by Candace Camp
As he watched, she suddenly spurred her horse forward, and the mare took off. In defiance of all the rules of the ton, the woman galloped down Rotten Row. She rode as one with her mount, leaning forward over the mare’s neck as she urged the horse on. Her hat flew off, and her hair came loose, tumbling down and flowing out behind her like a dark-gold banner. Gregory had thought her attractive the moment he saw her, but her face was beautiful now, bright with joy. His heart rose up inside him as she flew along, swelling with an answering joy. He knew that thrill, understood in a deep and visceral way the emotion that must be coursing through her now.
Then she thundered past and was gone. Behind him, he heard a shocked exclamation: “Who was that girl!”
A goddess, he thought, looking after the figure disappearing around a bend in the path. A Valkyrie. And he could not help but echo the woman’s words—who was she?
He started forward again, striding away from the other people who stood about chattering over the girl’s gallop. He felt suddenly energetic, excited. He could find out who she was, he thought. Within a day’s time, the gossip about her gallop down Rotten Row would be all over the ton. Vivian knew everyone, so he had only to tell Vivian about it, and before long he would know her name and everything there was to know about her.
Father was improving; they could take the time to go to a party or pay an afternoon call. Why, there was that ball that Lady Carr was giving the following weekend to announce her son’s engagement to the Bascombe girl; he knew Vivian would be attending it unless the duke took a decided turn for the worse. She would be happy for the escort. He might not have to tell Vivian about the girl at all. If he went to the ball, he might see her; from what Vivian had told him, the ball would be one of the events of the Season, and everyone who could do so would be there.
Oddly, he realized that he was a trifle reluctant to bring up the subject of the girl to Vivian. He rather liked the idea of keeping his Valkyrie to himself. Besides, much as he loved Vivian, if he expressed interest in any young lady, his sister would be on it like a hound catching the fox’s scent. Vivian would not only have him meeting the girl, but dancing with her, seated beside her at some dinner, escorting her to the opera . . .
Gregory slowed his steps, his thoughts beginning to order themselves in his usual rational way. What did he know about the girl he had just seen, other than that she rode well? She was high-spirited; she was beautiful. Did he really want Vivian matchmaking for him just because he had responded for a moment to the way a girl sat a horse? If he met the young woman, how likely was it that she would be any different from any other lady he had met? He thought of being introduced to the girl and having her bat her lashes at him over her fan. He imagined her gazing at him vapidly or saying, “What do you think, Lord Seyre?” or perhaps chattering about her dress or her gloves.
It occurred to him that it might be better not to meet his Valkyrie at all. Perhaps it was better to let the girl remain a perfect memory in his mind.
Vivian had just left her father sleeping in his room when Jenks appeared to tell her that she had a visitor downstairs. She started to tell him to make her excuses, but then she saw the card he held out on the silver tray to her, and instead she said, “Show Lord Stewkesbury into the blue drawing room. I shall be down directly. I’ll ring if we require refreshments.”
Quickly she slipped down the hall to her bedchamber and went to her vanity table. Her dress would do, she thought, but she shrugged off the old shawl she had thrown around her shoulders and slipped on a spencer of forest green that deepened the color of her eyes. She smoothed a strand or two of hair into place and pinned them, then pinched a little color into her too pale cheeks. She had looked better, certainly, but she could do nothing right now about the shadows under her eyes or the weariness in them.
Putting on a smile, Vivian went downstairs and into the smaller drawing room, which was her favorite for daily use. Oliver was standing by the fire, warming his hands, and he turned at her entrance.
“Lady Vivian.”
“Stewkesbury.” She came forward, extending her hand, and he bowed over it. “How kind of you to call about my father’s health.”
He smiled faintly. “How kind of you to attribute such sterling motives to me. Actually, I came to see how you were doing, though I hope, of course, that the duke is better.”
“He is, I think, and his doctor seems to agree.”
“But I can see that his illness has taken its toll on you.” His brows pinched together. “You look tired and pale.”
Vivian raised a brow. “Indeed? How like you to manage to find a disagreeable remark to make about me.”
“Ah, but you always make that so easy,” he tossed back with a grin, and Vivian could not help but smile. “You know I did not mean it as a criticism. I am concerned that you are wearing yourself out taking care of your father.”
“I do little enough other than worry.”
“Worry can be more tiring than physical activity.”
“Well, hopefully I shall not have so much of it now that he seems to be improving.”
She had not taken a seat, so they still stood facing one another. Vivian could see Oliver gathering himself, and she was certain what he was about to say before he opened his mouth.
“I should apologize about the other night.”
“No, please, Oliver, do not ruin it.”
“Ruin it?” He looked astonished. “I don’t know what you mean. I ruined the other night, acting as I did. I came here because I was concerned, and yet I wound up acting on my basest instincts.”
“I never thought you were a saint.” A faint smile played at the corners of Vivian’s mouth. “Or even a parson, for that matter.”
“I hope I am a gentleman. I took advantage of your emotions. I don’t know why I did so. I never act in that manner.”
Vivian chuckled, and a flirtatious dimple winked in her cheek. “You did it because you wanted to. If you will remember, you did the same thing the night of Lady Wilbourne’s ball.”
