An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  She raised an eyebrow coolly at him. “Exactly why do you presume I am so innocent?”

  Oliver stared, shock mingling with an upswell of lust, followed by a sudden, vicious stab of jealousy. His hands tightened into fists at his side. What man had seduced her? Who had lain beside her, stroked her smooth white body, opened her legs and moved between them? Fury rolled through him, red and hot, and he had to struggle to retain control of himself.

  “Anyway,” Vivian went on lightly, turning and strolling away, “I have no intention of marrying.” She stopped, putting one hand on the back of a chair and turning to face him. “There is no need for me to marry. And I see no advantage to a woman in the married state. So why marry?”

  “Surely protection, security, children, love, a home and family . . .” He managed to keep his voice as even and unconcerned as hers despite the emotions roiling inside him.

  “I have a home. I have a family. My father’s name and my brother’s provide me ample protection and position. As for children . . .” She shrugged. “Jerome has children, and someday Gregory may marry and have children. I can dote on them if I feel the urge. That leaves nothing but love, and I do not think that love is for me.”

  “Don’t be nonsensical.”

  “I’m not. Tell me, Oliver, do you plan to marry for love?” She folded her arms, watching him.

  He started to speak, then stopped, knowing that to say anything other than no would be a lie. He glared at her for a long moment, then turned on his heel and left the room.

  Camellia was bored. The evening had begun well enough. It had been fun to get dressed with Lily in their elegant new gowns from Madame Arceneaux, Lady Vivian’s favorite modiste. Much to their surprise, Stewkesbury had presented each of them with a pearl necklace, appropriate for a young girl making her come-out, in honor of the occasion. The necklaces were lovely, but more than that, Camellia had been warmed by the thought behind the gift. Perhaps the earl was coming to see them as more than just an obligation.

  The pleasant feeling had lasted until they arrived at the party. Lily, of course, had been compelled to stand in the line to receive guests along with the Carrs, and Stewkesbury had stayed with them. Camellia had escaped with Fitz and Eve. It was easy and fun talking to them, but before long Eve was introducing her to this lady and that young man, and Camellia was faced with remembering names, as well as all the things she should not say or do. She simply could not commit some social sin at this party, which was so important to Lily. As a result, Camellia said as little as possible and smiled until her face ached.

  She saw Vivian a time or two during the evening, usually dancing or talking to a group of people, but she had always been at a distance, and so Camellia had not even spoken with her. Camellia was now standing with a group of young people to whom Eve had introduced her. Her feet hurt from her new slippers; her head ached from the mass of hair piled and twisted and pinned on her head; and even her back was tired from standing all evening. Worst of all, she was utterly, incredibly bored.

  No, that was not the worst, she corrected herself a moment later, for she saw Dora Parkington strolling toward them, accompanied by two young men who were falling all over themselves to vie for her attention. Dora and the young men paused to chat with some of the people in Camellia’s group, and Camellia was grateful that she was standing at the farthest point from Dora. Camellia saw Dora’s eyes flicker toward her, then quickly away.

  “Such a lovely ball, don’t you agree, Miss Parkington?” one of the girls closest to Dora said. It was, Camellia reflected, a variation on the same remark she had heard at least fifty times this evening. She had even, God help her, said it herself.

  Dora smiled as if it were a new and interesting question and nodded her head in agreement. “Yes, Lady Carr is such an elegant hostess.” There was a murmur of agreement. “You would never realize, from looking at her, what a disappointment this must be for her. I mean, everyone knows Neville was supposed to marry Lady Priscilla, but now, of course, she will have an American as a daughter-in-law. One cannot help but feel sorry for her.”

  Camellia stiffened, anger surging up in her. One of the other girls glanced over at Camellia, and Dora followed her gaze. Dora let out a little gasp of surprise, her hand flying up to her mouth.

  “Oh!” she cried in a sweet little voice, suddenly all blushes and stammers. “I’m sorry. I did not see you there, Miss Bascombe.”

