An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  “No?” Charlotte cut her eyes toward Vivian slyly.

  “Of course not. Why, there is no one I would trust more if I needed help.” She paused, then added judiciously, “Though he would, of course, make a perfect nuisance of himself afterwards telling me how foolish I had been.”

  Her friend chuckled. “Indeed he would.”

  “But the two of us? We are as unlikely as oil and water.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. For I believe that the two of you will be thrown together a great deal this Season, what with your sponsoring Lily and Camellia.”

  “I shouldn’t think it will be a problem.” Vivian dismissed the idea with an airy wave of her hand. “I am sure Stewkesbury will be up at Willowmere most of the time, as he usually is.”

  “I would not count on that,” Charlotte said drily, glancing over Vivian’s shoulder.

  An instant later a deep male voice said, “Lady Vivian. Cousin Charlotte.”

  Vivian’s face went suddenly hot, and her hands cold. “Stewkesbury!”

  Stewkesbury strode purposefully across the floor, a tall, lean man in black breeches and jacket, his shirt blazingly white and decorated with a conservative fall of ruffles down the front. His white linen neckcloth was tied in a simple arrangement and centered by a pin of onyx. Neither on the cutting edge of fashion nor lagging behind it, his attire was of the finest quality and cut, but with no hint of flash or ostentation. His thick, dark brown hair was cropped close, more for the sake of convenience than for any attempt at fashion. He could not claim the male perfection of face that was his brother Fitz’s, but he was, as Vivian had said, a handsome man, with firm, even features and level gray eyes.

  He had seen his cousin and Lady Vivian the moment he stepped into the ballroom. Indeed, he thought, it would have been hard to miss Lady Vivian. She was dressed in rich black satin overlaid with a filmy material of the same color, a stark contrast to the pale white skin of her shoulders and elegantly narrow neck above it. Her flame-red hair burned like a beacon.

  It was one of the many annoying things about the woman, he thought. She never blended in, never entered a room quietly. She was always immediately, flamboyantly there. He started across the room toward her, wondering as he did so how she managed to make a simple black ball gown look so thoroughly elegant, yet also seductive. Vivian Carlyle was never anything but stylish and tasteful, clearly a lady, but there was always something about her that made one think of secret, illicit passion. Oliver was not sure if it was the way her lips curved up in a slow smile, her green eyes lighting as if only the person she looked at shared in her humor, or perhaps it was the way the delicate hairs curled upon the milk-white skin of her slender neck, or maybe the way she carried herself, without stiffness or shyness, her curvaceous body pliant and soft.

  Whatever it was, Oliver was certain that only a dead man could look at Vivian and not imagine, at least for an instant, having her in his arms, that soft skin beneath his hands. Certainly he had found himself thinking it on more than one occasion, and Oliver was certain that he was more immune to the lady’s charms than most. After all, he had known her when she was a gawky girl, all sharp angles and giggles and mischief, that wealth of fiery hair tamed into bright orange braids down her back. She had been the bane of his summers down from Oxford, always up to some trick or other with his cousin. She still had the ability to annoy him as almost no one else could. God knows why he had agreed to let her sponsor his American cousins this Season. No matter how high a place she held in London society, it could not be worth the aggravation of dealing with her daily.

  Oliver had been expecting to see her at any time for the past week. The social life that London offered was like food and drink to Vivian. Where others might grow weary during the exhausting round of activities that constituted the Season, Vivian thrived on it. He knew that she rarely stayed away from the city longer than a month or two. It had been most unusual for her to spend as much time as she had this fall at her uncle’s—or, he should say, at her uncle’s and at Willowmere, for it had seemed that every time he turned around, she was there in his house, the scent of her perfume in the air, her laughter echoing from some hallway, or sitting at his table, her eyes alight with laughter as she verbally sparred with him. The house had been so much quieter since she left for Marchester, so much calmer and somehow emptier.

