by Candace Camp
“What about you?” Vivian went on carefully. “Are there any young men who have caught your eye?”
The surprise on Cam’s face was answer enough. “No. I mean, well, Lord Breckwell seems nice enough, but . . . I don’t know, he’s rather dull.”
Vivian heaved a little internal sigh. Much as she loved her brother, she was well aware that his conversation was termed dull by everyone except his loving family or learned friends, so Vivian could not hold out much hope that Camellia had found Gregory interesting. Still, the two of them had seemed engrossed in their conversation when Vivian walked into the library, hadn’t they? Vivian wished she could remember Camellia’s expression when she had interrupted them. It would be much easier if she could just ask Camellia outright how she felt about Gregory, but in this instance Vivian was reluctant to speak in her usual forthright manner. She was all too aware that she was in a delicate position between her good friend and her beloved brother. She would not want to raise hope—or apply pressure—with either of them.
“Although,” Camellia went on, “Dora Parkington seems to find Lord Breckwell extremely interesting.” Her gray eyes took on a mischievous twinkle as she went on, “I have to admit that has made me dance with him two or three times.”
Vivian chuckled, abandoning her attempt to discover Camellia’s opinion of her brother. “My dear, I do believe you are beginning to fit into the ton admirably. Has Dora been dreadful?”
“Oh, she’s never unkind to me.” Camellia grimaced. “I wish she would say what she really thinks sometime. Her manner absolutely drips with honey. You would think it was her dearest wish to be my friend. But somehow whatever she says about me makes me seem as if I’d been a coldhearted wretch.”
“She is quite skillful. I think she will probably surpass all her sisters. She’s only slightly prettier than they, but far more treacherous.”
Camellia sighed. “When is it that the Season begins to be fun?”
“Oh, Cam . . .” Vivian laid her hand on her friend’s arm. “Has it been so very bad? Is Dora making you so unhappy? I can undermine her, you know.”
“No, I wouldn’t wish you to resort to anything underhanded. Dora Parkington isn’t worth it. She irritates me whenever I am around her, but that is all. No. I’m just . . . bored. And I miss the country.”
“And Lily?”
Camellia nodded. “Yes. She hasn’t been away long enough to even write me a letter, and she’s not very good about that sort of thing anyway.” Camellia paused, then added candidly, “Well, neither am I. It’s not too bad when Eve and Fitz are here. But they’ve been so busy with their house plans while Lily is gone. And Cousin Oliver was gone for a couple of days, and since he came back, he’s been in the most dreadful mood.”
“Really? Imagine.”
“Yes.” Camellia nodded. “It is most odd, for he usually is so civil and correct that you cannot even tell when he is upset. But yesterday I heard him tell Fitz to go to the devil. And he didn’t say a word at breakfast this morning. Even Fitz didn’t tease him; he just cast a look at him and then raised his eyebrows at Eve, and she shrugged.”
“So no one knows the reason for his black mood?”
“No. Nor where he went. Eve asked him at dinner after he returned, just in a courteous way, you know, and he was polite, but he never answered really, just turned it aside.”
“Probably better not to ask, then.”
Camellia nodded. “No doubt Lily would say that his love affair is going badly.”
“Mm. Indeed.”
“Do you think she could be right—I mean, that he’s actually having an affair of the heart? He seems too staid. Too logical and . . . and, you know, even-tempered.”
“It sounds unlikely.” Vivian paused. “I shall have to pay more attention next time I see him. Perhaps he will be at the Moretons’ rout tomorrow.”
“Perhaps, but I heard his valet telling the butler that he—Cousin Oliver, that is—had told his valet to toss out all his invitations.”
“You seem to have heard a great deal,” Vivian said with a smile.
“I told you, I’ve been deadly bored.”
“Well, we shall have to do something about that. I had planned to take you out with me today to pay calls.” Camellia let out a sigh, and Vivian chuckled. “But now I think that perhaps we ought to spend the afternoon somewhere else. What do you say to a visit to Bullock’s Museum?”