  That, Camellia knew, was a lie. She had seen the girl look at her, and she was certain that Dora had insulted Lily on purpose to get a rise out of Camellia. But Camellia kept a firm grip on her temper. She wasn’t about to let this girl draw her into a fight, in which Camellia, would naturally, come out looking like an uncouth American.

  “I didn’t mean anything bad,” Dora went on appealingly. “I would never say anything to hurt anyone.”

  One of the suitors and another girl immediately began to murmur assurances that of course she would not. Camellia simply gave her a long, even look.

  “It’s quite all right, Miss Parkington,” Camellia said. “I am sure that no one gave any weight to your words.”

  Beside Camellia, another young lady snickered, quickly smothering it. Dora’s eyes widened in dramatic hurt, then filled with great crystal tears.

  “Oh, p-please, Miss Bascombe, do not be so unkind. I don’t know what I shall do if you don’t forgive me.”

  Dora looked, Camellia thought, like a doll, perfect and porcelain, tears trembling on her dark lashes, and if Camellia had not been certain that Dora had arranged the entire scene, she would probably have felt sorry for her. One of the young men whipped out his handkerchief for Dora to dry her eyes, and one of the girls patted Dora’s hand, shooting Camellia an accusing glare. Camellia’s hands curled into fists, and she was aware of a strong desire to jab Dora right in her adorably pouting mouth.

  That would be a social sin that would never be forgiven. But shouting at Dora would be only slightly less unpardonable, and even a sharp, angry exchange would be looked upon askance, especially after the faux pas Camellia had already committed by galloping in the park. There was nothing for it, she knew, but to get out of this situation as quickly and quietly as she could.

  So with a supreme effort, she forced a smile onto her face. “Why, Miss Parkington, I wouldn’t dream of being unkind to you, any more than you would be unkind to me. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

  Without waiting for an answer, Camellia slipped away from the group. Fury was shooting through her, making her almost tremble with the effort of suppressing it. She could not bear to stay in this room, among these people, a moment longer. Camellia headed for the door, skirting around groups of people in conversation. Within moments, she was in the corridor, walking as fast as she could away from the sounds of people. She passed a couple of closed doors and slipped around a corner into a back hall. Paintings graced one wall of the hallway, and the other was lined with tall windows that Camellia guessed looked over the garden when there was light enough to see. The corridor continued the length of the house, but it was soon intersected by another hall leading back toward the front. She turned up it and saw a door, half-opened, that led into a library.

  Eager to escape anyone who might come looking for her, Camellia slipped through the door and closed it behind her. She sagged against the door, breathing a sigh of relief. The walls of the room were filled with books, and in the center of it was a conversational grouping of wingback chairs with small tables and lamps beside them. Camellia started toward the chairs.

  Much to her surprise, there was a noise, and a man leaned out from one of the tall chairs, peering warily at her.

  Chapter 9

  “Oh.” Camellia stopped, startled.

  The man blinked, staring at her for a moment, then unfolded himself from the chair and stood to face her. He had a book in his hand, a finger holding his place.

  “Hello.” Camellia gazed back at him with more interest than she had felt all evening. This man look
ed . . . well, different. His dark reddish brown hair was mussed and flopping down over his forehead, and his neckcloth was askew, as though he had tugged at it. Round glass spectacles perched on his nose, somewhat obscuring his eyes and making it difficult to read his expression.

  “Hello,” he answered.

  “I’m sorry. Am I intruding? I thought the room was empty.”

  “No. I mean—well, it’s just me. That is . . .” He trailed off, a line of red creeping into his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m blathering.”

  Camellia smiled, liking him immediately. He had none of the stiffness or arrogance that she had seen in so many of the young men tonight. She strode forward, holding out her hand and saying, “I am Camellia Bascombe.”

  “Oh.” He started to reach out his hand, then seemed to remember his glasses and reached up to whip them off and stuff them into his jacket pocket before he shook her hand.

