by Candace Camp
“Yes.” The lackluster tone in her voice was clear even to Vivian, and she went on hastily, “I could scarcely imagine being anywhere else at Christmas. ’Tis home, after all.”
“And that means a great deal,” Oliver agreed.
Vivian suspected that it meant far more to him than to her, but she did not say so. “I am always happy to see Papa and Gregory.”
“How is Seyre? Still buried in his books?”
Vivian chuckled fondly as she nodded. “And in his correspondence. Gregory receives letters and packages from all over the world—gentlemen farmers in America, managers of tea plantations in Ceylon, explorers from around the globe. He is mad for plants at the moment, and I think he is going to build another greenhouse.”
“Yes, I have talked with him now and then about crops. He has some interesting ideas.”
Vivian grinned. Few besides her brother and Oliver would term such a conversation interesting. “I think that experimenting with the farms is one of the few things that reconciles him to inheriting the title someday. Of course, most of the tenants think him mad—harmless and good, but a trifle touched in his upper works.”
“I am sure his people are most fond of him.”
“Yes, they are—but I don’t believe they think he will be quite a proper duke, not the way Papa is.”
“They prefer your father?”
“You needn’t be so surprised.”
“I’m sorry.” Oliver looked somewhat abashed. “I didn’t mean—”
“That the duke is a little wild? The sort who hies off to London instead of inspecting his lands? Who has never gone over an account book in his life?” Vivian chuckled at the earl’s rueful expression. It was clear Oliver did not approve of her father, but of course he was far too polite to admit it. “The truth is, yes, they feel Papa is precisely what the Duke of Marchester should be. Not that they would prefer someone like my grandfather, of course, whom everyone agrees was a proper libertine. But Papa is just the right blend of charm and arrogance. A duke, after all, isn’t supposed to care. Or to worry.”
“Mm.” Stewkesbury seemed to have nothing to say to that statement.
For a few moments, they were silent as they twirled around the floor. It was easy, Vivian found, to follow Oliver’s steps; his hand at her waist guided her firmly without pushing or tugging. One could always be sure with Stewkesbury, Vivian thought, and while that might not make him terribly exciting, it was a very good thing in a dance partner. Actually, she supposed, it was a very good thing in many ways. Especially, she mused, when he had a firm yet mobile mouth and wide shoulders . . . and that charming stray bit of hair that curled against his neck.
“I am surprised you stayed so short a time at home,” Oliver said after a moment, breaking into Vivian’s reverie.
“Oh!” She glanced at him, wondering with embarrassment if he had noticed her eyes straying assessingly over him. “Well . . .” She shrugged. “I love Gregory and Papa, but there’s little to do at the Hall. I found it too cold for walking or riding—though little deters Gregory from riding. The Hall had to be decorated for Christmas, but Falworth and Mrs. Minton had that well in hand. They are quite able to run the entire place without my advice, as they do the remainder of the year. And Gregory is usually stuck away in the library or the study or his greenhouses.”
“I would think that after your time at Halstead you would have found it restful.”
Vivian smiled. “Yes, but while I cannot wish for a repetition of the measles and all the rest, it was never dull there.”
“That is true, at least since my cousins arrived at Willowmere.” The earl gave a rueful smile. “Before, as I remember, it was rather peaceful.”
“I could have endured the boredom at home, but then my brother Jerome and Elizabeth and their brood of hellions came for Christmas.”
Oliver grinned, and the movement changed his face, suddenly making him look far younger and turning his gray eyes almost silver. “You are not a doting aunt, I take it.”
Vivian could not help but smile back at him. At moments like this, when Oliver was warm and open, his face alive with humor, it was impossible not to like him. Indeed, it made her want to do or say whatever it took to keep that look on his face. “I think not. But my niece and nephews are less than lovable children. If they were not whining and sniveling, they were running about the halls, screeching. However, that was only part of it. Jerome and Elizabeth cannot bear each other’s company—which would be all right, I suppose, if only they would keep themselves apart. But they seemed determined to inflict themselves on each other—and on us.”
