An Affair Without End (13 page)

The other man smiled tolerantly. “It is difficult for a man of the duke’s vigor to accept a decline in health.”

Gregory saw Dr. Mullard out and returned to his father’s bedroom. Vivian was just leaving the room as he came up.

“I looked in on him, and Papa was sleeping,” she told her brother. “Blevins is sitting watch over him, so I did not try to dislodge him. Later, I’ll relieve him for a bit and make him go down to eat supper and take a rest.”

“He will sleep on a cot in Papa’s room, I’m sure.”

“I know.” Vivian smiled a little. “One can only wonder what Papa has done to inspire such loyalty in his valet, especially given the way he’s wont to roar at him.”

Gregory shrugged. “Somehow the man manages to make everyone overlook his faults. Haven’t you always done so?”

“I suppose I have.” Vivian linked her arm through her brother’s as they strolled down the hall toward the upstairs sitting room. “Do you think he will be all right?”

“It’s hard to imagine him being anything less than he’s always been.” Gregory frowned. “It scared the devil out of me when I saw him stretched out on the floor like that.”

“I’m sure it did. Poor Gregory. I’m sorry you were left to deal with all this.”

He smiled faintly. “Actually, it gave me an excuse to toss out Tarrington and the others, which I rather enjoyed. It’s impossible to get any useful work done when they are about. You’d think fifty- and sixty-year-old men would have given up singing drinking songs and ‘view hallooing’ at all hours of the day and night.”

“They were probably even worse after I left.”

“Oh, yes. I woke up the other morning to see one of the wenches from the tavern scampering down the hall in her shift. I think next time I will arrange to go to one of the other houses when he invites them. Though I would hate to have to abandon my experiments in the greenhouse.”

Vivian could not help but chuckle. “Ah, Gregory, sometimes I wonder how you came to be in this frivolous family.”

He smiled faintly. “Yes. I would be somewhat dubious about our mother’s fidelity if I did not look so much a Carlyle. But I would be embarrassed to say I took after our mother’s side, given what dunderheads our cousins are.”

“That’s true. Better by far to claim the Carlyle blood.” She sank down on a sofa in the sitting room, and Gregory sat down beside her, letting out a sigh.

“Did it used to be this bad?” he asked. “I don’t remember his carousing with his friends when we were younger.”

“No doubt we saw less of it stuck up in the nursery. But I think he probably kept it confined to London more then. I always thought he lived in London so much because he thought we were too much of a nuisance, but perhaps it was actually to protect our childish eyes and ears. When he brought friends to the Hall, the party usually included women. I think they were more sedate.”

“If one can call Lady Kitty sedate,” Gregory said with a fond smile.

“Well, no, she was not that. But, while she was Papa’s mistress, at least there weren’t tavern wenches running up and down the halls.”

“True. You know, I used to wish he would marry Lady Kitty.”

“Did you?” Vivian smiled. “I did, too. I had no idea she was married already.”

“Me, either, at least until after I’d gone off to school. Though I do remember our grandmother once ringing a peal over Papa about bringing Kitty to Marchester.”

“Oh, Lord, the dowager duchess!” Vivian gave a theatrical shudder. “How I hated her visits.”

“You think
you
did!” her brother said feelingly. “She didn’t lecture you about the duties of a duke.”

“No, only about all the things the ducal daughter owed her family. Fortunately, at the time I understood only half of what she was saying. ‘Keeping our bloodlines strong’—I mean, really. One would think the woman had never talked to a child.”

“Mm. I think perhaps she never spoke to her own four,” Gregory suggested.

“Or perhaps she did, and that is why our aunts are all so odd.”

“And live so far away.”

“Ah, Gregory.” Vivian sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I am so glad that you are my brother. Please promise me you will never marry someone horrid.”

“I shall do my utmost not to. Given how I’ve felt about most of the young women I’ve met, I rather imagine that I shall remain a bachelor.”

“And leave the estate to one of Jerome’s sons?” Vivian asked with some horror.

Gregory laughed. “I fear so. However obnoxious they are, I cannot bring myself to marry just to keep them from the title. Perhaps they will not be as bad when they are grown. Jerome is all right.”

“But Jerome was all right when he was a child, too.” Vivian glanced over at her brother. “You look tired. You should lie down before supper. It cannot have been easy for you the last few days.”

“I think I can bear up under it. However, I do think I will freshen up a bit. And I need to write a letter or two. I suspect we’ll have our hands full for a while.”

“No doubt.” Vivian looked over at him. She wanted to ask him again if he thought their father would be all right,
but she firmly repressed the urge. Gregory knew no better than she whether the duke would live, and it was scarcely fair to put the burden of reassurance on him.

After Gregory left, however, she could not ignore the tendrils of fear slithering through her. She let out a shaky breath and got up, searching for something that would distract her. She thought of Camellia and their plans to drive in the phaeton through the park tomorrow, so she sat down at the small secretary beside the window and wrote to her friend, explaining the circumstances and postponing the drive. Then she dug several invitations out of the desk drawer and dashed off notes canceling her attendance at parties over the next week. She was sure Gregory was right in saying that they would have plenty to occupy them for a while. Their father was not the most tractable of patients, and she could imagine how he would react to being laid up in bed and fed the bland, thin soups and gruels and such that his doctor had advised.

