An Affair Without End (19 page)

A fierce light leaped into his eyes, surprising her. “I sincerely hope that you don’t go about kissing every man who admires your looks.”

Vivian let out a throaty chuckle that had the same effect on him as her running her fingers up his spine. “No. But you see, I find you attractive, too.”

Oliver swallowed hard and struggled to bring his suddenly scattered thoughts back together. “Vivian, have a care. You should not say such things.”

“Not even to you?”

“No! Bloody hell, I am not made of stone, no matter what you have always thought.”

She smiled at him in a way that he could only deem provocative. “No, I know that you are not.”

“Surely you must realize that there can be nothing between us!” He spoke in a fierce whisper, leaning toward her.

“I know nothing of the kind. Why can’t there be?”

“Because you are a woman of genteel birth, a lady.”

“That does not make me any less a woman.”

“It makes you a woman to whom it is offering a grievous insult to kiss as I have kissed you and not marry. And surely it must be obvious that we could not marry.”

Vivian began to chuckle. “You think that I would not be a proper wife for you?”

“Good Gad, no. I cannot think of anyone less suitable for my wife. You are irreverent; you do not give the slightest thought to what sort of scandal you may cause. You are outspoken and light-minded. Independent. Willful. And stubborn.”

“Am I?” The light of battle came to Vivian’s eyes. “It may shock you to learn that you are not what I would seek in a husband. You are arrogant and overbearing, always certain that you are right. No doubt any wife of yours would spend her life under your thumb. You sermonize; you lecture. You seem to think it is a sin to laugh or enjoy yourself.”

“I have nothing against enjoying myself. I simply do not regard it as the only thing in life.”

“No, the only thing in your life is duty!” she shot back.

“There are some who might be better served to think more about their duty. And their family.”

“You think that I care any less for my family because I do not spend my life doing what others think I should? That is not loving your family. It is living in fear.”

Throughout their conversation, Oliver had been growing progressively stiffer and his steps more forceful, so that they were now whirling about the floor with such energy that other couples moved out of their way. Catching sight of one couple doing so, Vivian’s ready sense of humor bubbled up, and she let out a little laugh.

“Oliver! Are we in a race?”

“What? Blast.” He realized suddenly what he was doing, and chagrined, he forced himself to slow his steps. At least the music was approaching its end. He drew in a long breath and released it. “Well . . . I suppose we can agree that you and I are wrong for each other.”

Vivian looked up at him, and he was struck all over again by her breathtaking beauty. “You are right, of course. We could never be husband and wife.” She smiled, her eyes
lighting with mischief. “But there are other relationships besides marriage, you know.”

Oliver stumbled to a halt, staring at her in shock. Fortunately the music ended so that his abrupt and awkward movement went unnoticed. Vivian smiled and walked away.

Oliver remained immobilized for an instant, then whirled and hurried after her. He grabbed her by the arm and, ignoring her protest, swept her through the nearest door into the hallway outside the ballroom. Several people were standing in the corridor, and laughter rolled out of a room where a number of the guests were playing cards. Oliver turned away from them and whisked Vivian down the hall in the opposite direction.

“Oliver! Really, what are you doing?” Vivian hissed as he ducked into the last room on the right, pulling her with him.

As they stepped inside, he reached out to take a small candelabra from the hallway table and bring it with him, setting it down on a sideboard. He closed the door and turned to face Vivian, his arms crossed. Vivian glanced pointedly around the small room, lit only by the shifting, shadowed light of the single candelabra, then turned back to Oliver, her eyes wide in an exaggeratedly innocent look.

“My lord, whatever are you doing? Dragging me into this cozy, dimly lit room? One could almost think that you were intent on seducing me.”

He ground out an oath. “Don’t joke about such things, Vivian! I am accustomed to your bizarre sense of humor, but others are not.”

“I was not joking. At least, not about the possibility of our having some other relationship than marriage.”

“You can’t—Viv—don’t be absurd.” Oliver could feel the flush mounting in his face, and he felt ten times a fool.
Vivian was making a jest of him; he was sure of it. Yet, he could not stop the heat that rushed through him at her words. He could hardly think with her standing so close to him, her eyes huge and dark in the dim light, her lips curving up in a provocative smile. Her perfume wrapped around him, sweet and seductive.

“For all the things that don’t suit about us,” Vivian said, moving closer to him, “there is one thing that seems to . . .” She was only inches from him now, her face turned up to his.

His brain whirled. All he could think of was the taste of her mouth, the softness of her lips beneath his. His breath rasped in his throat, and he leaned forward. Abruptly he stopped and turned away.

“Bloody hell! Blast it, Vivian, you may be mad, but I am not.” The anger that burst out of him offered some release. “We cannot have an affair. Surely you are not seriously suggesting that.”

“With most men, I would not have to be the one suggesting it,” Vivian retorted. “Is your blood really so cool?”

He gaped at her. “Now I am at fault because I have some concern for your reputation?”

“My reputation does not have to suffer. I presume you know how to be discreet.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“We are both mature adults, free to do as we please, well aware of the ways of the world. Why should we not act on what we feel?”

“Think about what you are saying! Someday you will marry, and you would not want . . .” He fumbled to a halt. “I mean to say, there must not be any question—it’s not the same as if you were a widow. You would not want there to be any doubt that you . . .” Oliver could feel the blush
spreading across his cheeks, and he felt even more a fool, something that was becoming a common occurrence where Vivian was concerned.

