An Affair Without End

by Candace Camp

  “How like you to say that.” Oliver smiled, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “Any other woman would have assured me that I am never a fool. And what does it make me that I would far prefer your words?”

  “Ah . . . that is the thing that makes you not a fool.”

  “I worry about your reputation,” he went on soberly. “I know you are cavalier about it, but I cannot help but be concerned. I know I should stop. I tell myself so time and again. Someone is bound to suspect if we keep on. And yet . . . I cannot make myself end it.”

  “There is no need to end it.” Vivian leaned back and smiled up at him. “It will happen as it happens. Oliver, for once, why don’t you let go and enjoy the moment? Forget about planning or controlling or making things fit. Just be . . . happy.”

  He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then rested his cheek against her hair again. “All right. If you ask it, I shall try.”

  He had lost his mind, Oliver thought as he walked home half an hour later. A strong desire was inside him to smile at nothing and to nod cheerfully at people he didn’t know. He could not stop the aura of goodwill and supreme satisfaction that floated within him like a cloud. Indeed, he could not even bring himself to wish it were not there. After all, nothing was wrong in feeling good, or unusual about a man’s being content and satisfied after a bout of vigorous sexual union.

  The problem was that it was all part of the madness that had afflicted him for the past month. The madness that was Vivian Carlyle. He realized that he was smiling just at the thought of her, desire stirring again in his loins. What the devil was he doing? What was he going to do?

  He knew the correct course of action. The honorable thing. He should end the affair. End it immediately before any real harm was done. No one knew about it; there were no whispers or rumors. They could part now, and no one would be the wiser; Vivian’s reputation would not suffer.

  It was up to him to stop it, he knew. Vivian would never be that rational, that cool-minded. A woman of fire and impulse, she did as she pleased and let the world be damned. She would not take the steps necessary to protect herself. So he had to be the one to think instead of feel, to do what should be done instead of what he wanted to do. That was usually the case, and Oliver was long accustomed to it. It had been he who had shipped Royce off to their Scottish lodge to get him away from his disastrous love for Lord Humphrey Carlyle’s wife. It had been he who had fished Fitz out of all sorts of tangles at Oxford and when he was first on the town. When Oliver’s American cousins had shown up in London, he had not hesitated to take them in and establish them as English ladies.

  Oliver did not mind being the responsible one. He had accepted that role long ago when his grandfather had made it clear that their family’s future rested in his hands, not his feckless father’s. The old earl had prepared him for it, taught him and helped him, and Oliver had been perfectly willing to be the head of the family. If pressed, he would admit that he enjoyed the role. He liked to plan; he liked to solve problems; he liked to set things right. Until Vivian.

  For the first time in his life, he knew what he should do, but he could not bring himself to do it. He could not bring himself to give her up, not even for her own good. Just the thought of not seeing her again made his chest tighten and his throat close up, so that he felt as if he could not breathe.

  There was another option. He could marry Vivian.

  But that was unthinkable. Every time the idea popped into his head, he had shaken it off immediately. He could not marry Vivian. Aside from the very real, quite lowering probability that Vivian would not even accept his proposal, the unalterable fact was that he and Vivian would make the most dreadful match. They were fire and ice, night and day. He was rational, responsible—yes, he would admit it, he was staid—whereas she . . . she was all glittering beauty, impulsive and emotional, like quicksilver. His calm, his propensity to plan, his tendency to consider all the things that might go wrong with a course of action would drive her to a fury. They always had. How much more so if she had to live with him night and day?

  It was all very well right now, when the things she did made him laugh even while he shook his head over her foolhardiness, when her impulsive actions were as arousing and deeply satisfying as what she had done today. But eventually, he knew, that would change. If he were tied to her, it would not be so easy to overlook her eccentricities. She would come to be infuriating rather than entrancing. Once this intense hunger she inspired in him died down, Vivian would begin to grate on his nerves. Attraction only lasted for so long; after that, a married couple needed mutual interests and agreeable personalities to get along.

