his ears. “You’ll add him to my group?”
Parth owned a manor house a few miles down the road from the castle, but his outbuildings were devoted to experiments, not horseflesh. He maintained only a few carriage horses on his premises. His other horseflesh—hunters, a racehorse or two, a foal that had caught his fancy—were stabled here.
North nodded, tossing the blanket to him. Parth caught it with one hand and wrapped it around Blue’s neck. Then he met the horse’s eyes with all the respect that he gave a ferocious competitor in the banking world. “Blue.”
The horse snorted, but with an uncertain undertone.
“You’re mine, Blue,” Parth said. He ran a hand down the gelding’s nose, and Blue breathed warm air into his palm. “No more antics like that. You could hurt someone.”
Hell, he’d already broken a groom’s arm.
Blue made a snuffling noise. Parth stroked him under the chin. After another few minutes Blue sighed and put his head on Parth’s shoulder. It wasn’t surrender.
It was compromise, and they both knew it.
Chapter Three
Back at Lindow
Miss Diana Belgrave’s bedchamber
“I’m terribly sorry!” Diana cried, sitting down next to Lavinia, who was huddled on the settee. “I would never have imagined Parth could be so rude.”
“He wasn’t,” Lavinia said dully. “He simply refused, that’s all. He was appalled at the idea.”
“Was that a joke on ‘Appalling Parth’?” her cousin said, dropping a kiss on her cheek.
“No, a factual description of his expression.” Lavinia’s voice caught. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.”
“It’s all my fault,” Diana said. “I promised North that I would consider carefully before acting on rash ideas. I should have held my tongue.”
“You didn’t force me to his chamber, Diana,” Lavinia said. “I believed it was a good idea too. I was such a fool.” She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back tears.
Diana wrapped her arms around her. “I don’t like Parth any longer. Perhaps I’ll cut him over tea.”
“It’s not his fault that he doesn’t want to marry me.”
“Why not? You would be a perfect wife for him. And frankly,” she admitted, “I thought he’d be too much of a gentleman to refuse.”
“People are seldom who they appear to be,” Lavinia said, hiccupping with sobs. “Who could have believed that my mother would steal your emeralds? No one imagines Lady Gray a thief, but she is.”
“Might you conceive of your mother as a Robin Hood in skirts?” Perhaps because she was well on the way to marrying a future duke, Diana seemed gleeful unmoved by the revelation that her aunt had stolen her emerald parure, sold the necklace and diadem in Paris, and lived on the ill-gotten proceeds thereafter.
“You should be angry,” Lavinia said wearily. “Your mother blamed you for the loss of those jewels, if you remember—and yet you compare my mother to Robin Hood, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor?”
Diana laughed. “You are poor. I’m not angry; I love you, and it’s not your fault. Lady Gray, and not you, resorted to theft. How could I blame you for her missteps?”
“Mother blames me. She says the theft of your emeralds is my fault because I’ve refused so many marriage proposals and I don’t deserve to have a dowry.” Despite herself, a sob escaped. “She isn’t repentant in the least.”
Diana produced a handkerchief and blotted Lavinia’s tears. “Parth is scarcely the only wealthy man in the kingdom. Proposing to him was a foolish idea, but frankly, there are many men who would help you, and you won’t need to embarrass yourself, because they will throw themselves at your feet.”
Lavinia shaped her lips into a smile. “I’m sorry for being such a wet blanket. It was just—you should have seen Parth’s face.”
“Put it out of your head,” Diana ordered. Sh
e rose and pulled Lavinia up. “We have an hour before tea. I want you to wash your face and then lie down with a cool compress on your eyes.”
“I can’t join you,” Lavinia said with a shudder. “I can’t face him.”
“Yes, you can. You will act as if nothing has happened between you.” Diana’s tone would allow no further protest.
“I told Mother that we must return to London tomorrow morning. I shall be married when I see Parth again,” Lavinia whispered, her voice rasping. “Happily married.”
