An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  His arms tightened for an instant, and his body seemed even warmer suddenly, but then his arms fell away from her. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the perfectly folded handkerchief, and he reached down to smooth away her tears. Vivian gazed up at him. His face was only inches from hers, and she could see into the depths of his pewter-colored eyes, fringed by silky black lashes. His eyes were not cold, she realized, but warm, and at the moment they were gazing at her with an expression that made her heart quiver in her chest. The soft silk of his handkerchief moved gently across her skin. She was suddenly breathless, tingling with awareness of how close they stood.

  The flesh of his forefinger and thumb where he grasped her chin surged with heat, and his eyes darkened. The hand that held the handkerchief dropped away, the square of silk sliding unnoticed to the floor.

  “Vivian.” His voice was lower than usual, her name gliding across his tongue.

  Vivian felt soft and pliant, and she sagged a little toward him, her hands going up to catch herself on his chest. Then his hands were on her sides, his fingers pressing into her, holding and lifting her to meet him as he lowered his face to hers.

  Their lips met and clung. His mouth was sweet and tender upon hers, opening her lips to him. Vivian’s fingers curled around his lapels, holding on as he filled her senses. For the moment everything beyond her seemed to stop, and she knew only the soft velvet of his lips, the texture of the cloth against her fingertips, the heat that snaked through her body.

  His arms went around her, and he bent to bury his face in the juncture of her neck and shoulders, softly murmuring her name. He kissed her neck, sending shivers of pleasure through her, slowly working his way up the side of her throat. Featherlight, his mouth caressed the line of her jaw, and he nuzzled into her hair. Vivian leaned into him, loving the warmth, the sweetness, the peace that lay in his arms.

  Finally he raised his head and pressed his lips softly against her forehead. “Vivian . . .”

  She shook her head. “No. Don’t say it.”

  He smiled, his arms falling away as he stepped back. “How do you know what I was going to say?”

  “I don’t.” She took his hands in hers, smiling back at him. “But I know you.”

  “All right. I’ll say nothing.” He squeezed her hands and released them, and they moved apart.

  There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later Gregory walked in. “Stewkesbury. Jenks told me you were here.” He strode over to shake Oliver’s hand. “Good of you to come.”

  “I heard about your father.”

  “Yes. He’ll be better soon, I’m sure.” Gregory glanced over at his sister, humor lighting his eyes. “I left Father with his valet. He fell asleep as I read to him. I’ll warrant you’ll find that no surprise.”

  “No. I do not,” Vivian replied with a wry grin. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I think that I, too, shall retire.”

  “Of course. Exhausting day.” Gregory turned to Oliver. “Come with me, Stewkesbury, and we’ll have a glass of brandy to warm you up before you go back out into the cold.”

  “Thank you. That sounds delightful.” Oliver turned back to Vivian and sketched a bow. “Good evening, Lady Vivian.”

  “Good night. And thank you.”

  He nodded to her, his gaze lingering for an instant, then turned to walk with her brother out of the room. Vivian stood, listening to the sound of their footsteps retreating down the corridor. Then she bent down and picked up the handkerchief that Oliver had dropped earlier. She lifted the snowy white silk to her face and rubbed it gently against her cheek.

  With a little smile, she stuck the square of cloth into her pocket and started up to her room.

  Chapter 6

  The Duke of Marchester was not an easy patient, which was borne home to his two children in the days that followed. He disliked spending his time in bed, but he found sitting in a chair overlooking the garden little better. He was not accustomed to inactivity, as he was quick to tell them, and though he could not deny that his right side was weak, making him unsteady on his feet, that only irritated him further. He did not like being read to. He hated the food his valet was bringing to him. Most of all, he hated the doctor’s visits.

