An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  “I cannot think of any start I could go on to solve it, do you?”

  “No, but I haven’t a mind as given to mischief as you,” he retorted, surging to his feet and beginning to pace in agitation. “I wish you would drop it, Vivian. It’s enough to drive a person mad, wondering what you are going to get up to next. It isn’t as if I didn’t already have enough to worry about with wondering whether Camellia will offer to show Princess Esterhazy how to shoot a rifle or some such thing. Now here you are wanting to track down a jewel thief.”

  “I would be doing everyone a service, don’t you think?”

  “The devil take it, must you joke about everything?” He stopped and glared at her in exasperation. “One of these days, you are going to get hurt following one of your mad schemes.”

  Vivian rose and went to him. “Would that matter to you?”

  “How can you ask that? Of course it would matter to me. Do you honestly think I do not care?”

  She was so lovely that Oliver wondered how he could have thought the mask had hidden her beauty. Her green eyes were luminous and soft, her skin so smooth it was all he could do not to stroke his hand across her cheek.

  “I think you find me attractive. Men seem to.” She gave a little shrug. “But giving in to a seduction when you are in an inebriated state is not the same as caring.”

  He drew a shaky breath. “You were seducing me?”

  “Of course I was. I have been trying to seduce you for some time now. Have you not noticed?” Unfettered by the concerns that bound him, she lifted her hand and laid it against his cheek.

  “I am never sure with you, Vivian. You have the devil’s own sense of humor.”

  “I am not laughing. I am not teasing. I want to be with you.”

  Oliver let out a soft groan. He curled his hand over hers and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss into her palm. “Dear God, Vivian, do you think I don’t want to be with you? Do you know how often I think of you? How little attention I pay to anything else these days? There is no lack of wanting . . .” He took a half step closer, bending to rest his head against hers. “No matter how much I desire you, you know how ill we would suit.”

  “I am not asking for your hand, my very dear earl. I am not even asking for your heart. I am not a woman suited for either.” Vivian put her hands on his chest and slid them beneath his jacket.

  He sucked in his breath at the feel of her fingers gliding warmly across his chest and down his sides. “Would you have me forgo all honor? How can I in good conscience ruin your good name?”

  “Whatever happens to my name, it is mine to ruin, not yours.” Vivian tilted back her head to look at him. “I am responsible for myself. Surely ’tis not dishonorable for you to take what is freely given.” She smiled faintly and went up on tiptoe, so that her lips were barely a breath away from his. “I do not intend to marry for love or money or family duty. And I have never met another man I wanted except you.”

  “Vivian . . . oh, God, Vivian. Vivian.” Her name was an incantation as he kissed her lips, her cheeks, her throat, interspersing her name with his kisses. “This is madness.”

  She giggled girlishly and, pulling away from him, reached up to pull off the stylish turban she had worn to conceal her hair. Pins came popping loose, and her hair tumbled down over her shoulders in a glory of orange-red flame. Vivian shook her head, running a hand back through her hair to dislodge the remaining pins. She was a vision, he thought, wild and free and beautiful, and it occurred to him that no man could ever truly possess her. She was, as she said, her own, and however much he might curse himself for it, Oliver knew he could not resist her lure.

  Vivian smiled and held out her hand to him. Throwing aside his doubts, Oliver reached out and took it.

  She led him up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  There was no haste in their lovemaking this night. The fevered rush to fulfillment was set aside in favor of long, honeyed kisses and slow caresses. The desire that thrummed in his loins was no less insistent, but Oliver held back, exercising all his control to delay and stoke his pleasure. Slowly he undressed her, as he had been doing in his imagination for the past few days, unfastening, then peeling each garment from her body, revealing with agonizing slowness the pale, satiny skin beneath. Then he stood, skin trembling beneath her fingers, as she did the same to him. It was agonizing and glorious to feel her fingertips feather across him, the little scratch of her nails as they slipped inside his waistband, the damp heat of her lips as she pressed them against the hard centerline of his chest.