“To a duke,” Diana said, nodding. “A very rich duke. If only I weren’t marrying North, he would be a perfect tool for revenge.”
Lavinia gave a watery chuckle. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give him up.”
Diana’s mouth curled. “It might be hard to convince him.”
“Let’s go in. I have to bathe before tea,” North said, as a stable boy took Blue away for a good currying and some warm mash. “You must tell me more about your contessa.”
Parth laughed. “You don’t give a damn about my contessa. You mean to find your fiancée.”
“True,” North admitted, grinning.
Parth slung an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “The woman is in love with you. She will never run away again.”
“Does the contessa feel the same about you?”
“Not yet, but she will. I’m thinking of inviting Elisa to the ball planned for your wedding. She would enjoy a masquerade ball.”
North stopped. “Make certain of her feelings first. It’s no pleasure to chase your fiancée down the road to London after being jilted.”
“Considering Elisa’s extensive collection of Wilde prints, she may chase you down the road,” Parth joked.
North guffawed. “Even if I hadn’t managed to woo Diana, I was never in the market for an Italian noblewoman.”
“Until Diana has your wedding ring on her finger, unwed ladies will throw themselves at you. Witness the unexpected arrival of Lavinia Gray and her mother, under the pretext of rescuing Diana from the drudgery of being a governess.”
Lavinia must have been devastated to find North affianced to Diana once again. After all, why would she have blurted out that proposal? Parth had to be the fall-back when North turned out to be engaged.
There was only one answer to that.
Hell, no.
Irritation swept through Parth when he realized he was thinking about Lavinia again. Damn it, her problem must have to do with money. She would never have approached him otherwise.
She wanted his money, just like the other ladies who’d thrown themselves in his way. He meant to solve her financial problems. But not by marrying her. Why didn’t she just ask him for a loan, rather than propose to him?
Despite himself, his mind went back to that sentence she’d blurted out, about having a “lingering infatuation” for him. She couldn’t have meant it. And yet she’d looked as if she’d shocked herself . . .
No.
“I will bring Elisa,” Parth said, making up his mind. “Do you expect Lavinia and her mother to attend the wedding?”
“Absolutely. Lavinia may be a distant cousin, but the Grays are the only family Diana has, since her confounded mother has disowned her. Why do you ask?”
“That woman does not like me,” Parth replied, almost certain that it was true. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Why don’t you? Lavinia is amusing, intelligent, and remarkably beautiful.”
“She is as shallow as a puddle,” Parth said, guilt pushing him to be harsher than he might have been. “She cares only for frivolities. Remember when she returned from Manchester with a carriage full of bonnets? Just one of those headdresses costs more than a housemaid makes in a year. I’m sure that wasn’t the first time.”
“Lavinia is an extremely kind young lady,” North protested. “She traveled all the way from Paris to save Diana from the grip of the villain—me—who had compelled her into servitude.”
“That was just an excuse. She came here to seduce you.” His voice grated.
“No, she didn’t,” North said firmly, adding: “Lavinia will be Diana’s witness, and I’d like you to be mine.”
“I don’t understand why you haven’t eloped. Hell, considering that Diana’s mother disowned her, you wouldn’t even have to contend with irate relatives. You could set out for Gretna Green tomorrow.”
North shook his head. “I shall marry Diana with pomp and circumstance. My father intends to invite half of polite society to Lindow for the wedding, and I want every one of them to know that I love and honor my wife—even more so for the time she spent as a governess.”
It was romantic; Parth had to give him that.
“We’ll keep it a secret until the invitations must be delivered,” North continued. “After the stationers get wind of our reconciliation, Diana will be plagued to death.”
For years, the Duke of Lindow and his large and lively family had been a source of endless fascination not only to much of Great Britain, but also to a sizable cohort on the continent: Popular prints depicting scenes—ranging from reasonably true to entirely fanciful—from their lives circulated throughout the kingdom and abroad, and were avidly collected by duchesses and dairymaids alike.
