An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  As Vivian finished the song, she twisted her body to look up at Oliver. He was gazing down at her, and something in his eyes took her breath away. She rose slowly, turning to face him, almost as if his gaze were pulling her up. They stood there, eyes locked, unmoving. Vivian’s senses were suddenly sharper, more aware, so that she heard the ticking of the clock on the mantel across the room, the click of footsteps along some distant hall, the rasp of Oliver’s breath in his throat. She could feel the heat from his body, the cool cotton of her dress where her hands hung at her sides. The scent of him—a blend of brandy and wool and the warm male smell that was uniquely his—filled her nostrils. His eyes darkened as he looked at her, and he seemed to lean toward her—or was it her moving toward him?

  A hearty voice boomed from the doorway, “Lord Stewkesbury! ’Pon my soul! Never thought I’d see you here!”

  Oliver stepped back quickly, turning to face Sir Rufus Dunwoody as he strode into the room. Sir Rufus was a large, square man with a ruddy complexion, today made even redder by the same wind that had obviously blown his hair into wings beside his face.

  “Sir Rufus.” Oliver bowed politely. “Please accept my apologies for intruding on you.”

  “Nonsense! Nonsense.” The man shook Oliver’s hand forcefully. “Can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. It’s the devil of a thing being stuck here in the country, I can tell you.” He turned toward Vivian. “My lady, welcome to my home. I’ve known your father forever. How is Marchester? Hale as ever, I trust.”

  “He is doing well,” Vivian replied, having no desire to get into the specifics of her father’s recent illness. “He and Seyre are at the Hall now.”

  “Egad. Don’t know how he bears it.” Dunwoody gave an expressive shudder. He reached up and swept his hands back through his graying hair, bringing some degree of order to it. “There’s nothing to do. Went riding all the way over to Middle Gorton today out of sheer boredom. Course, if I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “Sir Rufus . . . ,” Vivian began.

  The man waved them over toward the chairs. “Come. Sit down. Sit down. Tell me all about London. What are the latest on-dits? Haven’t heard a decent bit of news since I’ve been here.”

  “London is as it always is,” Vivian said with a smile. “Full of rumors.”

  Dunwoody nodded eagerly. “Tell me all. I’ve been in exile here almost two weeks. Last I heard, Thorpe and Lord Denbar were racing their curricles to Tottenham.”

  “They never got that far, as I understand it,” Oliver told him. “Thorpe nicked a mail coach as he was passing it and wound up in the ditch. Broke his collarbone, I believe.”

  “Thorpe never could handle his horses as well as he likes to think,” Sir Rufus said. “Ah, here’s Cummings.” He beamed as the butler brought in a tray with glasses and bottles. “Have some wine before supper? Ratafia, my lady?”

  “We really should not,” Oliver said. “We need to get back on the road soon.”

  “Nonsense! You must stay for supper. Keep early hours here, I’m afraid—nothing much to do but eat and sleep.”

  “We must return to London this evening . . . ,” Vivian began, but Sir Rufus was already energetically shaking his head.

  “No. No. No need to do that. None at all. Cummings has gotten rooms ready for you, haven’t you, Cummings?”

  “Naturally, sir,” the butler replied. “And Cook is preparing a very pleasant repast.”

  “There. You see? Have to stay to eat now, or you’ll throw Cook all out of temper.” Sir Rufus laughed heartily. “Cummings knew I’d welcome the company, you see. Very downy one, Cummings.”

  Sir Rufus thrust a glass of ratafia into Vivian’s hand, and she could do little but take it, sending Oliver an apologetic glance. He was taking the wineglass, too, she saw, looking resigned to spending a few minutes talking with Sir Rufus. The poor man had clearly been pining away for company.

  “I am surprised you did not remain in London,” she said to their host.

  “Oh, would that I could have . . .” Dunwoody fetched up a lugubrious sigh. “I’m in dun territory. Had to repair to the country, you see. Could have gone to the gullgropers, but . . . after I saw poor old St. Cyr run off his legs that way, I knew it wasn’t for me. No. I’ll just have to put up with the country for a few months. It’ll come around.”