  Look at the way his own father and stepmother had fought. He could not count the number of their jealous accusations and bouts of temper. Of course, those had been followed by equally emotional reconciliations. They were a tempestuous couple. And they had been in love.

  Oliver was anything but tempestuous. Nor was he in love with Vivian. He could not be. What he felt around her was excitement. Exhilaration. Lust. That was not enough for marriage. He was not fool enough to try to convince himself that it was. He would not salvage the situation by marrying Vivian. Which left him no choice but to leave her.

  Oliver stopped. He had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t realized how quickly and how far he had walked. He was standing only a few feet from his house. He looked up at the great gray stone edifice of Stewkesbury House. He thought about going inside and working on his accounts. He would have dinner with Camellia and Fitz and Eve, then go to the library and spend the evening reading. Or he could go to his club. Perhaps among all the invitations on the hall table, a party would interest him. All things that had nothing to do with Vivian.

  He knew he would do none of them. He would go see Vivian. In all probability, he would get caught up in one of her mad schemes. No doubt he would regret it. But, however foolish it might be, he could not give her up. Not yet.

  Chapter 18

  Vivian was sitting in the drawing room when the butler announced Lord Stewkesbury. She put aside the hoop of embroidery she had halfheartedly been working on and stood to greet him.

  “Stewkesbury.” He looked, she thought, especially handsome in his dark driving coat, decorated at the shoulders with several capes.

  “Lady Vivian.” He took her hand and bowed formally, his eyes gleaming at her in a way that told Vivian he was remembering what they had done this afternoon.

  “Come. Sit down, and tell me what brings you here tonight.” Vivian gestured politely toward the sofa.

  “Must I have an excuse to pay a call on you?” he countered, sitting down.

  “No, indeed. It is just that I find you usually have a reason for whatever you do.” She paused, and when he said nothing, she went on, “What are your plans for the evening?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I’ll go to my club.” With elaborate casualness, he added, “What party are you attending this evening?”

  “I had not planned to go to any.” Vivian’s eyes were steady on his.

  “No?” His eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

  Vivian chuckled. “Why, go to that tavern your Runner told you about, just as you intend to do.”

  He grimaced. “Devil take it! I knew you would.”

  “Of course. That’s precisely why you came here.”

  He scowled at her. “Don’t be nonsensical.”

  “Then you are not going to the Dancing Bear?”

  “Yes, I’m going,” he admitted gruffly. “But you are not.” As she began to smile, he added quickly, “And I didn’t come here to take you to it, whatever you might think. I came to make sure you don’t go.”

  “Oliver, I’m not sure—are you lying only to me or to yourself as well?”

  He frowned even more fiercely for a moment, then relaxed, letting out a soft groan. “I’m not sure. I may be lying to myself more than anyone.” He leaned back, rubbing his hands across his face. �
�You shouldn’t go. I shouldn’t let you.”

  “What nonsense.” She thought it was better, perhaps, not to remind him that he had no control over her. So she turned the conversation to another path. “I have my costume ready.”

  “You are not going as a bird of paradise.” He shot upright again.

  “Of course not. That was a jest. I am going as a boy.”

  “You will never pass as one.”

  “Wait right here. I will show you.”

  Shortly Vivian came back into the room, wearing the rough shoes, collarless shirt, and breeches of a working-class boy. Oliver stood up, his eyes going to the swell of her breasts beneath the large shirt, then to the nicely shaped calves exposed by the breeches.

  “However large your shirt may be, there is no disguising that you are a woman,” he told her severely.

  “That is why I am wearing a jacket.” Vivian held up the long jacket she carried and put it on, buttoning it up so that it covered the curving shape of her body. Then she pulled a soft cap out of the pocket of the jacket and settled it on her head, pulling it down so that it covered every bit of her hair. “There. You see?”