The duke’s three marriageable daughters, Betsy, Viola, and Joan, were constantly reported to be desperately in love with men whom they’d never met. Leonidas and Spartacus were depicted strolling into brothels. But as heir to the dukedom, it was North’s love life that received the most attention.
Diana’s flight from her betrothal party two years before had been exciting material for printmakers; when it turned out that she was serving as a governess in the castle, they rejoiced. Their depictions of Diana as a downtrodden servant to an evil lord sold like hotcakes. The news that North and Diana were betrothed again would cause a frenzy that was sure to dwarf the previous scandal.
“Your contessa must come for the wedding,” North added. “It’s the chase, isn’t it? You want her precisely because she hasn’t succumbed to your charms.”
“I’m used to acquiring the best.” Parth grinned. “And I do like a challenge. The fact that Elisa does not consider me a possible spouse makes the chase more pleasurable.”
North burst into laughter. “How does she consider you, if not as a marriage prospect?”
“I believe she groups me with her husband’s friends—who are in their fifties. The conte was a good twenty-five years older than his wife.”
“How astonishing: a woman who has overlooked your obvious assets. We’ll play charades one evening and I’ll contrive it so you have to act out King Henry VIII, just to make certain that the contessa recognizes what a noble catch you are.” He reached over and gave Parth’s bearded chin a rub. “And since Henry supposedly viewed his beard as a symbol of his throne.”
The four of them—Horatius, Alaric, North, and Parth—had grown up mocking each other, and North’s belly laugh felt deeply satisfying. With Horatius gone, Alaric and North were the dearest people in the world to Parth.
They walked through the last row of trees that circled the stables, and rounded the bend to find Lindow Castle sprawled before them. Unlike the elegant palaces that Parth had seen on his visits to the Loire Valley, Lindow was a chaotic stone pile, built and rebuilt over many centuries, with newer turrets heaped on older towers. Wings, buttresses, and terraces protruded without any regard for rhyme or reason.
Spreading away from its east flank was the Lindow Moss, the vast and treacherous peat bog in which Horatius had lost his life.
The manor house Parth had built on neighboring land was, in many ways, everything Lindow was not. It was designed to present not strength and impenetrability, but openness and beauty. The ceilings were high, and the rooms graciously sized. He’d acquired the finest furnishings, and covered the walls with a priceless assortment of Italian paintings.
Wind didn’t whistle down the corridors, and ill-tempered peacocks didn’t scream challenges
at each other in the night. The kitchens were modern, and the gardens perfumed by flowers rather than peat. His bedchamber boasted both a dressing chamber and a bathing chamber, with an attached water closet.
And yet, he preferred his London townhouse or, when he was in Cheshire, his boyhood bedchamber.
But time moved on, and he had to move with it. Horatius was dead. Alaric was married, and North soon would be. Elisa was warm, exuberant, and beautiful. She would transform his country house into a home. Fill it with children and laughter, so that it resembled Lindow Castle in the most important ways.
“I’ll see you at tea,” North said over his shoulder, as he hastened through the courtyard.
Parth didn’t bother to answer; North was off in search of his beloved. Having already witnessed several such reunions since his arrival the day before, Parth knew that North would pull Diana into his arms and kiss her senseless, regardless of who might be observing them.
He tried to imagine feeling so passionately about a woman—and failed. Elisa was delightful in every way. He would welcome a chance to kiss her. But he would never succumb to desire the way North had. It wasn’t in his nature.
An errant memory imposed itself: Lavinia Gray’s big blue eyes looking up at him in his bedchamber. He’d moved behind a chair because a blazing—and wholly inconvenient—surge of lust had overtaken him.
The man who succumbed to a woman like that would find himself with a wife who had no thought in her mind other than her reckless expenditures on ribbons and lace. He’d have to face her over the supper table for the rest of his life, with nothing to talk about.
Desire would inevitably wane, and Lavinia’s husband would find himself listening to disquisitions about bonnets.
Lectures about petticoats.
Nothing that happened in the marital bed could make up for that. The images his mind presented him—of a happy, flushed, satisfied Lavinia—were quickly banished.