Stewkesbury drew himself up even more stiffly. “It was an aberration.”
“Twice?” Vivian’s eyes danced. “Really, my lord. Once may be an aberration. Twice is more of a habit.”
Oliver set his jaw, glaring at her. “This is scarcely a laughing matter.”
“Is it not?” Vivian moved closer to him, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “What you did was not so terrible. I, for one, quite enjoyed it. Didn’t you?”
Looking harassed, he took a step backward, coming up against the mantel. “Blast it, Vivian, of course I enjoyed it. That is not the issue.”
“Oh, but I think it is. Perhaps you ought to try giving into your ‘basest instincts’ more often. You might find it rewarding.”
“Vivian . . .” His voice was a low growl, warning her.
“No?” She stopped only inches from him, one eyebrow arching up. “Well, then, I suppose that I will just have to.”
With that she went up on tiptoe, her arms curling around his neck, and kissed him.
Chapter 7
For an instant, his mouth remained unmoving beneath hers, frozen in shock. Then, as if a floodgate had opened, his body surged with heat, his arms wrapping around her hard and fast, and his mouth opened to hers.
The sudden fire of his passion startled Vivian, but she responded to it eagerly. She pressed her body up into his, her arms tightening around his neck as their lips clung and parted and came together again. Her skin had become supremely sensitive, so that she was aware of the touch of the fabric of her dress upon her skin as she stretched up against his body. Her nipples prickled and grew taut, and she could not refrain from rubbing her body experimentally against him, causing her nipples to tighten even more with pleasure.
At her movement, he let out a low noise and tore his mouth from hers, kissing his way across her cheek and over the line of her jaw down to her throat. Vivian shivered at the feel of his lips on her sensitive skin, fire springing up in her whe
rever his mouth touched. She had started out kissing him teasingly, but now he filled her senses, delighting and confusing her. She was at once weak and filled with power, aching and happy. She knew a fierce yearning, a need to melt into Oliver, to fill herself with his scent, his taste, his very breath.
He seemed driven by the same forces as his arms crushed her against him and his mouth returned to consume hers. Vivian felt his hardness, his strength, his muscle and bone pressing into her. She knew she wanted to feel him more and deeper, wanted him with a hunger that made her tremble. His mouth left hers only to change the angle of their kiss as his hands slid down her back and over her buttocks in an intimate caress. The hard length of his desire pushed against her, and heat blossomed between her legs, setting up a low, throbbing ache.
Vivian had never known anything like this—had never expected to know anything like this. It was primitive and urgent, without thought or temperance. She thrilled to the sensations, amazed by them almost as much as she was by the fierceness of Oliver’s passion. She would not have imagined that this kind of desperate, hungry desire could live in him, and it aroused her to know that she had evoked it.
Even as she yearned to know more of his touch, to feel his hands all over her body, he broke away with a groan, turning and grasping the edge of the mantel. He stood there, head lowered, his back rising and falling with his hard, rapid breaths. Vivian could not move, could only watch him, feeling her body throbbing with need and knowing that he would not return to her arms.
“Bloody hell, Vivian,” he said at last, his voice taut and rasping. “Do not play with me. I am not one of your fools to dance attendance on you, begging for your notice.”
“I did not think you were,” Vivian retorted, stung.
He swung around. His face still carried the stamp of desire on it, a certain softness and malleability, but his voice was flat and hard as he said, “You know we would never suit.”
“No, of course not.” Vivian was surprised by the small, vivid slash of hurt that pierced her chest at his words.
He paused for a moment, and Vivian thought he was about to say more, but then his lips tightened and he took a step away. “I should leave.”
Vivian simply nodded and watched as he walked away. After she heard the front door close behind him, she turned and walked over to sink down in a chair, her knees suddenly weak.
Two days later, Eve came to call. “I hope I am not intruding,” she said, rising as Vivian came into the drawing room where the footman had seated her.
“You could never intrude,” Vivian replied, coming forward to take her friend’s hands. “And I am happy for the respite.”
“Stewkesbury told us that your father was improving,” Eve said as the two women sat down. “I am so glad.”
“Yes, he is. He’s able to get about with a cane, though he has not tackled the stairs yet. I think the doctor is beginning to believe that Papa is not about to have another attack just yet.”
“That is excellent news.”
“How are you?” Vivian asked. “Have you found a house?”
Eve shook her head. “No. It seems as if each one has some sort of drawback. But it’s just as well. I have been so busy with Lady Carr’s engagement party and Lily’s trip to meet Neville’s grandmother that I would not have time to move now, anyway. I have already fallen down on my duties chaperoning Camellia.”
Vivian’s brows rose. “Really? What happened?”
“Camellia has been fretting about missing her horse, so the earl hired her a mount and Fitz took her riding on Rotten Row.” Eve sighed. “I should have gone with them. It didn’t occur to me to tell Fitz to keep Camellia from galloping.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. She took off, and of course then it was too late. Fitz could hardly go tearing after her and ride her down. Her hat came off, and her hair came down.”
“And it’s the talk of the ton,” Vivian guessed.