“The Egyptian Hall?” Camellia’s eyes lit up. “Vivian! I’ve been wanting to go there since we first arrived in London. Fitz told me it had all sorts of weapons—”
“And costumes.”
“And preserved animals like giraffes and elephants and such!”
“Then it’s done.” Vivian stood up. “I’ll just ring for the carriage.”
“Right now? Oh, Vivian, you are the best of friends to do this for me.”
Vivian laughed. “Don’t be nonsensical. I love the museum. You’re the first friend I’ve had who’s been willing to accompany me!”
Smiling, she strode over to the bellpull and tugged. Vivian was not at all averse to going to the museum, though she had thought of it more to lighten her friend’s spirits than from any desire to visit it herself. Still, it would occupy a few hours. From the way it sounded Stewkesbury was acting, she might well have some long and lonely hours to pass before she saw him again.
As it turned out, in only two more days Vivian ran across the earl. She was at Lady Fenwick’s ball, a deadly dull affair she would normally have avoided, but as it was also the largest party being given that night, she thought it the one Stewkesbury would be most likely to attend. She had not seen him there, so she had contented herself with quizzing Vincent Mounthaven, an inveterate gambler, about the club where Sir Rufus had lost Lady Kitty’s brooch. Vivian soon regretted her choice, for after Mounthaven had told her all he knew about that club, he started in on the attributes of nearly every other club he frequented, apparently intending to regale her with his vast knowledge of the gambling world.
Vivian raised her fan to the lower half of her face to hide her boredom and plotted how best to ease herself out of this conversation. Glancing over, she saw Stewkesbury wending his way through the crowd toward them. She was glad that she had the fan up, thus hiding the involuntary smile that flashed across her face, though she suspected that her eyes had probably given away her pleasure.
“Stewkesbury!” she said, not caring that she cut into Mounthaven’s monologue. “I was beginning to think that you had given up social life altogether.”
Oliver bowed to her. “Lady Vivian. Mounthaven.” Oliver nodded to Mounthaven, his look as cool as his tone. “I am surprised you noticed. You seem well occupied.” His mouth turned down in a grimace of distaste as again his glance flickered to Mounthaven.
Vivian struggled to suppress a smile. Unless she was mistaken—and she rarely was about such things—Oliver sounded jealous.
“I have been searching for you recently,” Vivian told Oliver. “There are a few things I need to discuss with you . . . concerning my party for your cousins.” She turned a sweet smile on Mounthaven. “You will excuse us, won’t you, sir?”
Mounthaven could say little after her request, so he nodded, murmuring a polite “Of course.”
Vivian took Oliver’s arm, steering him away from Mount-haven and toward a less occupied part of the room. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she murmured when they were out of earshot of the other man. “I was about to drown under an absolute ocean of information about gambling dens.”
“Gambling dens! What a thing to bring up with a lady. Good Gad, Vivian. The man’s a roué, not to mention a complete slave to the roll of the dice. I can’t imagine why you were talking to him.”
“Can’t you?”
He stopped and looked at her. “No. Do not tell me—you were not asking him about the place Sir Rufus lost Lady Mainwaring’s brooch?”
Vivian shrugged. “All right. I won’t tell you.”
“
Vivian . . . what the devil have you got in your head now?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Vivian told Oliver airily.
He snorted. “I’m no Johnny Raw, my dear. I know that look. You are planning something, and I am sure it is not at all advisable.”
“There is so much that you think is not advisable that it would be bound to be.”
“I am well aware that you consider me an old fussbudget,” he began gravely.
“No, indeed—you are not old.” Vivian’s eyes twinkled up at him.
Though he obviously struggled not to, Oliver gave in and smiled. “Do you win every argument?”
“Hardly any with you. ’Tis fortunate that I enjoy the struggle almost as much as winning.”
“Vivian . . .” He sighed. “I cannot help but think that you want to go to this gambling den yourself and find out what happened to that blasted brooch.”
“You know me well.”
“Can you not this once consider your reputation?” he asked in a weary voice.