  She faced him, plunging her hands in the pockets of the jacket and standing with her legs a little apart, adopting a look of defiance.

  “If you look like a boy, then I have a problem because all I can think is that I would like to kiss you.”

  Vivian laughed. “Go ahead. I won’t be shocked.”

  He reached out and gripped her shoulders, pulling her to him, and kissed her thoroughly. “Vivian . . . ,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers. “Don’t you see it won’t work? You are far too beautiful to be a boy.”

  “I’m not finished.” Vivian reached in her other pocket and took out two small bags. The first one held several small rounded objects.

  “What the devil are those?” Oliver peered at them.

  “Plumpers. Haven’t you ever seen an old lady wearing them? They make their cheeks look fuller and therefore younger.”

  She carefully placed them between her cheeks and jaw, filling out the delicate lines of her jaw. Then she opened the other bag and smeared some of the dirt inside it over her forehead and cheeks. She turned to Oliver again, posing.

  “Now you look like a dirty pretty woman with odd lumps.”

  “You are impossible.” Vivian slapped at his arm playfully. “The tavern will not be well lit. No one will be able to see me well enough to tell.”

  “Do you need some clothes?” Vivian asked. “I got some larger things for you, as well.”

  He shook his head, silently unbuttoning his coat and opening it to show Vivian the rough work clothes he wore underneath.

  “You came prepared. You intended to take me with you all along, didn’t you?”

  “Only if you were planning to go without me.” He paused. “Would you have gone if I had not dropped by?”

  Vivian smiled. “I knew you would come. And if you had not, I would have gone to fetch you.”

  “I feared you might invite Cam to go with you.”

  “I thought about it. But if it were discovered, it would hurt her reputation. Besides, I decided that your size was more imposing.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” Oliver started toward the door, stepping back politely to allow her through first.

  “What is Cam doing tonight?” Vivian asked as she walked past him. “At a party with Eve?”

  He shook his head. “No. She was tired and decided to stay home. So thankfully she is in bed, and I don’t have to worry about her.”

  Camellia inched her bedroom door open and peered out. The hall was empty, the house quiet. Eve and Fitz had left an hour before for a soiree and hopefully would not be back for several hours. The servants had finally gone up to their rooms.

  She turned back and threw on her cloak over her white dress. It was a trifle warm, but the black cloak with its concealing hood was much better for blending into the background than her fashionable new cloak, which was lighter in both weight and color and had a distinctive edging of pale blue braid. Picking up her pistol from the dresser, she slipped it into the capacious pocket of the cloak, then bent to check that the small scabbard belted around her right calf was still in place, the knife inside it easy to slide out. She pulled a small bag from her dresser and stuck it in the other pocket. Turning, she cast a last glance over the room. The pillows looked realistic enough under the bedcovers, the nightcap stuffed with a nightgown peeking just above the cover—or at least hopefully they would look so with the room dark.

  Camellia blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, then opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Her heart thumping, she tiptoed to the stairway and peered over the rail to the wide expanse of the entry hall below. A footman was seated on the bench by the door, head tilted back against the wall, catching a few winks while he waited for the occupants of Stewkesbury House to return home. She would have to take the longer route by the back stairway.

  Camellia started quietly down the hall, pushing aside her guilt at deceiving everyone. She hated to lie to the people she cared about, and she had felt low and guilty telling everyone at supper that she was tired and wanted to retire early. It had been doubly aggravating since she had, for once, actually wanted to attend the party Eve and Fitz were going to. She had hoped that Lord Seyre might be there. Not, of course, that she was interested in him the way all the other young women were. It was absurd to think that there could be anything romantic between her and a man who would someday be a duke. But he was nice and easy to talk to, with interesting things to say, unlike most of the men she met. And if she was honest about it, she would have to admit that he wasn’t hard on the eyes, either. She liked his dark brown hair, warmed by red highlights, and she found it somehow charming that it always looked vaguely mussed. His eyes, so green and thoughtful, crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His long, lean form was pleasant to look at, as well.

