by Candace Camp
“Oh!” She came to a sudden halt, gaping at them. She clapped her hands over her face, and a moment later she let out a little sob.
Camellia and Gregory cast a puzzled glance at each other.
Dora dropped her hands from her face. Her expression of rage had been replaced with one of heartbreaking sorrow. “My life is ruined!”
“I cannot see how your life is ruined,” Camellia replied unfeelingly. “It was Lady Vivian’s reputation you tried to stain.”
“Lady Lindley just called me a horrid little gossip!” Dora exclaimed with a flash of her earlier temper, but then she looked down, squeezing her hands together. “And I did not mean to harm Lady Vivian at all. I pray you will believe me, Lord Seyre.”
She raised her head, her hands clasped prayerfully together, and looked beseechingly at Gregory. Tears pooled in her large blue eyes, trembling, about to spill over.
“Oh, I believe you,” Gregory replied in a voice so cold Camellia hardly recognized it as his. “It was Miss Bascombe whose reputation you hoped to ruin. ’Twas your misfortune that it was my sister who had worn Miss Bascombe’s cloak . . . instead of my fiancée.”
“What?”
Camellia pressed her lips together to hold back the laughter that threatened to bubble up at the other girl’s stunned expression.
“You-your fiancée?” Dora repeated, her voice dying away on the last word.
“Yes. I have just asked Miss Bascombe to do me the honor of marrying me. And I am happy to say that she has accepted.”
“No. You can’t mean it.” Dora turned to Camellia, her face tightening in fury and disbelief. “You! I can’t believe it! You are going to be the Duchess of Marchester?”
“I am going to be Gregory’s wife,” Camellia smiled. “And that, Miss Parkington, is the difference between you and me.”
“Good evening, Miss Parkington.” Gregory nodded faintly at the girl and offered his arm to Camellia. “Shall we return to the others, my dear?”
“I’d love to.” Camellia looked up at him, a glorious smile spreading across her face.
The two of them walked out of the room without a backward glance at Miss Parkington.
When Lady Vivian walked into the ball, a susurration of shock and excitement ran through the crowd. She stood for a moment, her head regally high, before she started across the room. Whispers rose around her, but she paid them no mind. Vivian wasn’t sure where she was going. She hoped she would soon see a safe harbor such as Eve and Fitz, but until then, she would concentrate on appearing sublimely unconcerned about the gossip swirling around her.
Lady Arminter looked directly at Vivian as Vivian approached her, then turned pointedly away. Vivian hesitated for a second before she continued on her way, her face as smooth and passionless as marble. Lady Wendover came fluttering up to her.
“Lady Vivian.” Lady Wendover glanced around uncertainly. “How are you? I mean, uh . . .” Her eyes flickered to the bruises on Vivian’s face and quickly away. “That is, are you certain you feel well enough to be here? Surely you should stay in bed for a few days, after your, um, ordeal.”
“Trying to get rid of me?” Vivian asked in an amused tone.
“No, of course not. Always an honor . . . it’s just that . . . well, so soon after . . .”
“What’s she’s trying to say, Vivian,” said a firm voice, Lady Euphronia, Oliver’s aunt, as she stepped up to join the conversation, “is that you should exercise a measure of good sense and go home. Things will die down after a while, but in the meantime, you’re better off staying away. You’re exposing Lady Wendover and everyone who knows you to unnecessary distress.”
“I am subjecting you to distress?” Vivian asked, her eyes flashing.
“Yes.” Euphronia leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a hiss. “When you make yourself the object of scandal, it affects more than just you. What about your friend Mrs. Talbot and Fitz? What about that Bascombe girl? She will have a hard enough time making it though the Season without you tainting her with your scandal.”
“Aunt Euphronia!” A male voice sliced through Euphronia’s words, strong and clear. “I am sure Miss Bascombe would be pleased to hear that you are so concerned about her Season, but I really think it would be better all around if you didn’t say anything else.”