  Dr. Mullard was a fool, he declared, and his visit every afternoon invariably left the duke growling or pouting, sometimes both. Though the duke grew better with each passing day, he refused to believe that his doctor had anything to do with it, declaring that he would have gotten better just the same without the man and his starvation diet. Privately, Vivian could not help but wonder if that was true. Mullard’s prescribed diet of soups, oatmeal, biscuits, and tea was poor fare indeed for a man who was accustomed to dining on pheasant and turtle soup followed by fish, pork, and beef in the richest of sauces. Even worse was the banning of all port and brandy, with only a glass or two of light sherry allowed.

  Vivian pointed out to her father that the doctor warned him that he could die if he did not follow the diet, but she could not help but silently agree when the duke snapped back, “Eating this, I might as well be dead already!”

  Blevins, Marchester’s valet, had taken to sneaking his employer small dishes of food from the cook, whose opinion of the doctor’s diet matched the duke’s, and Vivian decided to turn a blind eye to it. After all, she reasoned, her father was improving, and that meant that before long he would be up and in command once more, well able to order his food prepared however he liked it.

  The duke preferred to while away his time playing cards or listening to the latest gossip, but Vivian soon ran out of gossip to tell him, and after playing a few games of whist and faro with Vivian and Gregory, the duke declared that both his children were utter flats and there was no fun in fleecing them. Therefore, most of his days were spent with Vivian reading to him.

  Gregory took as much of the burden as he could. He stayed with his father during and after each of the doctor’s visits, a task that no one else, even the faithful Blevins, was willing to take on. Gregory read the Times to the duke in the mornings, but after a session or two of listening to the sorts of books Gregory read, Marchester refused to allow Gregory to read him anything but the newspaper.

  So Vivian spent most of the afternoon and evening every day reading and talking with her father. The activity was not strenuous, but as someone who was accustomed to getting out of the house frequently, she was left feeling locked in and often bored. She wound up being both restless and exhausted, as well as somewhat irritated with herself for feeling that way.

  It was not what she did that tired her, she knew, so much as the emotional turmoil she went through trying to deal with her father. Sadness and sympathy would almost overwhelm her sometimes as she watched Marchester struggle to speak and walk with his former ease. A few moments later, she would find herself having to struggle not to quarrel with the man when he complained at length about his food or his inactivity or one of the hundreds of other things he could find to carp about.

  Finally one afternoon, after the duke had fussed about the sun being in his eyes, then complained that the room was too dark after Blevins drew the curtain, then opined that his pillows were abominably flat and that Blevins could not correctly place them behind his back, Vivian jumped to her feet, slamming shut the book she had been attempting to read to him.

  “For pity’s sake, Papa, try to have a little patience!” she snapped. “Poor Blevins has been dancing attendance on you for six straight days, as has everyone else in this house, and you haven’t a kind word for anyone!”

  Her father’s brows, thick and straight and still liberally sprinkled with the black his hair had once been, drew together. “Easy words for you! You aren’t laid up in bed!”

  “No, I’m not, but I sincerely hope that if I were, I wouldn’t be some petty tyrant who took out his misfortunes on everyone around him! I’d hope I might have the grace to thank God I was alive and not six feet in the ground—as you very well could have been!�
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  The duke drew himself up in his bed, his eyes lighting with temper. Then, suddenly, astonishing Vivian, he relaxed and began to laugh.

  “Ah, Viv, Viv, thank God. Someone finally has some spine around here!”

  “What?” She gaped at him.

  “Everyone’s so damned careful I feel like I’ve got one foot in the grave already.”

  “Is that why you’ve been such an absolute bear? You were trying to goad someone into answering you back?”

  “Lord, no. I’m a bear ’cause I’m bored and I drag my foot and I talk like Denny Summers in the village!”

  Vivian burst out laughing. “You don’t talk like Denny. You are much improved in your speech.”

  He shrugged a little and sighed. “I know. But I feel like someone stuck a cow’s tongue in my mouth. And I have to think about everything I do.”

  “It’s dreadfully hard.” Vivian went over to his bed and sat down, reaching out to take his hand. “But you are getting better. You see? The first day you were here, you could not make your hand take hold like that.”