  It went against his grain, he told himself, to give up that calm, that quiet, and voluntarily place himself in Lady Vivian’s path. But he was not one to shirk his responsibilities, and right now he was responsible for his newfound American cousins and their first Season. He had to watch over them, and that meant, perforce, watching over Lady Vivian—especially now that Eve, who would have been their chaperone, had married his brother Fitz and would no longer be in constant attendance on the girls.

  Lily would manage just fine. She was already engaged and safely out of the politely cutthroat competition of husband-hunting that marked the Season, and she seemed much more attuned to the social activities—the parties, the shopping, the theatergoing and obligatory calls, the pervasive gossip—than did Camellia. It was the straightforward, blunt-speaking, so very American Camellia who was likely to go awry, to argue or to break a rule—not with any ill will or purposeful disobedience, but simply because the tenets of the beau monde were as incomprehensible to her as Sanskrit. The good thing about Lady Vivian was that, even though she was the daughter of a duke, she was rather like Camellia and therefore able to understand and predict Camellia’s actions. The unfortunate thing was that, being like his cousin, she was as likely to join Camellia in some mad undertaking as to dissuade her from it.

  His lips tightened at the thought. The only thing for it, he knew, was to keep a close eye himself upon both Cousin Camellia and Lady Vivian. It would mean a great deal more parties and social interaction than he liked, as well as spending far too much time around a woman who tried his patience. But he saw no way around it. He could not abandon his cousin; for all her unruly behavior, Camellia was sincere and honest, an innocent, really, among the far more sophisticated and lethal members of the ton. So he would attend the parties. He would put up with Vivian Carlyle. And, he promised himself, he would make a dedicated effort to get along with the woman, no matter how she might fray his nerves.

  That resolve was tested the moment Vivian turned to greet him and he received the full impact of her dress up close. The heart-shaped neckline was low and wide, skimming over her breasts and leaving much of her chest and shoulders bare. The rich satin hugged her form, and the jet bugle beads that adorned the neck seemed designed to draw one’s eye to the swelling of her creamy white bosom. Desire slammed through him, fierce and immediate, and only years-long training kept his face expressionless.

  “Stewkesbury.” Vivian smiled at him in that way she had, a way that hinted of secrets and laughter.

  Oliver was aware that Vivian considered him a hopelessly dull sort, and he often had the faint suspicion she was laughing at him, which made him even more unbending in her presence. Now, in response to her greeting, he gave her a punctiliously correct bow.

  “How nice to see you,” Vivian told him. “Are Lily and Camellia with you?”

  “No. I drove down alone last week. The Bascombes are coming later with Fitz and Eve. I am sure it will not be long before they arrive.” Despite his best efforts, his gaze kept returning to Vivian’s bosom. Damn the woman—the way she is dressed is bloody distracting.

  “I am surprised to find you here alone,” Vivian went on. “I know how infrequently you are wont to visit London.”

  He wasn’t sure why her assumption irritated him, but it did. “On the contrary, my lady, I am often in the city. I don’t know why people persist in thinking that I am always stuck away up at Willowmere.”

  “Because no one ever sees you.”

  “I am in London. I simply do not spend my time at parties.”

  “Ah, I see.” A smile twitched at the corner of Vivian’s mouth. “No doubt you are
occupied in far more useful activities.”

  There it was again, he thought—the amusement at his staid personality. Sometimes he imagined how delightful it would be to do or say something outrageous, just to see the surprise flare on Vivian’s face. But, of course, that would be an entirely silly thing to do, so he said only, “I am usually here on business.”

  His cousin, who had been watching their exchange, spoke up for the first time. “Oh, Oliver, surely that does not take up all your evenings as well. You might at least go to a dinner or a ball or two.”

  Vivian glanced at Oliver, her eyes glinting a little. “I suspect, dear Charlotte, that your cousin finds such things as balls or dinners tedious. Isn’t that true, Stewkesbury?”

  “Not at all,” he responded drily, meeting Vivian’s glance with something of a challenge in his gray eyes. “I find them much too stimulating for someone of my sedate nature. I might be utterly overcome.”