“I thought they were a love match.”
“So they were . . . at one time. But I have known a number of marriages of sheer convenience that were more pleasant than their ‘love match’ after the first year or two.” Vivian saw no need to explain the basis for the couple’s falling out; she felt sure that Oliver knew as well as she of her brother Jerome’s string of London mistresses.
“But surely they left after a time?”
“Thank goodness. Then Papa decided to invite a number of his friends for a few weeks of cards and conviviality. As that sort of party generally entails as much port drinking and general revelry as cardplaying, I decided I would be more comfortable in London. Besides, I was eager to get started on the Season with Lily and Camellia.”
Stewkesbury’s brows pulled together. “The devil. Your father shouldn’t have invited his lot there with you at home. A drinking party with a gentlewoman in the house! What was he thinking?”
Vivian stiffened. Her father had not been the best of fathers; she would admit that. But she loved him and would not stand by to let others criticize him. “It is his house, after all.”
Oliver grimaced. “That does not make it right. It’s all of a pattern—to have raised you the way that he did, bringing in his latest para—” He stopped, apparently realizing that the topic he was broaching would not be considered fit for a lady. “That is to say, he did not always have a care who he allowed around his children.”
His words made Vivian bristle even more. Naturally Oliver would not decry that her father had spent most of his time in London, leaving his motherless infant daughter to the care of nannies and governesses for much of her life. What bothered him was the inappropriate lifestyle her father had lived, that he had brought home groups of his friends, sometimes including one of his mistresses.
“Whom Marchester brought home is no concern of yours,” Vivian shot back. “Nor is the manner in which he raised his children.”
She stopped abruptly, jerking her hand from his. Startled, Stewkesbury, too, came to a halt as the other couples whirled about them.
“Vivian! The devil! What are you doing?” he hissed, glancing around. “You can’t just stop in the middle of a dance.”
“Can’t I? I believe I just did.” Whirling, Vivian walked off, winding her way through the other dancers.
Stewkesbury stood for a moment in stunned disbelief, then strode off the floor after her.
Chapter 2
Oliver caught up with Vivian at the edge of the dance floor. Wrapping one hand firmly around her arm, he steered her away from the crowd to an empty chair.
“Let go of me!” Vivian protested. “What are you doing?”
“Saving us from gossip, I hope.” He thrust her down into the chair as he bent over her, doing his best to fix a solicitous expression on his face. “Try to look as if you felt faint.”
“I don’t feel faint. I feel furious.”
“You’ll recover,” he replied unfeelingly. “Now, wilt a little in your chair and look as if you were overcome by the exertion of the waltz—unless, of course, you wish to have half the ton speculating as to what is going on between us to make you stalk off the floor like that.”
She would have liked to jerk her hand away and give him a piece of her mind, but Vivian was wise enough in the ways of the ton to know that Stewkesbury spoke nothing less than the truth. She
had committed a social solecism by leaving the floor in the middle of a dance. It would only make it worse if she was seen arguing with Stewkesbury now. It would set all the gossips’ tongues to wagging, and while she did not care overmuch what others might say about her, she knew that any bit of gossip about her and Oliver would affect Lily and Camellia, and she certainly did not want to make the Bascombe sisters’ task any harder than it was already.
So she contented herself with sending him a glare from beneath her lashes as she slumped in the chair, raising one hand to her forehead.
“Don’t overdo it,” he told her. “Or I shall have to employ your smelling salts.”
“I don’t carry smelling salts.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Still, I imagine I could borrow some.”
“You are the most annoying man.” Vivian dropped her hand and gave him a hard look. “Why don’t you just go away?”
“I can scarcely leave you in your weakened state. I beg your pardon—did you just growl?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Vivian sighed. “I don’t know how you are able to always say exactly the thing that will make me the angriest.”
“Apparently it is quite easy.” He turned to glance out over the room. “Ah, here comes Charlotte, looking suitably concerned.”