“Women go to gambling clubs.”
“Not unmarried young ladies. Yes, sometimes women do frequent the better sort of places, but it is always married women and never without an escort. It would put paid to your reputation to show up there, especially since you haven’t any idea what kind of place it is. It could be the worst sort of gambling hell.”
“That is what I asked Mr. Mounthaven. He said it is a perfectly respectable club, although he characterized it as being the sort of place old men favor, ones who are not as full of pluck and daring as he.”
“Meaning ones who are not as intent on running themselves into the basket as he is. The man’s a fool.”
“I’m sure he is, but not the kind of fool who would not realize a place was a gambling hell.”
“I will admit that,” Stewkesbury allowed somewhat grudgingly. “Still, for you to go there . . .”
“I am not entirely unmindful of the proprieties,” Vivian told him loftily. “I would wear a mask, of course.”
He let out a crack of laughter. “Hah! That would do it, no doubt. I am sure no one would look at your hair and know immediately who it was.”
“That is easily enough taken care of. I can wear a turban. They are quite fashionable, and I saw a rather splendid one the other day in the window of a millinery shop. It was deep blue, with the most dashing peacock feather curling over it.”
Oliver let out a groan. “That does it. Now you will have to go, if only to wear that hat.”
“It does make the excursion even more appealing.”
“You cannot go without an escort, and this time I refuse to let you talk me into it.”
Vivian shrugged. “I would prefer your escort, of course, but if you won’t, you won’t. I shall have to ask Mr. Mounthaven.”
She could hear Oliver’s teeth grinding, and the look he sent her was lethal. “Bloody hell, Vivian . . . you never play fair, do you?”
“I find it is more useful not to.” She smiled up at him. “Come, Oliver, would it really be so terrible? I shall be disguised. I’ll even wear a domino if you want. It will be an adventure—and one that is without risk, really. What could be better?”
He let out a hefty sigh. “I am sure I will regret this . . . but, yes, I will escort you.”
“Tomorrow evening then?”
“Doubtless I will get no peace until we go, so, yes, tomorrow evening.” He turned to face her, a faint smile on his lips. “You will be the death of me.”
“No, do not say that!” Vivian’s brows drew together. “Do I really make you so unhappy?”
He looked faintly surprised. “No. By God, sometimes I wish you did. You make me . . . afraid is too strong a word. Apprehensive, let’s say. Unsettled.”
Vivian smiled in that way that made men weak, her lips curving upward seductively, her eyes lighting with promise. “Unsettled. I like unsettled.”
“You would. Vivian . . . about what I said to you at Sir Rufus’s house.”
“Nay.” She raised her hand as though to cover his mouth, but stopped and let her hand fall. “I do not wish to talk about that here. Not in the midst of a party.”
“I was not angry at you; that is all I wish to say. Only at myself. And I was wrong to . . . to be so churlish.”
“I have been around men who have drunk too deep before. I have seen them the morning after, as well.”
“But I am not that sort.”
“I know you are not.” Her voice was quiet. “And, in truth, however much I tease you about your staidness, that quality is something I find I like about you. Not,” she added with a teasing smile, “that you were not most amusing when you were in your cups.”
He rolled his eyes. “Sir Rufus is a wily old rascal. He was determined to keep us there for company.”
Vivian chuckled. “Yes. But I, for one, cannot regret it.” She cast him a challenging look.
He held her gaze for a long moment, then said ruefully, “Bloody hell, woman, neither can I.”
The following evening Lord Stewkesbury was admitted to Carlyle Hall just as Vivian descended the staircase. He looked up at her and barely managed to keep his jaw from dropping open. She was dressed in a gown of rich deep blue velvet that lay like a midnight sky against the creamy white tops of her breasts. Her colorful hair was piled atop her head and covered by a turban of blue silk, with a peacock feather curving over it, catching the light in its gleaming colors. Sapphire drops hung from her ears. A half mask covered the upper part of her face.