Vivian’s gaze went past the other woman to where Oliver stood, his eyes hard as stone and his mouth set in a straight, tight line. Joy rushed up in her.
Beside her, Lady Euphronia swelled up like a pigeon and started to address her nephew, but he fixed her with his gaze and said, “No. Don’t embarrass yourself, Aunt.”
His gaze swept from his aunt to Lady Wendover to Lady Arminter, falling on all the others in between. “I might remind everyone here that Lady Vivian was injured two nights ago in the course of trying to apprehend a criminal,” he went on. “A murderer, in fact. She is guilty of nothing but helping a friend and keeping a number of you from being victimized further. She was hurt; she could have been killed. And all because she has a kind heart and a belief in doing good. That is where she differs from most of you.” He ignored the chorus of shocked gasps. “Now . . . if any of you have anything to say about Lady Vivian’s character, I suggest you say it to me. Here and now.”
He paused again and looked all around. Every pair of eyes in the room was riveted to him. “Because in the future, Lady Vivian is going to be Lady Stewkesbury. My wife.” In the stunned silence that followed, he extended his hand to Vivian. “My dear, may I have this dance?”
Vivian took his hand, too stunned to say anything, and let him lead her onto the dance floor. The waltz was already playing, but Oliver whirled Vivian into the circling dancers with ease. Dozens of questions tumbled around in her head, but a waltz, especially one done under the watchful eyes of every occupant of the room, was neither the time nor place for a serious conversation. When the dance ended, Stewkesbury held out his arm to Vivian and escorted her off the floor.
“Oliver . . . ,” she began, but he shook his head.
“I think it is good time for a promenade,” he told her. “Don’t you?”
“Oliver, we must talk.”
“And we shall, in a moment.”
The moment turned into minutes, then an hour. They made their way slowly around the room, Oliver nodding to everyone he knew and stopping to talk with many of them—whether the person looked eager to speak to him or not. No one dared offend the Earl of Stewkesbury, and at every possible occasion, it seemed, Oliver brought the name of Vivian’s father or brother into the conversation. One could almost see the thaw spreading around the room. The longer Vivian was by Oliver’s side, the more the tension in her eased. He had just made her task of returning to the good graces of the ton a great deal easier, and she could not but love him all the more for it.
But she could not let him ruin his own future for the sake of her reputation.
Vivian did not have a chance to talk to Oliver until a long while later, when they’d finished their circumnavigation of the room and stopped to talk with Eve and Fitz. Eve enveloped Vivian in a hug and stood with her arm looped around Vivian’s waist as the four of them made idle chatter. Before long, Camellia and Gregory joined them. Camellia was sparkling, and Gregory looked somehow smug, satisfied, and relieved, all at once. Matters must have progressed rather well with the two, Vivian thought, and wondered if it had gone as far as a marriage proposal. She cast an inquiring glance at her brother, and he blushed and grinned. She knew that Seyre must have asked and been accepted.
The idea was enough to make her want to laugh aloud—just imagine the stir it would make for all the Bascombe girls—that unrefined, troublesome quartet from America—to make excellent matches before the end of their first Season. And think of Camellia, the wildest of them all, marrying the highest-ranking catch of the entire ton!
The thought was enough to carry her for the next few minutes, but after a time, weariness began to sink in on her. Oliver, who had been chatting wi
th his brother, turned to Vivian, putting a supportive hand beneath her elbow.
“Tired?” he asked, bending his head toward her.
She nodded. “A little. I think I will go home now. But, Oliver . . . we must talk.”
“Of course. I’ll see you home.”
They took their leave of the others, and Oliver escorted her to her carriage, climbing in beside her. As soon as the carriage door was shut, he curled his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him. Vivian went with him, resting her head upon his shoulder. It felt so right, so natural and good, that tears sprang into her eyes.
“Oh, Oliver . . .”
“Hush, now, just rest.” He turned his head a little to kiss her forehead. “Are you in much pain?”
She started to shake her head, then said, “A bit. I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to being punched.”