“Naturally. At least it was not the most popular hour to ride, but there were still a number of people who saw her. And they were more than happy to tell everyone what had happened.”
Vivian nodded. “It’s early enough in the Season that there are few scandals to discuss.”
“Precisely. If it had been May or June, it would probably be over in two or three days, but now . . . and with the engagement party only a week away . . . it’s bound to be in everyone’s mind at Lady Carr’s party. Camellia’s contrite, of course. Poor thing, she did not mean to create a firestorm. It’s just that the rules seem like sheer nonsense to her.” Eve shook her head, her expressive blue eyes full of sympathy.
“Sometimes they are sheer nonsense.”
“True. But it does not make the gossip less damaging.”
“How did Lily receive the news?”
“She stood up for Camellia, as she always does. However anxious she is for Lady Carr to like her, she would not blame Camellia. Lady Carr, needless to say, was not best pleased, but I did all I could to soothe her.”
“It’s nothing that Camellia can’t live down. There may be a few whispers at the ball, but as soon as something more interesting comes along, it will be forgotten.” Vivian paused, thinking. “Now that Papa is doing better, I should take her up in my phaeton, as I promised her. It won’t stop the whispers, but it should alleviate some of their effect.”
Eve nodded. Though Vivian was not considered a paragon of propriety, her position as a duke’s daughter was lofty enough that being her friend could provide one with some degree of protection. No one would dare snub Camellia in Vivian’s company. Besides, it would give the gossips something more positive to say about Camellia.
“That would be just the thing,” Eve agreed. “Are you sure you can spare the time?”
“Oh, yes. It’s probably long past time for me to get out of the house. Besides, it will enable me to bring home some bits of gossip for Papa. He has been growing quite bored.”
Two days later, Vivian drove to Stewkesbury House in her high-perch phaeton. A bright yellow in color, with the high seat hung precariously forward over the smaller front wheels, it was the height of style, and the small groom in his crisp blue-and-silver livery standing on the “box” behind the carriage added to its look of luxurious elegance. Camellia, coming out of the house, was immediately wide-eyed with wonder.
“Oh, Vivian!” she cried as she climbed up lithely onto the high seat. “This is all the crack! How long have you been driving it?”
“Just got it last Season.” Vivian deftly maneuvered into traffic.
Camellia grinned broadly. “I’d love to drive one of these! Benjamin Dawkins let me drive his father’s wagon once, but that was nothing compared to this. Could I learn, do you think?” She turned to Vivian, her eyes sparkling.
“Of course. I’d be happy to teach you. You’d have to start on something easier, though. The balance on a high-perch phaeton is much more delicate.”
Camellia nodded, then added somewhat uncertainly, “It won’t be something I’ll get into trouble over, will it?”
“No. There are other women who drive their own phaetons. Not so many drive a high perch. But it’s acceptable—unless, of course, one makes a mull of it. But I’m sure you will be good.”
“Good. Because I have sworn to act like a proper lady. I have apparently committed a terrible sin.”
Vivian laughed. “Galloping on Rotten Row. I heard. Fitz should have thought to warn you. So should Eve. For that matter, so should I.”
“Eve did tell me earlier, when she was trying to mold us into proper young ladies back at Willowmere. I remembered as soon as I stopped and saw all the shocked faces. It was just so wonderful to be back on a horse, and when I looked down that path, I could not resist. I thought Fitz would race me, as he used to back home, so I dug in my heels, wanting to get the start on him.” She sighed. “I doubt I’ll ever remember all the things I’m not supposed to do.”
“It will pass, I promise you. It isn’t scandalous enoug
h to really damage your reputation. There will be some chatter, but we shall calm that down a bit today. I intend to stop to chat with everyone we see. They’ll have to meet you and be polite or risk being rude to me—not that there aren’t a number of people who would love to be rude to me, but they aren’t because they’re too eager to say to their friends, ‘The other day when I was chatting with the Duke of Marchester’s daughter . . . ,’” Vivian said in an exaggeratedly upper-class voice.
Camellia giggled. “You sound like Aunt Euphronia.”
“Heaven help me. Did she ring a peal over your head?”
“Yes. But she doesn’t bother me. I was afraid Lily would be angry because of Neville’s family and all, but she wasn’t. And Cousin Oliver didn’t even lecture me.”
“You’re jesting.”
“No, truly. I was most surprised. He told Fitz he was a fool, but even that was only halfhearted. He has been . . . a trifle odd recently.”
“Stewkesbury?” Vivian turned to look at the girl. “What do you mean, odd?”
Camellia shrugged. “I’m not sure. He seems . . . distracted, I guess, as if he’s thinking about something else. Not always, of course, but now and then. Someone will say something to him, and he won’t have been listening. Or I’ll come into a room and find him staring out the window at nothing. And the other evening when he came in and we told him about my ride in the park—you know Cousin Oliver, he never yells or anything, but he gets that look in his eyes, and his tone turns to ice.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, after I told him how I’d galloped along Rotten Row, I expected him to look at me that way and tell me how terrible that was, but do you know what he said? He said, ‘I’d never have thought that animal could gallop.’ Then he told Fitz he was a fool, and he went off to his study.”