  Vivian let out a little laugh. “Now that is something I should like to see. I have always wondered what it would take to overcome you.”

  “Ah, Lady Vivian, you should know that ’tis easily done. You have accomplished it on many an occasion.”

  Vivian hesitated, looking faintly surprised. Then she furled her fan and reached out to tap him lightly on the arm with it, her eyes twinkling. “A very pretty compliment, my lord. I am shocked.”

  “You do not think me capable of it?”

  “Oh, no, you are capable enough. You forget, I have heard you talk to others. But I would not have thought you willing to hand a compliment to me.”

  He raised his brows. “What a picture you hold of me, my lady. Do I appear such a boor?”

  “No, not a boor. But not capable, perhaps, of polite flattery.”

  It was Oliver’s turn to look surprised. Polite flattery? Could Vivian possibly think that he was not aware of her beauty or her powerful effect on men? Did she not realize that even now, as he stood here, chatting, carefully keeping his features composed, his nerves tingled with an awareness of her? That her perfume teased at his senses and his very blood hummed? He presumed she had chosen her dress and styled her hair, dabbed a scent behind her ears, in the hope of eliciting this exact response. She must know how men reacted to her. The only possible reason for her surprise was that she did not expect him to react as a man.

  The idea galled him. Did he appear so sober, so boring, to her?

  “Dearest Vivian,” he said, his tone taking on a sharper edge, “I suspect you would be surprised what I am capable of.”

  Her eyes rounded a little, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that his words had taken her aback. Ignoring his cousin’s indrawn breath of surprise, he went on, extending his hand to Vivian, “Perhaps, my lady, you would favor me with this dance?”

  What in the world has come over the man? For an instant, Vivian could only stare at Stewkesbury in astonishment. It wasn’t as if he had never asked her to dance or even that he had not paid her a compliment. She was sure that there had been other times, other places, when they had taken a turn on the dance floor together or when Oliver had said that she was looking lovely that evening or some such thing. But those compliments, those invitations to dance, had always been polite, expected, simply part of the world in which they lived. Just as he had offered his arm to her at a dinner party because she was the highest-ranking female present, he had no doubt escorted her onto the floor after he had dutifully danced with Charlotte or some other female relative or the hostess of the party.

  But something about tonight was different. Something in his eyes, in his tone when he spoke to her. The compliment he had paid her had not been extravagant, but neither had it been the bland, customary acknowledgment of her looks that one heard at every turn. It had been . . . almost flirtatious. And his words before his invitation to dance had carried a dare. Indeed, his very invitation to her seemed almost a challenge.

  Well, a challenge was certainly something Vivian never turned down.

  Her lips curving up into a smile, she placed her hand in his. “Of course, my lord. I would be honored.”

  They took their place on the dance floor. Couples were forming around them, and Vivian realized that they were taking up the position of a waltz, not a cotillion or a country dance. She faced him, aware of a heightening of nerves inside her. Had she ever waltzed with Oliver? She could not remember doing so. Of course, the dance was no longer considered so shocking; it was even done in country assemblies now. She had danced it with many men over the years. There was no reason to feel this faint sense of unease.

  Yet, she had to admit, Oliver had always had the ability to intimidate her a little. That was a rare quality, she reflected, for at twenty-eight years of age, she was a woman who knew her own mind and in general did mostly as she pleased. Wealthy in her own right and the only daughter of a duke, she was under no man’s control. She had spent the last decade being pursued by many men, but none had ever won her over, and she was certain by now that none ever would. She enjoyed a light flirtation now and then, and she had a wealth of admirers from whom to choose when she wanted an escort to a play or a ball. But she could just as easily decide not to take any of them, as she had tonight. In short, Vivian felt she could hold her own with any man.