She was, he had to admit, in disguise, but she was in no way likely to go unnoticed. He could only hope that with the mask and the turban she would not be recognized—though he was certain that he would instantly have known her. How could anyone mistake those vivid green eyes, more highlighted than hidden by the black satin mask around them? And the full mouth and stubborn, pointed chin could belong to no one else. Her figure was recognizable as well, and he decided reluctantly that she had to wear a domino, as she had offered. It was a shame to cover the glory of that white bosom swelling over the top of the blue gown, but he imagined few men of the ton would not find her form familiar after years of seeing her at parties.
He stood still until he managed to push down the swift and forceful desire that had surged in him the moment he saw her. It was, he knew, the height of folly to continue to put himself in Vivian’s presence. She tested his vaunted control much too often. Much too deeply. Yet, he could not seem to keep from placing himself in temptation’s way. It hadn’t been necessary for him to agree to accompany her to this club tonight. A dozen men, including ones far more honorable than Mounthaven, would have been happy to escort her. But he could not think of her being escorted by any other man without his blood beginning to boil.
He did not want Vivian going there—or, indeed, anywhere—with another man, even with a man whom he could trust not to dishonor her or encourage her in one of her mad, willful schemes. He wanted to be the man beside her, the one who heard her laugh and saw her smile, the one who brought a glint of temper or challenge or amusement to her eyes. Most of all, he did not want her to find some other man good company. Or desirable. Or a suitable husband.
Even the thought of it brought a sharp stab to his chest. That, he knew, was the most dangerous thing of all. It was absurd to think of marrying her himself—she was entirely unsuitable, whatever her fine bloodlines. They would be at each other’s throat before they walked out of the church. Yet . . . yet it cast him into a black mood to think of her marrying anyone else.
None of this was like him—the dog-in-the-manger attitude, the inability to control himself, the deadly boredom that fell on him when Vivian was not around. This morning he had missed at least ten minutes of his businessman’s report while staring out the window, daydreaming about seeing Vivian this evening. He frowned now, thinking about it. The woman was a menace.
“What? Already scowling?” Vivian asked, laughter brimming in her voice. “We haven’t even set forth.”
“You said you were going to wear a domino.” Oliver knew that he sounded like some grumbling old man, disapproving of every little thing. Vivian did that to him, too—she reduced him to the worst possible aspects of his character.
Vivian sighed. “I know. Still, I hate to hide this dress.” She turned around, the skirt swirling a little, caressing her hips, so that he could see the low-cut back, as well.
His mouth went dry, and he fumbled for something to say. How was it possible for her to rob him of speech so often and so thoroughly?
“Are you certain that someone will recognize me?” she asked.
“No. But it’s safest not to take the chance. You are . . . well known.”
“At least you did not say notorious.” Vivian smiled and turned toward the stairs, down which a maid was hurrying, a black garment in hand.
“You intended to wear it all along,” he said accusingly as he watched her maid help Vivian into the garment and tie the two strings in the front. “I might have known—you just wanted to make me tell you not to.”
Vivian chuckled. “Ah, Oliver, you take the darkest view of things. Why should I do that?”
He scowled at her. “Because you seem to enjoy making me appear a villain.”
She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, leaning in toward him to murmur, “Perhaps it was that I wanted you to see me without disguise.”
Once again, he thought ruefully, she had rendered him speechless.
Oliver escorted Vivian out to the carriage he had hired for the evening. He had not wished to depend on catching a hackney when they left the club that evening, but neither had he wanted to leave Vivian’s participation in this excursion open to servants’ gossip. While he considered his servants quite loyal and did not think that the coachman would tell anyone that he had driven Lady Vivian with the earl to a gambling club, Oliver was not willing to chance any smudge on Vivian’s reputation on his belief. Therefore, he had wound up hiring a carriage to take them and wait for them.
The club was not in a disreputable area, and when they entered, Oliver saw that it was indeed one of the more elegant gambling clubs. He relaxed a little, though he was aware of the way half the heads in the place immediately turned to stare at Vivian. Even with the domino and mask, one could see enough to indicate a woman of elegance and beauty.