  With a low growl, he picked her up and turned, spilling them both across her bed, but even then he did not hurry, but took his time, exploring all the soft dips and curves of her body and luxuriating in the pleasure of her hands and mouth exploring him with the same avid curiosity. When at last he slipped inside her, surging with hunger and need, he moved with deep, long thrusts, letting the passion build inside them both until they were almost desperate for release. Then, with a low cry, the tide of desire broke and washed over them, sending them shuddering over the brink and into the mindless abyss of pleasure.

  They lay warm and boneless in the aftermath of their passion, talking desultorily. Vivian snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder. He idly toyed with the long, fiery strands of her hair.

  “Your hair is like sunset,” he murmured.

  Vivian giggled. “So you say now. I remember when you called me carrot-headed.”

  “Would you hold the follies of my youth against me?”

  “It was last summer. I believe the exact words were ‘that carrot-haired hoyden who used to hang about our house.’”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps I did. But I am sure I never intended for you to hear it.”

  “No, you have always had excellent manners.”

  “Which is more than I can say for you,” he retorted. “You used to drive me mad with your tricks. I don’t know what I ever did to you to deserve such treatment. Frogs between my sheets, salt in the sugar bowl, shaving soap that smelled like lilacs.”

  She laughed. “You didn’t have to do anything. All you had to do was be there, so terribly handsome and so terribly unnoticing of me. You called me a child, as I remember, that summer when I was fourteen and you were just up from Oxford. I had to make you aware I was alive.”

  “I was aware, all right!” He laughed, burying his face in the shiny fall of her hair. “I was aware I would have liked to strangle you.”

  “But you cannot deny that I was unforgettable.” She rolled onto her back to smile at him.

  Oliver propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her, bringing his forefinger up to trace the curve of her cheek and jaw. “You are still unforgettable.” He smiled. “In a much nicer way.” He bent and brushed his lips against her forehead, then her cheek and chin, settling finally on her mouth for a long, deep kiss.

  “Much nicer,” Vivian murmured in agreement.

  Suddenly she stiffened and turned her head, listening. Oliver, too, went still, watching her.

  “What was that? Did you hear something?” she whispered. “It sounded like . . . voices. Outside.”

  There was a knock on the front door, the large brass ring of the knocker rapping sharply upon its plate, echoing through the house like a shot. It was followed a moment later by the indistinct sound of a man’s voice.

  “Gregory!” Vivian shot straight up in bed.

  “What? Here?” Oliver, too, sat up in alarm.

  “Oh, my God! What is he doing here? He’s supposed to be at Marchester!”

  Vivian jumped out of bed and ran to throw on a nightgown. Behind her she heard Oliver let out a low oath and start scrambling for his clothes. Downstairs came the clatter of footsteps as one of the servants ran to open the front door. Vivian went to her door, pulling on her dressing gown and belting it, and opened the door a crack.

  “My lord!” came a voice from below. “Forgive me. I did not realize . . .”

  “Don’t worry,
Thomas. It is I who should apologize for waking everyone up. I should have thought to bring my key.”

  Vivian closed the door softly and turned around. Oliver was dressed, though his neckcloth was wadded up and stuck in a pocket of his jacket and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. He set his jaw and started forward, buttoning his waistcoat, but Vivian stopped him with a raised hand.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “I’m going down to face Seyre.” He raised a brow. “Did you think I would skulk about up here?”

  “Are you mad?” Vivian planted her hands on her hips. “Of all the idiotic notions—what is Gregory supposed to do then, call you out? What would that accomplish, other than make the two of you look extremely foolish? And put my name on everyone’s lips?”

  The mulish look on Oliver’s face eased somewhat reluctantly, and he whispered back, “What would you have me do—climb out the window?”

  “Don’t be absurd. It’s a straight drop. I shall go down and distract Gregory, and you will leave by the front door.”

  “And you called me mad.”