  But Oliver . . . somehow Oliver was a little different. Perhaps it was that she had known him when she was young and unsure of herself, and he had seemed to her far older and more mature. Perhaps it had been the adolescent yearning she had felt for him—not only unreciprocated, but unnoticed. Or perhaps it was simply that he was the sort of man who was invariably, maddeningly correct—in words, in action, even in thought. She had once heard Fitz complain of the ‘burden of perfection’ that having Oliver for a brother had placed on him, and she knew what he meant. The Earl of Stewkesbury set an imposing standard, and she could not help but feel a niggling doubt sometimes that his side of any argument was, if not necessarily right, certainly the most correct.

  Of course, that he could intimidate her did not mean Vivian intended to allow him to. She lifted her chin a fraction as she looked up into his face. His eyes held an expression that she could not quite read, and she felt the oddest little flutter in her stomach. At that moment, the music started up, and he took her hand in his, the other going to her waist as he moved closer to her.

  The sensation in her stomach increased, and suddenly Vivian felt flushed, almost embarrassed at being this close to him. She glanced away, concentrating on her steps as they moved into the music. It was silly, she told herself, to feel so disconcerted at dancing a waltz with Oliver. She had known the man forever, after all. While it was as close as one could get to being held in his arms, nothing in his demeanor was loverlike. It was like dancing with her brother . . . except that it wasn’t at all like dancing with her brother.

  She was intensely aware of the way his hand curved around hers, of the way his fingers felt against her waist. Even though the material of her dress lay between her skin and his, the touch felt curiously intimate. The masculine scent of his cologne teased at her senses. She could not help but remember how giddy she had felt when she was in his presence when she was younger.

  Vivian lifted her face to look at him, unaware of the slow, dreamy smile that curved her lips and lit her eyes. Oliver’s hand tightened on her waist, and he pulled her almost imperceptibly closer, but then he turned his head away quickly, and his fingers relaxed their grip. As he looked out over the other dancers, a frown started between his eyes.

  He glanced around, then said, “We seem to be the object of a number of gazes.” His eyes returned to her, and his frown deepened. “No doubt ’tis the gown you’re wearing.”

  Vivian came crashing quickly back into the present. How could I have thought Oliver was any different? She scowled back at him. “My gown? You think people are staring at us because of my gown? I take it you do not mean because it is so fashionable.”

  His mouth tightened. “It exposes rather more of you than is quite d
ecent.”

  Vivian’s eyes flashed. “There is nothing improper about my dress, I assure you. Mrs. Treherne’s neckline is a good deal lower than mine.”

  “You wish to be compared to Mrs. Treherne?”

  “I don’t wish to be compared to anyone,” Vivian retorted. “It was you who commented on the appropriateness of my dress. I was merely pointing out that there are a number of women here whose gowns are no more decent than mine, and I don’t see anyone staring at them.”

  “That is because they don’t look as you do in yours.”

  Vivian stared at him, nonplussed. “I scarce know whether to take that as a jab or a compliment.”

  He looked faintly surprised. “I’m not sure that I meant it as either.”

  She could not help but let out a little laugh. “Really, Stewkesbury, you are quite hopeless. Have you never looked in the mirror and seen that you are not old?”

  It was distinctly unfair, she thought, that a man should have such compelling pewter-colored eyes, not to mention a smile that could suddenly light his face so that one’s heart turned in one’s chest . . . and yet be so unwaveringly staid.

  His face stiffened. “Are you saying that one has to be old to expect certain standards of—”

  “No, I am saying that no young man has ever criticized me for exposing too much of my bosom.”

  Color rushed into Oliver’s face, and a light flared briefly in his eyes. “Vivian! Have a care what you say. Not everyone knows you as I do. There are those who would take your free sort of speech quite the wrong way.”

  “But I know you never will.” Vivian sighed. It was useless to get upset over what he said. Oliver was simply being Oliver, after all. She cocked her head a little to one side and smiled up at him. “Please . . . let us not argue, especially over something as inconsequential as my gown. The music is too lovely, and I am too happy to be back in London.”

  “Of course.” He gave a brief nod of his head. “I did not intend to argue with you.” He paused. “How was Marchester? Did you enjoy your visit home?”