  “We might be of some help in that regard. Lady—,” Oliver began.

  The older man held up a hand. “My lord, there’s a lady present. Can’t talk of business. There will be plenty of time for that after supper.”

  “But, Sir Rufus, I am the one who came here to speak to you about it,” Vivian put in. “Lord Stewkesbury merely accompanied me.”

  “Quite right, too.” Sir Rufus nodded his head and reached out to refill Oliver’s glass as well as his own. “Can’t allow a beautiful young lady to be jaunting about the countryside by herself. Never would have been done in my day. Women have become too independent.”

  And so the conversation went. Oliver and Vivian tried time and again to steer the talk back to the purpose of their business, but Sir Rufus sidestepped it each time. He was clearly delighted with having visitors and just as clearly intended not to let them go without a lengthy conversation. After a while, Vivian gave up trying to bring the man to talk of Lady Kitty’s brooch. They were obviously going to have to stay for supper.

  She settled down to entertain him with as much London gossip as she could recall. Oliver, apparently reaching the same conclusion Vivian had, chatted with Sir Rufus about his club and also indulged the man with an account of a boxing match he and Fitz had attended the week before.

  By the time supper was served, Sir Rufus and Oliver had made their way through the bottle of wine. They went straight to the meal, Sir Rufus declaring that there was no need to dress for dinner since it was the country, and as they had no clothes to change into, neither would he. Another bottle was broken out and consumed as the dinner progressed. Sir Rufus’s color grew more florid and his gestures more expansive as the meal went on, accompanied by yet another bottle of wine. Even Oliver’s eyes, Vivian thought, had taken on an unaccustomed glitter.

  When at last the dishes were cleared away, Vivian knew that it was time for her to excuse herself so that the gentlemen could have their port, but she was not about to leave without broaching the subject of Lady Kitty’s jewelry. By the time Sir Rufus had had his port, she was not sure he would be in any condition to discuss the gambling debt.

  “Sir Rufus,” she said firmly. “We must talk about Lady Kitty.”

  He looked at her with rounded eyes. “But, my lady, it’s time for the port.”

  “Have the port. I don’t care. But I must talk to you.”

  Dunwoody, shocked, turned toward Oliver for help. “Stewkesbury . . .”

  Oliver shook his head solemnly. “She won’t stop. You might as well give in. Everyone else does.”

  “Oliver! I believe you’re in your cups.” Vivian stared at him.

  He looked at her, offended. “Don’t be absurd. I am not in my cups, if you must use that vulgar expression. I am merely . . . truthful.”

  “Mm.” She turned back to Sir Rufus. “Sir, do you remember the game where Lady Mainwaring put up a diamond brooch as surety?”

  He nodded. “Course I remember. Wasn’t surety, though. She lost it.” His head bobbed again. “Lost it.”

  “Yes, well, what matters is that the brooch was a particularly favorite piece of hers, and she would very much like to have it back. Surely, if she pays you what the jewel is worth, you could resell it to her. You can have little use for a woman’s brooch, after all, and it is most important to Lady Kitty.”

  “I told her it was gone.” Sir Rufus scowled. “Don’t know why the woman keeps bo—”—he hiccupped, then went on—“bothering me. Debt of honor. Tell her, Shtewksbry.”

  “Debt of honor.” Oliver lowered his head in acknowledgment.

  The butler brought in the port and
glasses for the gentlemen and placed them on the table, casting a scandalized glance at Vivian. Sir Rufus rather sloppily poured the bottle into two glasses. He tried to put the cork back in, but it wouldn’t go in properly, and after gazing at the unruly cork for a moment, Sir Rufus let it lie on the table where it had fallen and picked up his glass to take a healthy gulp.

  “But surely, Sir Rufus, you could use the money more than the brooch right now. It would make sense to sell it back to Lady Kitty. I brought money with me. I could buy it right now and take it back to London with me.”

  “Love to. Love to.” Dunwoody polished off his glass and poured another, sloshing another serving into Oliver’s glass as well.

  “Wonderful.” Vivian brightened. “Just tell me what you want for it . . .”