“I should have hit him a few more times,” Oliver said darkly.
“It wasn’t he who hit me, actually.”
“He was responsible. Wish I’d hit the other, too, though. Still, Fitz told me you got some of your own in. He said the fellow’s coat had blood on it where someone stabbed him with a hatpin.”
Vivian’s lips curved up in satisfaction. “True. I wish I had had a longer pin.”
“So do I. If you intend to continue in this way, perhaps you ought to carry a knife strapped to your leg like Camellia.”
Vivian laughed. “I’m not planning on breaking up any more rings of criminals, thank you.”
“I have found that one’s plans have little to do with the matter.”
They reached her house and walked inside. When they were seated on the sofa in the smaller drawing room, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the knuckles, then said, “Very well, Vivian. Now . . . let’s talk.”
He looked at her, waiting, and suddenly Vivian found it difficult to say anything. Her throat clogged with tears, and she had to wait a moment and swallow.
Finally, not looking at him, she began, “You are a very good and kind gentleman to do what you did for me tonight. I am very grateful.”
“I don’t want your gratitude,” he responded, his voice almost rough.
“Perhaps not, but you have it anyway.” She paused and raised her head to fix him with her gaze. “Do you realize what you’ve done? How do you plan to get out of this engagement?”
“I have no plans to do so.”
“Oliver!” Vivian could feel the tears battling against the backs of her eyelids, but she refused to give way. “I will not let you sacrifice your life to keep me from suffering a little social discomfort.”
“I am not sacrificing my life.” He took both her hands in his. “I am sorry that I did not ask you before I announced it. I would not have forced it upon you like that if I had had any other choice. But when Aunt Euphronia began braying like an ass, I could not just stand by.”
Vivian chuckled softly at the description of his aunt. “But you do not want to marry me. I know you don’t.” She cast a droll look at him. “You have told me more than once that you do not.”
“Whatever I may have said, I was a fool. Vivian . . .” He stood up, pulling her to her feet, and took her by the arms, staring down intently into her eyes. “I love you.”
“Oh!” Vivian could not stifle a little cry, and she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes filling with so many tears that she could not hold them back.
“This makes you cry?” he asked, his voice caught somewhere between laughter and frustration. “Vivian, is the thought that abhorrent to you? Can you not bear to be married to me?”
“No! Oh, no!” She reached up to curve her hand against his cheek. “There is nothing abhorrent about you to me. Nothing. But I—you—oh, Oliver, how could it ever work between us? We are so different. I would drive you mad within a week; you have said so yourself. I am impulsive and emotional and—”
He stopped her words with his mouth. After a long moment, he lifted his head and said, “You are also beautiful and kind and generous and the most . . . fun I have ever had in my entire life. Yes, we’re different, but it doesn’t mean we cannot get along. We’ve managed to do it so far, haven’t we?”
“But we’ve been in the grip of irrational lust!”
“I have the feeling that I shall be in the grip of irrational lust as long as I am around you, my love. And our differences match rather well. I keep you from flying off in too mad starts. And you keep me from being deadly dull.” He paused, then said soberly, “It doesn’t matter how different we are. The fact is that my life is meaningless without you.”
“Oh, Oliver!” She began to cry again.
“There. I’ve done what I thought was impossible. I’ve turned you into a watering pot.” He pulled her to him gently and stroked his hand down her head and back. “Just tell me one thing, Vivian. That’s all that matters. Do you love me?”
“Yes, oh, yes! I love you more than anything in the whole world.”
He stepped back a little and crooked his forefinger under her chin, lifting her head. “And I love you. And in the end, my beautiful, mad, magnificent hoyden, that is all that matters.”
He bent his head and kissed her.
Turn the page for a peek at
the first two delicious Willowmere romances . . .
A LADY NEVER TELLS
and
A GENTLEMAN ALWAYS REMEMBERS
now available from Pocket Books.
And look for Candace Camp’s new Regency series,
“The Legend of St. Dwynwen,” beginning with
A WINTER SCANDAL
coming this fall!