  Vivian held up a finger for silence and opened the door again. Downstairs she heard the front door open again, and she slipped out into the hallway, tiptoeing over to the stairs to peer down. She came scurrying back an instant later.

  “All right. Thomas is bringing up Gregory’s things, and Gregory is still downstairs. I heard him tell Thomas to go on to bed, so as soon as you hear Thomas leave Gregory’s room and go up the servants’ stairs, you go down the stairs and out the front door. I shall take my brother straight back to the study and keep him occupied.” She looked a question at him, and Oliver nodded.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked with some bitterness.

  Vivian couldn’t keep from smiling. “A little.” She cocked her head, listening to Thomas’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. She turned back to Oliver and went up on her tiptoes to give him a quick, hard kiss. Then she slipped out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  Thomas was entering Gregory’s room as she left hers, and she took the time to stop at the mirror in the hallway and check herself. She could see nothing that would give herself away other than the glow of happiness that suffused her face, but she trusted that her brother was unlikely to notice that—or, if he did, to attribute it to the correct cause.

  She ran lightly down the stairs. “Gregory!”

  He pivoted and smiled at her ruefully. “Viv. I do apologize. I hadn’t thought that the servants would be in bed yet—well, really, I didn’t think about it at all. I didn’t mean to awaken you.” He frowned. “Though, come to think of it, it’s a bit early for you, isn’t it? It’s scarcely after one.”

  Vivian chuckled and came forward to hug him. “I do occasionally go to bed before then. I didn’t attend a party tonight.”

  “Are you ill?”

  She made a face. “I do not go out every night.”

  At that moment, her eyes fell on Oliver’s hat, sitting where he had placed it on the hall table. She slipped over and stood in front of the table, shielding the hat with her body.

  “There wasn’t anything terribly exciting happening tonight,” she went on. “But that isn’t important. I want to know what brought you back to London. I didn’t expect to see you again. Come, let’s go to the study where we can sit and be comfortable, and you can tell me why you’re here.” She moved forward, taking his arm and propelling him with her down the hallway.

  He went along easily, not even glancing toward the table behind her, and they strolled down the hall and into the study. He walked across the room to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a drink and offered her a glass of ratafia. She agreed, strolling over to sit down in one of the comfortable armchairs.

  “Now tell me. What are you doing here?” A sudden thought occurred to her, and she said in some alarm, “Is there something wrong with Papa?”

  “No! Oh, no. I’m sorry. You mustn’t think that. I wouldn’t have left if he hadn’t been doing well. He has recovered almost all the use of his arm and leg. He walks with a bit of a limp, but his speech is fine. He has a little trouble reading . . . but then Papa was never much of a reader. No, I left because . . . well, I have been meaning to talk to Townshend.” He named one of his scholarly friends.

  Vivian’s eyebrows rose. “You just saw him when you were here before.”

  “Yes, but the experiments he’s been doing on the properties of—” He broke off, looking at her, and sighed. “I was bored.”

  “Bored?” Vivian stared at him, stunned. “With your books and your experiments and your horses, you were bored?”

  “Even I get bored now and then,” he said somewhat defensively, running a hand back through his hair. “There’s no one about except Papa and the servants. No one to talk to, really, if you aren’t there.”

  “So you came back to London for my company?” Much as she and her brother liked one another, she had never known him to visit London because he missed her conversation.

  “Well, and, you know, activities. People. I’m not entirely unsociable.” He glanced at her, then quickly away.

  “Of course not.” Vivian’s suspicions were aroused even more, but she kept her voice free of any disbelief. “Then perhaps you’ll escort me to another ball or two.”

  “Of course. Whenever you’d like.” He smiled. “Or the theater. Maybe, um, maybe you could make up a party to ride out to Richmond Park one day.”

  Vivian struggled not to show her astonishment. “Yes, if you’d like. Who shall we invite?”

  “I don’t know. Stewkesbury, maybe, he’s a good fellow.”

  For an instance, she froze, wondering if somehow her brother could possibly know about Oliver. But, no, that was ridiculous; no one knew about her and Oliver. No one could.