  “I still haven’t got a grip worth anything. I couldn’t control the reins.”

  “If I were you, I’d worry about walking before I fretted about riding.”

  He chuckled. “Now you’re getting cruel. Ah, Vivvy . . .” He leaned his head back against the headboard. “I used to be a handsome man, you know.”

  “You are still a handsome man.” She grinned and struck a pose, declaring haughtily, “We are a handsome family.”

  His green eyes sparkled at her in their former roguish way. “We are, aren’t we? Even that brother of yours, despite his best efforts to grow stoop-shouldered hunched over those damnable books.”

  It was a long speech for him, and she knew it required effort, so she squeezed his hand supportively. “No, he won’t do that. He enjoys riding too much.”

  “Yes. He does take after me that way, for all the rest of it.” The duke turned his head, regarding her. “I haven’t been a good father, I know.”

  “Now, Papa . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not about to turn Friday-faced. Just speaking the truth.”

  “I wouldn’t want any other father than you.”

  “Is it—” He paused and glanced away, plucking at the cover, as he went on, “My mother tells me I’m the reason you’ve never married.”

  “What? Oh, Papa, how foolish!”

  “She says”—he turned to her as though determined to face something—“it’s because I set such a bad example. Of a husband. Of a man.”

  “How could that be true?” Vivian asked, shaking her head. “I never even saw you be a husband. Grandmother cannot resign herself to the fact that I refuse to marry just to please her. I am happy as I am. It’s more likely that I haven’t married because no other man can measure up to you.”

  He shot her a speaking look, his mouth twisting into a little smile. “Now, that’s doing it much too brown.”

  Vivian laughed, then leaned over to hug her father, whispering, “I love you, Papa. Please don’t scare me like that again.”

  “Don’t be a fool, girl. I’m not about to die yet.” He patted her back. “Now, get over there and read me some more from that blasted book. Blevins, come turn this pillow. It’s gotten devilish hot.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes and sat down in the chair by the bed, picking up her book to read again.

  Gregory, the fifth Marquess of Seyre, strolled out of the door of Hatchard’s bookshop and paused, undecided about which way to go. He had left Carlyle Hall for the first time this afternoon, unable to stand being cooped up inside any longer. A ride was what he would really have liked, but a walk, he had thought, would help. His steps had naturally turned toward the bookstore.

  Other young men were drawn to the city for the entertainments it offered—the clubs, the gambling and drinking, the evenings flirting with a young lady at a party, and the nights spent pursuing women of lesser virtue. When Gregory came to London, he visited the bookstores. He enjoyed other places, of course—meetings now and then of various scientific and historical societies where papers were read and discussed, ideas bandied about. Such gatherings could almost make a visit to London worth the rest of it.

  Gregory glanced around him and let out a small sigh. Or perhaps they could not. He disliked London—he hated the noise, the bustle, the cry of the cartmen in the mornings, the rumble of carriages and wagons in the street, the way houses were set all one upon the other. There was no room to walk in peaceful solitude, no place to ruminate on one’s thoughts or to look about at the scenery. Indeed, there was no scenery. Everywhere one looked, there were buildings and streets and people.

  He liked people—in moderation—but he was uncomfortable around people he did not know and even more ill at ease when those people were in large numbers, such as at a soiree or a dinner or, worst of all, a ball. He knew he was intelligent, well regarded by men of learning. He could quite happily discourse on many matters for hours. But put him among strangers and expect him to chat about polite nothings, and he was hopelessly lost. His tongue froze. His lively brain failed him. He would stammer or gaze blankly and answer in monosyllables.