“Dearest Vivian,” Charlotte said as she crossed the last few steps to them. “Are you ill?” She bent to take Vivian’s hand in hers, murmuring, “Fighting again?” She cast a laughing glance up at Stewkesbury.
“We were not fighting.” Oliver frowned at her. “I was—”
“Lecturing,” Vivian supplied. “And I walked away so I wouldn’t start fighting.”
“I could see that you were both doing an admirable job of not fighting.” Charlotte grinned. “Well, fortunately for you, almost everyone was looking at Lord Dunstan and Mrs. Carstairs, who were dancing much too close together. I think I was nearly the only person who saw Vivian storm off the floor.”
“It wasn’t that dramatic,” Vivian said with a grimace.
“Of course not. Even Aunt Euphronia said you were only giving yourself airs.”
“Good Gad.” Stewkesbury blanched.
“No! Is she here?” Vivian exclaimed, sitting up straighter and glancing around.
“Yes, but I’m happy to say that Lady Wilbourne invited Colonel Armbrister and his wife, so Aunt Euphronia is now firmly ensconced with them in the card room, enjoying a spirited game of whist.” Charlotte turned to Oliver. “I think you could safely leave Vivian in my hands now.”
“Yes. Appearances have been served,” Vivian added, whipping open her fan and plying it, not looking at the earl.
He glanced at her, his mouth tightening, then swept the two women a polite bow. “Very well. I shall take my leave of you. Lady Vivian. Cousin Charlotte.”
Vivian turned her head to watch Stewkesbury walk away. “Most of your relatives are enchanting, Charlotte, but that man . . .”
Charlotte chuckled. “The two of you are like oil and water.”
“More like fire and tender, I’d say. I don’t know how we shall manage the next few months, being thrown together so much.”
“Mm.” Charlotte studied her. “Yes, I would say it should be quite . . . interesting.”
A little to her surprise, Vivian found the rest of the evening curiously flat even though she danced with several other men, none of whom offered a word of criticism regarding her dress, her family, or anything else. Indeed, most of them spent their time spouting compliments, some sincere and some so extravagant as to make her want to giggle. But however pleasant it might be to hear flattery, the truth was it did not spark her interest. She supposed she must be becoming jaded . . . or perhaps her tiff with Stewkesbury had simply spoiled her mood.
She did not speak to Stewkesbury again, though she spotted him once or twice across the room. He was generally engaged in conversation with some gentleman or another, though once she saw him dancing with Charlotte and another time with Lady Jersey. Vivian could not help but approve of his choice there. Not even Vivian’s influence could guarantee Camellia and Lily a voucher for Almack’s, of which Lady Jersey was one of the patronesses. As Lady Jersey was known for being something of a stickler, it would certainly help to firmly plant it in her mind that the Bascombes were the very proper earl’s cousins.
The next time they met, Vivian thought, she would mention it—though she had to admit that, given the way she and Stewkesbury usually managed to antagonize each other, he would probably take her praise entirely the wrong way. She could not help but smile as she thought of the way the two of them had fussed all through the dance. As she looked back on it, it seemed a trifle foolish the way they had squabbled all through the lovely waltz—especially given that she had been enjoying dancing with him. Who would have thought that being in Oliver’s arms as they whirled about the floor would have felt so . . . well, intriguing.
“I hope that smile is for me,” a masculine voice murmured.
Vivian returned to the present with a start and looked at the man standing in front of her. She had been chatting with him when she had caught sight of Stewkesbury dancing with Lady Jersey. Well, chatting was not quite right—Alfred Bellard had been telling her a long and uninteresting story of his chance meeting with an old chum from school, which was precisely why she had been glancing about the room and caught sight of Oliver.
She could hardly tell the man that not only had her smile not been for him but that she hadn’t heard what he had said for the past few minutes. Fortunately, Vivian had been deflecting the hopes of young men for some years, and she had grown adept at it. With a snap she unfurled her fan and raised it, glancing across it flirtatiously.