  But that was neither here nor there. However guilty she might feel, however much she might have liked to see the marquess, she had more pressing problems to attend to. Yesterday when they had returned from Richmond Park, she had seen Cosmo lurking about near the house. She had gone over to send him away before anyone saw him, and he had pressed a note into her hand.

  “Come meet me, Cammy,” he had whined. “Please, you have to. You know I don’t want to do anything to hurt you. But I gotta give him something. He’ll kill me. You gotta help me.”

  Camellia had little liking for Cosmo Glass; she had despised her stepfather almost from the moment she met him, and nothing she had seen of him since had changed her opinion. But real fear had been in Cosmo’s face yesterday, which she found hard to ignore. Besides, she knew what Cosmo was like when he was scared; he might very well tell everyone Camellia was his daughter instead of his stepdaughter, simply lashing out in his desperation. That would embroil them all in a scandal, including Oliver and Lily, and she could not let that happen.

  So Camellia had decided that she must meet him tonight as he had asked and do whatever she could to keep him from spreading his lies about her. This afternoon she had asked a few careful questions of one of the maids and spent some time poring over a map of the city, and she was reasonably certain that she would be able to find the address Cosmo had written on the note. But even though Camellia was not easily frightened, she did wish that the man had set the time for this afternoon instead of after dark. If nothing else, it would have made getting out of the house easier.

  Camellia paused at the servants’ stairwell, listening for any sound from above or below. When she heard nothing, she started down, hoping no squeak of the boards would betray her.

  She made it down to the kitchen without any noise and let out a sigh of relief when she saw that the kitchen was empty. She started toward the back door, then froze. Whirling, she saw Pirate, the earl’s dog, happily trotting out from his favorite spot when the earl was gone, the little space beneath the back stair
case where he liked to hide his dubious treasures. He wagged his little stump of a tail vigorously and bounded forward, his mouth open and his tongue lolling out in that way that looked as if he were maniacally smiling. Perhaps he was, Camellia thought; Pirate seemed to have a nose for getting into trouble.

  “No, Pirate!” Camellia hissed, and waved her hand toward his den beneath the stairs. “Go back. You can’t come.”

  The animal ignored her words, trotting up to her and rearing up on his hind legs to plant his front paws firmly on her knee, still wagging and grinning enthusiastically. Camellia tried to shoo him away, but then he went into a little dance in which he jumped back and forth in front of her, his hindquarters going up in the air and his front legs bowing down. His eyes gleamed in the dim light. Camellia had seen this dance often enough to know what would come next—he would start to bark merrily. Hastily, she opened the door and slipped outside, but Pirate squeezed like an eel between her and the doorjamb and shot out into the back garden.

  “Blast! Pirate!” Camellia hissed.

  The dog sniffed the air and trotted off to mark his favorite spots. Camellia stood for a moment, assailed by indecision. If she tried to chase Pirate down and force him back inside, it might very well make enough noise to wake one of the servants. But if she left him alone here in the garden, he would doubtless become bored and start barking to get back in, which would definitely wake the servants. Still, on the whole, that seemed the wiser course. Even if someone had to get up and let the dog in, wouldn’t he simply assume that someone had forgotten to let Pirate in earlier? They wouldn’t go check her room to make sure she was there.

  She eased over to the back gate and opened it, easing quietly out. Even though he had been a good thirty feet from her the last she looked, suddenly Pirate shot past her. He stopped and whirled around to face her, wagging.

  “Pirate!” Camellia hissed, afraid to raise her voice. She did her best to shoo him back, but it didn’t work, so she reached out to grab him. He darted away, and she ran after him. He stopped at the end of the walkway, regarding her expectantly, but as soon as she bent to pick him up, he scampered away. They proceeded halfway down the block in this manner before Camellia stopped with a sigh.