  “What’s your name?” Camellia asked, then hesitated, looking uncertain. “Or is that one of those things I shouldn’t ask?”

  “No. I’m the one who should apologize for not introducing myself. I’m, uh, Seyre.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Seyre.” Camellia shook his hand.

  “Yes. That is—” He stopped, then smiled, and his face lit up boyishly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bascombe. Would you care to join me?” He gestured toward the chair across from his.

  “I’d love it. I have been dying to escape for hours.”

  He laughed. “I’m afraid I never do well at this sort of thing—parties and talking and such.” He lifted the book, looking rueful. “I’m more at ease with books.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Actually, I was reading a treatise on Newton’s laws of motion.” He looked a trifle sheepish.

  “What are they?”

  He raised his eyebrows a little. “Are you sure you want to hear?”

  Camellia nodded. “Why not?”

  “Well, the first is that a body in motion stays at the same rate of motion unless acted upon by an external force.”

  Camellia thought for a moment, then nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “The second is that a body is accelerated when a force acts on the mass, and the greater the mass, the greater the force would have to be. The formula is F equals ma.”

  “I don’t know anything about formulas. But that means that you would have to push something to make it move.”

  “Exactly. Or if you hit a croquet ball with a mallet.”

  “And you have to push harder or hit it harder if it’s heavier.”

  He smiled, nodding. “Exactly.”

  “That makes sense, too.”

  “The third, and last, is that for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Take the croquet mallet. When you hit the ball, the mallet moves back.”

  “That’s like a gun.” Camellia sat forward, intrigued. “When you fire, the gun recoils.”

  “Yes!” He, too, leaned forward.

  “But surely it’s not an equal thing. I mean, the bullet shoots out a lot farther than the gun comes back.”

  “Ah, but you see, that’s the matter of the mass. The gun is much heavier than the bullet, so the force is the same, but the mass of the two objects is different, so their acceleration is not the same.”

  “I see.” Camellia nodded. “That’s interesting. I never learned anything like that. My mother and father taught us, but they weren’t very interested in science and such. We read a lot of Shakespeare. And poetry.”

  “Science is fascinating.” He paused. “Well, at least I think so. I’m afraid I tend to run on a bit about it. I hope I haven’t bored you.”

  “No. It was interesting. I like things that are real. And practical. I’m not so fond of philosophy. And I’m not much of a reader. At least, not like my sister. Lily loves books—well, stories, not anything real.” She grinned. “We’re not very alike.”

  “I’m not very like my siblings, either.”

  “I’d rather ride than sit around reading.”

  “Given the way you ride, that’s perfectly understandable.”

  Camellia looked at him blankly, then blushed. “Oh! Oh, no, did you see my infamous ride?”

  Seyre laughed, showing even white teeth, and it occurred to Camellia that she had never seen a smile more winning. She felt warmer somehow, just looking at him, and it surprised her how relieved she felt that he was smiling and laughing, not frowning in disapproval over her escapade.

  “I did indeed see it, and I was awestruck.”

  “Now you are teasing me.”

  “No. Truly. I was impressed by your skill on a horse.”

  “Well, you are the only one,” Camellia retorted wryly. “Everyone else seems to think it was scandalous.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand people here. They are concerned over such odd things. I understand why you wouldn’t want someone galloping through the streets, but the path was virtually empty, so I can’t see why it was a sin. And I can’t fathom why it’s right to wear a certain dress in the morning, but you’d never wear it to supper. Or why men have to have so many fobs upon their watch chain.”

  “That indeed is one of life’s imponderables.”

  Camellia chuckled. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Only a little. I, too, see little reason for piling fobs onto a chain. But, then, I am often taken to task because I forget even to wear the watch.”

  “And why is everyone so enamored of titles? I overheard a girl earlier confiding to her friend that she intended to marry at least a baron. She wants a title, not a person. How does it make one a better person to be an earl instead of a plain mister?”