  He was at his worst when the person to whom he was speaking was a young lady. He did not dislike women. After all, he had been closest to his sister, Vivian, his whole life. And he found females as pretty and alluring as the next man. But the time he spent with young women, aside from his sister and some of her friends, was generally excruciating. He could manage an invitation to dance, for there, at least, he was armed with the knowledge that few girls would turn down the opportunity to dance with the future Duke of Marchester. But off the dance floor the conversation would limp through the usual exchanges of opinions on the weather or one’s health or the enjoyment of the party, and then he would be left searching his brain for something to say.

  In general, the young ladies were little help. They tended to giggle or blush or ply their fans flirtatiously, none of which gambits he had any idea how to respond to. On the occasions when he tried to discuss with them something he was interested in, he was met by blank stares or murmurs of vague acquiescence. He knew that few people, male or female, were interested in scientific matters or history, but he was able to discuss other things, such as philosophy or music or books, but the young women rarely expressed an opinion on those topics, either, simply gazing at him with wide, limpid eyes and nodding occasionally. Some had been inspired to say breathlessly that he was so deep or learned or profound, and such statements had immediately filled him with such embarrassment that he had stopped talking.

  If he pressed a girl for her opinion of some matter, she would invariably say she did not know or would ask him what he thought. Since he had usually just said what he thought, this seemed nonsensical, and in any case, he knew what he thought. It was the woman’s thoughts he wanted to learn. He was not sure whether he talked only of such boring things that none of the young ladies wanted to discuss them or if it was simply, alarmingly, that young women truly did not have any thoughts of their own to express.

  If he could simply have avoided speaking to most women in London, he would have been all right. But to what he considered his great misfortune, Gregory was deemed the most eligible bachelor in England. He was a marquess and the heir to a dukedom; any woman who married him would have one of the highest titles in the land. This, coupled with his family’s wealth, would have made him a great catch. But that he was young, sane, and attractive (if one looked past his retiring manner and the spectacles he wore for reading and often forgot to remove) turned him into the most hunted man in England for young ladies and their mothers.

  Not a hostess in London did not dream of his presence at one of her parties nor a mother not impress on her marriageable daughter the importance of catching Seyre’s eye. When he came to town, he was besieged by invitations, which he universally ignored. He wouldn’t have minded attending a party or two, he would tell Vivian, but whenever
he did, he was invariably surrounded by mothers swooping in and carrying him off to meet their daughters, and he could hardly take a step, it seemed, without some girl dropping her fan or handkerchief in his way to force him to stop and politely pick it up. He felt foolish, harassed, and often appalled, and so he simply avoided all parties.

  Even walking down the street, there was always the danger of someone’s stopping him to chat. He could not get away without being impolite, and so he was introduced to the woman’s daughter or niece or cousin or at least pressed to come to some party. For that reason, he had taken to walking on the street without looking around, keeping his focus on the sidewalk in front of him.

  Thus in this manner he left the bookstore and turned toward Hyde Park. There, he thought, he could feel almost as if he were in the country again. He would have to avoid the members of the ton who might be walking there or riding along Rotten Row, but—he pulled out his watch to check it—it was earlier than the fashionable hour of presenting oneself in the park. He could slip past the popular paths and go deeper into the park.

  Still, when he reached Rotten Row, he could not keep from stopping to look at the riders. He wished he had thought to bring a horse with him, but the departure from Marchester had been rushed. He could hire a horse, but he was sure that he would not find any mount satisfactory after the prime animal he was accustomed to riding. Besides, walking or trotting along Rotten Row, where the riders’ main purpose was to see and be seen, could not compare to riding across his own land, sailing over fences and walls, splashing through streams, the sun on his back and the sweet scent of the country all around him.

  With a sigh, he realized that he was simply standing there, daydreaming. He started to move forward, and that was when he saw her. She rode a bay mare, an unimpressive mount, but a confidence, an enjoyment, a presence, about the woman who rode drew Gregory’s eye. She wore a dark blue riding habit of military cut, decorated with black frogging, and the fitted jacket showed off a trim figure. She rode beside a handsome man whom Gregory vaguely felt he should recognize, and the two of them were talking and laughing.