A Lady Never Tells
LONDON, 1824
Mary Bascombe was scared. She had been frightened before—one could not have grown up in a new and dangerous land and not have faced something that set one’s heart to beating double-time. But this wasn’t like the time they had seen the bear nosing around their mother’s clothesline. Or even like the way her heart had leapt into her throat the day her stepfather had grabbed her arm and pulled her against him, his breath reeking of alcohol. Then she had known what to do—how to back slowly and quietly into the house and load the pistol, or how to stomp down hard on Cosmo’s instep so that he released her with a howl of pain.
No, this was an entirely new sensation. She was in a strange city filled with strange people, and she had absolutely no idea what to do next. She felt . . . lost.
Mary took another glance around her at the bustling docks. She had never seen so much noise and activity or so many people in one place in her life. She had thought the docks in Philadelphia were busy, but that was nothing compared to London. All around them were piles of goods, with stevedores loading and unloading them, and people hurrying about, all seemingly with someplace to be and little time to get there.
There were no women. The few whom she had seen disembark from ships had been whisked away in carriages with their male companions. Indeed, all the passengers from their own ship were long gone, only she and her sisters still standing here in a forlorn group beside their small pile of luggage. The shadows were beginning to lengthen; it would not be long until night began to fall. And though Mary might be a naïve American cast adrift in London, she was smart enough to know that the London docks at night were no place for four young women alone.
They could not stay here. Unless a carriage happened by soon, they would be forced to pick up their bags and walk into the narrow, dingy streets beyond the docks. Mary glanced uncertainly around her. Several of the men loading the ships had been casting their eyes toward Mary and her sisters for some time. Now, as her gaze fell on one of them, he gave her a bold grin. Mary stiffened, returning her most freezing look, and pivoted away slowly and deliberately.
She studied her three sisters—Rose, the next oldest to Mary and the acknowledged beauty of the family, with her limpid blue eyes and thick black hair; Camellia, whose gray eyes were, as always, no-nonsense and alert, her dark gold hair efficiently
braided and wrapped into a knot at the crown of her head; and Lily, the youngest and most like their father, with her light brown, sun-streaked hair and gray-green eyes.
All three girls gazed back at Mary with a steadfast trust that only made the icy knot in her stomach clench tighter. Her sisters were counting on her to take care of them, just as Mama had counted on her to get the girls away from their stepfather’s house after their mother’s death and across the ocean to London, to the safety and security of their grandfather’s home. Mary had managed the first part of it. But all of that, she knew, would be for naught if she failed now. She had to get her sisters someplace safe and proper for the night, and then she had to face a grandfather none of them had ever met—the man who had tossed out his own daughter for defying his wishes—and convince him to take in that same daughter’s children. Instinctively, Mary clutched her slender stitched-leather satchel closer to her chest.
At that moment, a figure came hurtling toward them and careened into Mary, sending her sprawling to the ground. For an instant, she was too startled to move or even to think. Then she realized that her hands were empty. Her satchel! Frantically, she glanced around her. It wasn’t there.
“My case! He stole our papers!” Mary bounded to her feet and swung around, spying the running figure. “Stop! Thief!”
Pausing only long enough to cast a look at Rose and point to the luggage, Mary lifted her skirts and took off running after the man. Rose, interpreting her sister’s look with the ease of years of familiarity, went to stand next to their bags, but Lily and Camellia were hot on Mary’s heels. Mary ran faster than she had ever run, her heart pounding with terror. Everything important to them was in that case—everything that could prove their honesty to a disbelieving relative. Without those papers, they had no hope; they would be stranded here in a huge, horrid, completely strange town with nowhere to go and no one to ask for help. She had to get the satchel back!
Her sisters were right behind her; indeed, Camellia, the swiftest of them all, had almost caught up with her. But the wiry thief who had taken her case was faster than any of them. As they rounded a corner, she spied him half a block ahead, and realized, with a wrenching despair, that they could not catch him.