  “Can’t. I can’t.” Sir Rufus sighed, gazing down into his glass as though it held some sort of secret.

  Vivian cast a pleading look across the table. “Oliver . . .”

  “Yes, my dear?” Oliver gave her a questioning look.

  “Help me!” Vivian nodded her head sharply toward Dunwoody.

  “Oh! Yes, right.” Oliver cleared his throat. “Better sell it to her. No peace till you do. She’s very pre . . . per . . . persistent. Loveliest woman in London, of course,” he added with a thoughtful air, “but bloody pershis—” He paused, looking faintly puzzled, then finished, “Well, you know what I mean.”

  Vivian grimaced and turned back to Sir Rufus, wondering if she had left the matter till too late. The man was making no sense. “Why can’t you, Sir Rufus? Why can’t you sell it back to me?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  Vivian blinked in surprise. “You mean, you pawned it? Or sold it to a jeweler? Please, sir, just tell me where, and I can go buy it.”

  He shook his head morosely, finishing off his second glass of port. His voice was slurred as he said, “Went to another game after, you know . . .”

  “After you won the brooch from Lady Kitty,” Vivian finished for him. When he did not continue, she prodded, “You went to another game. And what happened?”

  He raised his hands and his eyebrows in an almost childish look of astonishment. “I don’t know. It’s lost.”

  “You lost it in a card game?” Vivian asked, her heart sinking. “Or you just lost it . . . somewhere?”

  He nodded his head. “Exactly.”

  Vivian frowned. “I beg your pardon. Which was it—lost or stolen?”

  Sir Rufus spread his arms out in an extravagant gesture. “Thass the thing. Don’t know. Iss just gone.”

  Vivian looked at Oliver, who simply shrugged.

  “Where was this gambling club?” Vivian said after a moment. “Did it have a name?”

  Sir Rufus held a finger up to his lips. “Not the sort of thing for a lady’s ears.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell Lord Stewkesbury then?” Vivian gestured across the table. “That would be all right, I imagine.”

  “Course.” Sir Rufus leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table, and said in a stage whisper, “Cleveland Row. Number five.”

  “Ah. Excellent.” Oliver nodded.

  “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your port,” Vivian said, standing up.

  Both men made an attempt to rise. Rufus made it barely a few inches out of his chair before sitting back down with a plop. Oliver, apparently more in control of himself, stood all the way up and made a sweeping bow. The gesture was somewhat spoiled when he wobbled at the bottom of the bow and had to grasp the chairback to stay balanced.

  “I assume we shall stay the night here now,” Vivian remarked.

  “Nonsense. I am fine.” Oliver tugged his waistcoat straight as he spoke and adopted a serious air.

  “And after you finish the bottle of port with Sir Rufus?”

  Oliver turned a contemplative gaze to his glass on the table. “Perhaps it would be better to remain.”

  A faint smile touched Vivian’s lips as she walked out of the room. She started to go upstairs, but it occurred to her that it would be a while before she grew sleepy. Instead she turned her steps down the hall, looking for a library. What she found was less a library than a study with a wall of bookshelves, and she had some difficulty finding a book that wasn’t deadly dull. As she searched, she heard the sound of Sir Rufus’s voice raised in song, and she could not help but giggle. What a night this was turning out to be for Oliver! She could not remember ever seeing him even a trifle inebriated, but tonight he looked well on his way to becoming foxed. She wondered how Oliver would regard this night’s venture tomorrow.

  Finally settling on a clergyman’s diary that looked, if not exactly exciting, at least dry and witty enough to entertain her, Vivian left the library and started toward the stairs. She noticed that the voices in the dining room had died out. She paused, then slipped quietly down the corridor to peek in.

  Sir Rufus lay with his head on the table, snoring away. Oliver sat regarding him, his jacket off and one leg hooked negligently over the arm of his chair, one hand curved around his glass.

  Vivian walked over to him. “Oliver?”

  Oliver turned and smiled at her without a touch of his usual reticence. “Ah. ‘She walks in beauty . . . ’”

  Vivian’s eyebrows lifted. “You are quoting Lord Byron? I change my mind—you are not just bosky, you are drunk as a wheelbarrow.”