  Her brother’s next words relieved her momentary fear. “He could bring his cousins, perhaps. Miss Bascombe and her sister.”

  “Camellia!” Vivian leaned forward, grinning. “Gregory! You are interested in Camellia Bascombe!”

  The bright red blush spreading along his cheekbones was confirmation enough.

  “You are! You want me to set up a trip to Richmond so you can spend time with Camellia!”

  “No! I mean—I heard she’s an excellent rider, and I’m sure she would enjoy—oh, Viv, I’m being an utter fool, aren’t I?”

  “Of course not.” Vivian reached out to lay her hand on her brother’s. “There’s nothing foolish about it. I was just surprised—after the party, you sounded as if you weren’t going to pursue her. But Camellia’s a wonderful girl.”

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Seyre smiled, his eyes lighting up as they did when he was on one of his favorite subjects. “I saw her riding in the park before I met her at the Carrs’ party. She rode like she was born to it. And her face!” He jumped to his feet and began to pace, his hands jammed into his pockets. “I enjoyed talking to her. I was able to talk to her without feeling like a fool. She wasn’t empty-headed like most of the girls I’ve met. After I went home, I thought everything would be like always. But nothing appealed. I was bored—if you think that surprises you, just imagine how I felt. I didn’t want to read or write letters or check my experiments. I kept thinking about Miss Bascombe and wondering what she was doing. Imagining her at parties and the theater, talking to other men. And the thought of it made my blood boil.”

  He turned to his sister, astonishment stamped on his features. Vivian had to laugh. “Oh, dear. Have you never felt the pangs of jealousy?”

  “No, I suppose not. Sometimes I’ve envied another man’s ease of address with a woman. But not something like this—wanting to draw some chap’s cork because a lady was dancing with him instead of me. It’s not a comfortable feeling—and I didn’t even see her dancing with anyone. I only thought about it.”

  “Poor Gregory. You do have it badly.” Vivian stood up and went over to him. “But don’t worry. I shall certainly do something to help. I�
��ll send a note round to Eve tomorrow, asking all of them to join our party to Richmond Park. It will make it less obvious if we ask them all. Let’s see, when shall we go? Thursday, do you think?”

  “I defer to your judgment in all things social. But perhaps you oughtn’t to tell her I am accompanying you. She may refuse if she knows I am to be there. I made a proper mull of it when I met her.”

  Vivian looked at him oddly. “How? Whyever would Camellia dislike you?”

  He frowned. “I think, well, this sounds most peculiar, but I think it’s because I’m a marquess.”

  Vivian began to laugh. “Oh, my. That does sound like Cam. Do not worry. Once she has been around you longer, she will lose her distrust of marquesses.” Smitten as her brother appeared to be, Vivian could only hope that Camellia would also see the wonderful person beneath Gregory’s shy demeanor.

  They talked a while longer about the expedition to Richmond Park and whether it was warm enough yet for a picnic. Smothering a yawn, Gregory confessed to being tired.

  “It will doubtless take me a while to become accustomed to the sort of hours you keep,” he told Vivian with a smile.

  They left the study and started toward the stairs. As they emerged into the foyer, Vivian cast a secret glance over at the hall table and was pleased to see that Oliver’s hat was now gone. Trust Oliver, she thought, not to foolishly leave something behind.

  At the top of the stairs, they parted, and Vivian went into her room, closing the door behind her. The lamp on her dresser cast a dim glow across the room, showing the rumpled bed and her clothes, carelessly thrown across bed and chair and floor. Vivian crossed the room and began to pick up the garments to lay them more neatly across the chair. Her maid would never expect her to hang up her clothes, but she might wonder why they were scattered about so carelessly.

  Vivian reached out and touched the crumpled sheets, aware of a faint bittersweet pang as she thought of lying there with Oliver. How different, how sweet it would be, if they were able to lie there talking as they pleased, not having to hide or to part.