“Now, sir, you know I cannot tell you that. Perhaps I was merely thinking of something else.”
He raised his hand to his heart, as accustomed as she to this meaningless social back-and-forth. “You are most unkind, my lady. Pray give me some small crumb of your favor.”
“As if you desire even a crumb of my favor,” Vivian retorted. “When I saw myself that your eyes were all for Miss Charleford this evening.” She had seen him talking to Sally Charleford not too long before, and there was no harm in redirecting his interest that way.
“Untrue, untrue,” he said, but she could almost see the wheels turning as he contemplated this display of interest on his part—and whether he liked the girl more than he had realized.
Vivian let out a little laugh and made another light remark, then deftly removed herself from the conversation. She made her way through the crowd, giving a smile or a nod when someone managed to catch her eye. It occurred to her that perhaps she was more tired from her trip than she had realized. Perhaps she should simply go home and get a good night’s sleep. She would need all her energy when the Season got into full swing.
Vivian began her good-byes, making sure to take her leave of Charlotte and the hostess, and strolled out into the foyer to get her cloak from the footman. As she turned to allow the servant to lay the cloak over her shoulders, she saw the Earl of Stewkesbury walking toward her.
She could not hold back a giggle when Oliver hesitated, his face a mingling of surprise and apprehension. “No, there’s no need to avoid me,” she told him. “I shall not bite, I assure you.”
Stewkesbury smiled, faintly abashed. “It takes a man of sterner mettle than I to face a lady’s wrath.”
“My wrath has completely dissipated. Did you not know that your words leave my head almost as soon as they enter?”
He let out a little huff of laughter. “Always have to have the last word, don’t you, my lady?”
“I find it’s generally more fun,” Vivian agreed. “Come, Stewkesbury, let us cease our warfare. I scarce remember what we tussled about, as is usually the case.”
“Of course.” He gestured toward the footman and waited for the man to bring his greatcoat and hat. “In the spirit of reconciliation, I hope you will allow me to see you to your carriage.”
&nbs
p; “That is kind of you.” Vivian knew that her coachman would be waiting for her nearby, watching for her emergence from the house. But men always liked to think that a lady could not make her way without assistance, and allowing Stewkesbury to help her would aid in smoothing over any hard feelings left from their contentious waltz.
So when the earl shrugged on his coat, a rather subdued garment sporting only one shoulder cape, she put her hand on his arm and walked with him out the front door. They paused, glancing around for Vivian’s carriage. Just as Vivian spotted her trim vehicle, a shriek pierced the night.
Vivian jumped, startled, and beside her the earl was thrown so off-balance that he let out a low oath.
“Crimey!” the footman standing at the base of the steps exclaimed, in his excitement sinking back into the Cockney accent of his youth.
All three of them, as well as most of the coachmen in the area, swung to look in the direction of the scream. A short distance up the sidewalk, a woman clutched at her throat as the figure of a man ran away, melting into the shadows. Another man ran past the woman and followed the disappearing figure. The woman sank to her knees, letting out another howl.
Stewkesbury was down the steps in an instant and running to her. Vivian followed close behind him, trailed by the Wilbournes’ footman. The earl crouched beside the woman, taking her arm to steady her. “Madam, are you all right?”
“No! No!” she cried, clutching at him. Wildly she waved an arm behind her. “He took my diamonds!”
Both Vivian and Oliver looked in the direction she pointed, but all they could see was the dimly lit street stretching into the darkness. “I’m sorry; I’m afraid he’s gone.”
This remark sent the woman into more wails. “No! He cannot get away! Oh, what will I do? What will I tell Charles? Those were his grandmother’s jewels!” She burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.
Oliver shot Vivian a harried glance.
“Lady Holland.” Vivian, recognizing the woman, stepped forward and leaned down. “Please, you must get up. You’ll ruin that lovely cloak.” Vivian reached out to take the woman’s arm to tug.