  “Don’t be vulgar. I am merely”—he made a sweeping gesture—“relaxed.”

  “I see.” She came to stand beside him, her eyes dancing in amusement. “Are you so relaxed that you need help getting up to bed?”

  “Never.” He swung his leg to the floor and stood up, then hastily grabbed the table. “The thing is . . . would you happen to know where that bed might be?”

  “Come, I’ll show you,” she told him, holding out her hand.

  He started toward her, weaving a little, and she quickly looped her arm around his waist. Oliver’s arm settled on her shoulders, and they started out of the room.

  “Sorry you didn’t get your brooch,” he said, bending his head closer to hers. “Poor Viv.”

  She chuckled. “You’ll think ‘poor Oliver’ tomorrow, the way your head will feel.”

  “Nonsense. I never drink to excess.”

  “Of course not.” She hid a smile. “I am sorry that you wound up having to spend the night here.”

  He gave an airy wave. “My pleasure.”

  They started up the stairs, Oliver taking a firm grip of the banister and hauling himself up.

  “I must say, you are most agreeable when you’ve been drinking,” Vivian told him.

  “Am I? I must appear a veritri—veritab—well, an ogre the rest of the time.”

  “No, not an ogre. Just not the sort of man who ever kicks over the traces.”

  “I kick over the traces,” he protested. “I kick them over all the time. Indeed, I love to kick over those blasted traces.”

  Vivian laughed. “I apologize. No doubt I am mistaken.”

  He gave an emphatic nod. They had reached the top of the stairs, and he stopped, blinking owlishly in either direction.

  “This way.” Vivian guided him into a left turn and led him down the hall to the chamber just past hers. “I believe this is it.”

  She guided him through the door and across the room to the bench at the foot of his bed. His arm grew heavier across her shoulders and he leaned against her, but Vivian had had some experience with helping her father up to bed more than once or twice, and she swiveled neatly when she reached the bench, depositing him on it.

  He blinked up at her. “Lovely Vivian.” He grinned. “Vivacious Vivian.”

  “Yes, very clever. I think we’d best get you out of those boots. It wouldn’t do to muddy the sheets.”

  “No, indeed.” Oliver leaned back against the footboard of the bed, draping his arms across it, and stuck out his booted foot.

  Vivian bent, grasping the boot firmly, and wiggled it, then pulled with a firm twist, and the b
oot came off. She set it aside and started on the other one.

  “You make a devilishly handsome valet.”

  Vivian set the other boot aside and straightened. “You, sir, are far too drunk to believe a word you say.”

  “I am the soul of honesty,” he protested. “You know that. Your hair is—it’s like the sun.”

  “My hair is red,” she told him drily.

  “The setting sun,” he amended, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Well, the port hasn’t slowed you down too much. Here.” She reached out and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

  Oliver made no move to help, simply watched her, his eyes growing darker and more slumberous with each movement of her fingers. When she finished, she tugged on the waistcoat, and he rose, letting her slide the garment back and off his shoulders. Tossing it onto the foot of his bed, Vivian reached up to start on the folds of his neckcloth.

  He watched her with that steady gaze, heat growing in his eyes. Vivian’s fingers trembled on the starched muslin. The ends of the neckcloth slid out of their intricate arrangement with a soft whisper of sound, the material gliding over her fingertips. She pulled it off and laid it atop the waistcoat. Her fingers went to the top tie of his shirt, and he covered her hand with his.

  “I think I can do it from here.” His voice was low, with just the breath of a hitch in it.

  “All right.” Vivian started to pull her hand away, but his fingers tightened on it, keeping her palm pressed to his chest.

  “Though it feels much better the way you do it.” His fingers curled around her hand, lifting it, and he pressed his lips into her palm.

  His breath was hot upon her skin, igniting a spark low in her abdomen. He raised his mouth from her palm only to lay another tender kiss in another spot . . . and then another, moving onto the delicate skin of her inner wrist. She knew the vein there must throb with the accelerated beat of her heart, and she wondered if he could feel it. Did he know how his kiss stirred her? How hot tendrils twisted deep inside her, turning her breathless and shaken?