But such activities could not keep her fear at bay, and after supper, when she shooed the duke’s valet off to eat and rest while she sat with the duke, her fear returned even more strongly. Instead of raging about the doctor’s prognosis and plans for him, Marchester was unusually passive, simply nodding in acquiescence to her suggestion that she read to him. She was not sure he was listening, for at times he closed his eyes or stared out into space, as though his mind were elsewhere, but she plowed through the volume of Swift, knowing that it was, at least, one of her father’s favorites.

After a couple of hours, Gregory came in to relieve her. “I’ll read to him for an hour or two,” he said, holding up a large leatherbound volume.

“If it’s one of the sort you usually read, it’ll put him to sleep in five minutes.” Vivian was pleased to hear a low
grunt from her father that she took for assent or a laugh—or perhaps both. She turned to the bed and leaned over to kiss her father on the cheek. “You’ll be feeling more lively tomorrow. Good night. Sleep well.”

With a final pat on his shoulder, she left the room. Once she was outside in the hallway, she let herself sag back against the wall. She could only pray that her encouraging words would prove true. At the moment she could not quite believe them herself.

As she stood there, she heard a knock at the door, and a moment later the footman opened it. She was about to turn away, not wanting any visitors tonight, when she heard a familiar voice downstairs asking for her.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” the footman began, “but her ladyship is indispo—”

Vivian whirled and hurried down the steps. “Oliver! It’s all right, Jenks, I am here.”

She reached the foot of the staircase and turned toward the door, where the footman was taking Lord Stewkesbury’s hat and caped coat from him. He looked so solid, so calm and assured, that the little knot inside her chest eased and tears suddenly sprang to her eyes.

“Oh, Oliver! I am so glad you came.” She walked toward him, holding out her hands, and he moved forward to take both her hands in his.

“Vivian. I came as soon as Camellia told me. Are you all right? How is your father?”

She smiled, blinking away the moisture in her eyes. She felt much better, she realized, with Oliver’s hands wrapped warmly around hers. “I am fine. And Papa is . . . well, I cannot truthfully say that he is fine, but he is here and, Gregory says, better than he was. Please, come in and sit.” She turned toward the drawing room, and he went with her, taking her hand and pulling it through his arm, keeping
his other hand on hers as they walked. “Would you like something to drink. Shall I ring for some port?”

“No, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Come, sit down and tell me about it.” He led her over to a couch and sat down beside her. Vivian made no move to withdraw her hand from his. “Camellia knew nothing other than you said your father had come to London, ill.”

“Yes, Gregory brought him, thinking that he would be better served by a London physician. It seems he had a fit of apoplexy. Gregory explained it a bit to me. He, of course, had done a little reading on it. He said it is when a blood vessel in your brain bleeds.”

Stewkesbury nodded. “Yes, it happened to my grandfather. But your father did not—”

She shook her head. “He lost consciousness and fell, but he is still with us. At least for the time being. The doctor said he could have another one.” Her hand gripped his more tightly.

“Do not think of that. I am sure it is a good sign that he has not had a recurrence already.”

She nodded. “Yes. No doubt. And Gregory said that he is already able to”—her voice hitched a little—“to speak a little better and to move his arm some. But, oh, Oliver!” Vivian turned her face up to his, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “If you had but seen him. You know how he is, how strong, how alive! To see him lying there in his bed, so pale and weak, listless. There is no glitter in his eyes, no warmth or laughter. It sounds foolish, I know, but for the first time I realized that he is growing old. I realized that he might die!”

Vivian jumped to her feet, beginning to pace. “I can hardly bear to see him so. I know how it must gall him to be unable to get out of bed and do what he wants, to lie there while others take care of him, read to him. To be unable to make a quip or a compliment.” She stopped, pressing her
hand to her lips, fighting the tears that threatened to wash over her.

“Vivian . . .” Oliver rose and went to her.

“You were right in what you said about him the other night.”

“Do not think about that. I had no right to speak about your father in that way.”

Vivian shook her head. “It made me angry, but I knew you were right. No doubt he did not raise us as he should have. He was never an . . . attentive father. Nor has his life been exemplary. He is a man who indulged his vices. Gambling and drinking and . . . well, others you would be shocked for me to know about. But I love him. And if he dies . . .” Tears began to spill out and run down over her cheeks. “I don’t know how I would bear it!”

She began to cry, and Oliver wrapped his arms around her, gently pulling her to him. “Of course you love him.” He smoothed his hand up and down her back, murmuring low words of comfort. “It will be all right.”

Vivian clung to him as she wept. It felt so good, so warm in his arms, and the anxiety of the past few hours poured out of her. She did not think of what she was doing or how odd it was that Oliver should be the one to comfort her or even of how they stood in her drawing room where any servant might look in and see them. All she could do was luxuriate in the peace and security of being held by him.

Gradually her tears slowed, then stopped, and for a moment longer she remained in his arms, tired by her crying bout but more at peace. His heart beat steadily beneath her ear, and his warmth enfolded her. She felt the rise and fall of his breath against her face. She breathed in the scent of him, a mingling of man and cologne, tinged with the merest whiff of tobacco and port. He must have been indulging in a postsupper cigar and glass of port when he heard Camellia’s
news. It surprised and warmed her to think that he had come over immediately, abandoning his evening’s relaxation. Vivian let out a little sigh, nestling closer to him.

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.