She raised an eyebrow coolly at him. “Exactly why do you presume I am so innocent?”

Oliver stared, shock mingling with an upswell of lust, followed by a sudden, vicious stab of jealousy. His hands tightened into fists at his side. What man had seduced her? Who had lain beside her, stroked her smooth white body, opened her legs and moved between them? Fury rolled through him, red and hot, and he had to struggle to retain control of himself.

“Anyway,” Vivian went on lightly, turning and strolling away, “I have no intention of marrying.” She stopped, putting one hand on the back of a chair and turning to face him. “There is no need for me to marry. And I see no advantage to a woman in the married state. So why marry?”

“Surely protection, security, children, love, a home and family . . .” He managed to keep his voice as even and unconcerned as hers despite the emotions roiling inside him.

“I have a home. I have a family. My father’s name and my brother’s provide me ample protection and position. As for children . . .” She shrugged. “Jerome has children, and someday Gregory may marry and have children. I can dote on them if I feel the urge. That leaves nothing but love, and I do not think that love is for me.”

“Don’t be nonsensical.”

“I’m not. Tell me, Oliver, do you plan to marry for love?” She folded her arms, watching him.

He started to speak, then stopped, knowing that to say anything other than no would be a lie. He glared at her for a long moment, then turned on his heel and left the room.

Camellia was bored. The evening had begun well enough. It had been fun to get dressed with Lily in their elegant new gowns from Madame Arceneaux, Lady Vivian’s favorite modiste. Much to their surprise, Stewkesbury had presented each of them with a pearl necklace, appropriate for a young girl making her come-out, in honor of the occasion. The necklaces were lovely, but more than that, Camellia had been warmed by the thought behind the gift. Perhaps the earl was coming to see them as more than just an obligation.

The pleasant feeling had lasted until they arrived at the party. Lily, of course, had been compelled to stand in the line to receive guests along with the Carrs, and Stewkesbury had stayed with them. Camellia had escaped with Fitz and Eve. It was easy and fun talking to them, but before long Eve was introducing her to this lady and that young man, and Camellia was faced with remembering names, as well as all the things she should not say or do. She simply could not commit some social sin at this party, which was so important to Lily. As a result, Camellia said as little as possible and smiled until her face ached.

She saw Vivian a time or two during the evening, usually dancing or talking to a group of people, but she had always been at a distance, and so Camellia had not even spoken with her. Camellia was now standing with a group of young people to whom Eve had introduced her. Her feet hurt from her new slippers; her head ached from the mass of hair piled and twisted and pinned on her head; and even her back was tired from standing all evening. Worst of all, she was utterly, incredibly bored.

No, that was not the worst, she corrected herself a moment later, for she saw Dora Parkington strolling toward them, accompanied by two young men who were falling all
over themselves to vie for her attention. Dora and the young men paused to chat with some of the people in Camellia’s group, and Camellia was grateful that she was standing at the farthest point from Dora. Camellia saw Dora’s eyes flicker toward her, then quickly away.

“Such a lovely ball, don’t you agree, Miss Parkington?” one of the girls closest to Dora said. It was, Camellia reflected, a variation on the same remark she had heard at least fifty times this evening. She had even, God help her, said it herself.

Dora smiled as if it were a new and interesting question and nodded her head in agreement. “Yes, Lady Carr is such an elegant hostess.” There was a murmur of agreement. “You would never realize, from looking at her, what a disappointment this must be for her. I mean, everyone knows Neville was supposed to marry Lady Priscilla, but now, of course, she will have an
American
as a daughter-in-law. One cannot help but feel sorry for her.”

Camellia stiffened, anger surging up in her. One of the other girls glanced over at Camellia, and Dora followed her gaze. Dora let out a little gasp of surprise, her hand flying up to her mouth.

“Oh!” she cried in a sweet little voice, suddenly all blushes and stammers. “I’m sorry. I did not see you there, Miss Bascombe.”

That, Camellia knew, was a lie. She had seen the girl look at her, and she was certain that Dora had insulted Lily on purpose to get a rise out of Camellia. But Camellia kept a firm grip on her temper. She wasn’t about to let this girl draw her into a fight, in which Camellia, would naturally, come out looking like an uncouth American.

“I didn’t mean anything bad,” Dora went on appealingly. “I would never say anything to hurt anyone.”

One of the suitors and another girl immediately began to murmur assurances that of course she would not. Camellia simply gave her a long, even look.

“It’s quite all right, Miss Parkington,” Camellia said. “I am sure that no one gave any weight to your words.”

Beside Camellia, another young lady snickered, quickly smothering it. Dora’s eyes widened in dramatic hurt, then filled with great crystal tears.

“Oh, p-please, Miss Bascombe, do not be so unkind. I don’t know what I shall do if you don’t forgive me.”

Dora looked, Camellia thought, like a doll, perfect and porcelain, tears trembling on her dark lashes, and if Camellia had not been certain that Dora had arranged the entire scene, she would probably have felt sorry for her. One of the young men whipped out his handkerchief for Dora to dry her eyes, and one of the girls patted Dora’s hand, shooting Camellia an accusing glare. Camellia’s hands curled into fists, and she was aware of a strong desire to jab Dora right in her adorably pouting mouth.