  “I cannot see how it does.”

  “I’m so glad. I mean, you would not be any different if you were an earl, would you?”

  “Indeed not.”

  “I would be the same person if someone called me lady instead of miss. It means nothing about you except that you were born into a certain family; it’s nothing you’ve earned, nothing you’ve accomplished.”

  “A trick of fate,” he agreed with a smile. “Being born first.”

  “Exactly.”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “I take it you are not, ah, fond of our country? Do you wish you were back in America?”

  Camellia shook her head. “No. I don’t mind England, just some of the people I’ve met. I love Willowmere. And I love riding. I never had a horse back home.”

  “You’ve become this good a rider in the time you’ve been here?” he asked, surprise making his brows shoot up.

  “Anyone at Willowmere will tell you, I’ve ridden nearly every day since we arrived. I’m not that good at jumping yet.” She flashed a grin. “But I will be one day.”

  “I’m sure you will. You should try riding at Richmond Park. You’d enjoy it far more than trotting down Rotten Row.” He described to her the large open park just outside the city, a frequent day trip for Londoners, with plenty of room to roam and to let mounts run.

  The talk soon turned to the horse Camellia had left behind at Willowmere and then to Seyre’s own steed. Her companion, Camellia realized, loved horses and riding as much as she, and so they chatted quite happily, moving on after a time from horses to Seyre’s interest in farming and the experiments he was performing on his own land and then to America and in particular to Camellia’s home there. He listened with fascination to her description of her father’s peripatetic ways and of the various places in which they had lived as Miles Bascombe drifted, searching for a profession that suited him.

  “He wasn’t trained to be anything but a gentleman, you see,” Camellia told her companion. “But that isn’t very useful in a new country.”

  “No, I can see it wouldn’t be. No doubt I would be in the same predicament.”

  Camellia smiled. “No, you, I think, would be a teacher—probably at a college.”

  He grinned back. “You are probably right. A bit dull, I’m
afraid.”

  “No. Why?” Camellia frowned. “You can talk about almost anything.”

  “Would it were that easy,” he murmured. He looked at her, uncertainty in his eyes, and started to speak.

  At just that moment, a woman’s voice said, “There you are! I knew I’d find you—” She stopped abruptly. “Camellia!”

  Camellia and her companion turned to see Lady Vivian standing in the doorway. To Camellia’s surprise, Seyre’s cheeks reddened, and he stood up, tugging at his jacket.

  “Er, hallo. I . . . um . . .”

  “So both of you have been hiding in here!” Vivian continued merrily, smiling and walking toward them. “I’m glad you met my brother, Cam; I wanted to introduce you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  “Your brother!” Camellia stared at her, stricken. “You mean the one who’s a . . . a duke?” Her voice rose almost to a squeak at the end.

  “Gregory! Do you mean you didn’t introduce yourself?” Vivian scolded. “Really, if that isn’t just like you. Camellia, this is my brother Gregory, Lord Seyre. And he’s not a duke, not yet anyway. Gregory, this is Miss Camellia Bascombe—”

  “Yes, no, I mean, I did introduce myself,” Seyre said in a rush.

  “Not entirely,” Camellia murmured.

  “Lily has been looking for you,” Vivian told Camellia, her brows knitting at the dark expression on the girl’s face. “I had come to tell you, Gregory, that I think I am ready to go home. I have developed a bit of a headache.”

  “Oh! Well, yes, of course.” He cast a sideways glance at Camellia. “We’ll, um, leave right away.”

  “Thank you. I’ll go make our good-byes to Lady Carr.” Vivian smiled and nodded to Camellia. “Good night, Camellia. I’ll see you soon.”

  As soon as Vivian left the room, Camellia whipped around to face Seyre, fury and embarrassment surging up to replace the astonishment that Vivian’s words had caused. “You lied to me!” she hissed.

  “No! I didn’t.” He shoved a hand back into his hair, his eyes troubled. “I did tell you my name.”