An Affair Without End (30 page)

“I am well aware that you consider me an old fussbudget,” he began gravely.

“No, indeed—you are not
old.
” Vivian’s eyes twinkled up at him.

Though he obviously struggled not to, Oliver gave in and smiled. “Do you win every argument?”

“Hardly any with you. ’Tis fortunate that I enjoy the struggle almost as much as winning.”

“Vivian . . .” He sighed. “I cannot help but think that you want to go to this gambling den yourself and find out what happened to that blasted brooch.”

“You know me well.”

“Can you not this once consider your reputation?” he asked in a weary voice.

“Women go to gambling clubs.”

“Not unmarried young ladies. Yes, sometimes women do frequent the better sort of places, but it is always married
women and never without an escort. It would put paid to your reputation to show up there, especially since you haven’t any idea what kind of place it is. It could be the worst sort of gambling hell.”

“That is what I asked Mr. Mounthaven. He said it is a perfectly respectable club, although he characterized it as being the sort of place old men favor, ones who are not as full of pluck and daring as he.”

“Meaning ones who are not as intent on running themselves into the basket as he is. The man’s a fool.”

“I’m sure he is, but not the kind of fool who would not realize a place was a gambling hell.”

“I will admit that,” Stewkesbury allowed somewhat grudgingly. “Still, for
you
to go there . . .”

“I am not entirely unmindful of the proprieties,” Vivian told him loftily. “I would wear a mask, of course.”

He let out a crack of laughter. “Hah! That would do it, no doubt. I am sure no one would look at your hair and know immediately who it was.”

“That is easily enough taken care of. I can wear a turban. They are quite fashionable, and I saw a rather splendid one the other day in the window of a millinery shop. It was deep blue, with the most dashing peacock feather curling over it.”

Oliver let out a groan. “That does it. Now you will
have
to go, if only to wear that hat.”

“It does make the excursion even more appealing.”

“You cannot go without an escort, and this time I refuse to let you talk me into it.”

Vivian shrugged. “I would prefer your escort, of course, but if you won’t, you won’t. I shall have to ask Mr. Mounthaven.”

She could hear Oliver’s teeth grinding, and the look he sent her was lethal. “Bloody hell, Vivian . . . you never play fair, do you?”

“I find it is more useful not to.” She smiled up at him. “Come, Oliver, would it really be so terrible? I shall be disguised. I’ll even wear a domino if you want. It will be an adventure—and one that is without risk, really. What could be better?”

He let out a hefty sigh. “I am sure I will regret this . . . but, yes, I will escort you.”

“Tomorrow evening then?”

“Doubtless I will get no peace until we go, so, yes, tomorrow evening.” He turned to face her, a faint smile on his lips. “You will be the death of me.”

“No, do not say that!” Vivian’s brows drew together. “Do I really make you so unhappy?”

He looked faintly surprised. “No. By God, sometimes I wish you did. You make me . . .
afraid
is too strong a word.
Apprehensive,
let’s say.
Unsettled
.”

Vivian smiled in that way that made men weak, her lips curving upward seductively, her eyes lighting with promise. “
Unsettled
. I like
unsettled
.”

“You would. Vivian . . . about what I said to you at Sir Rufus’s house.”

“Nay.” She raised her hand as though to cover his mouth, but stopped and let her hand fall. “I do not wish to talk about that here. Not in the midst of a party.”

“I was not angry at you; that is all I wish to say. Only at myself. And I was wrong to . . . to be so churlish.”

“I have been around men who have drunk too deep before. I have seen them the morning after, as well.”

“But I am not that sort.”

“I know you are not.” Her voice was quiet. “And, in truth, however much I tease you about your staidness, that quality is something I find I like about you. Not,” she added with a teasing smile, “that you were not most amusing when you were in your cups.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sir Rufus is a wily old rascal. He was determined to keep us there for company.”

Vivian chuckled. “Yes. But I, for one, cannot regret it.” She cast him a challenging look.

He held her gaze for a long moment, then said ruefully, “Bloody hell, woman, neither can I.”

The following evening Lord Stewkesbury was admitted to Carlyle Hall just as Vivian descended the staircase. He looked up at her and barely managed to keep his jaw from dropping open. She was dressed in a gown of rich deep blue velvet that lay like a midnight sky against the creamy white tops of her breasts. Her colorful hair was piled atop her head and covered by a turban of blue silk, with a peacock feather curving over it, catching the light in its gleaming colors. Sapphire drops hung from her ears. A half mask covered the upper part of her face.

She was, he had to admit, in disguise, but she was in no way likely to go unnoticed. He could only hope that with the mask and the turban she would not be recognized—though he was certain that he would instantly have known her. How could anyone mistake those vivid green eyes, more highlighted than hidden by the black satin mask around them? And the full mouth and stubborn, pointed chin could belong to no one else. Her figure was recognizable as well, and he decided reluctantly that she had to wear a domino, as she had offered. It was a shame to cover the glory of that white bosom swelling over the top of the blue gown, but he imagined few men of the
ton
would not find her form familiar after years of seeing her at parties.

He stood still until he managed to push down the swift and forceful desire that had surged in him the moment he saw her. It was, he knew, the height of folly to continue to put himself in Vivian’s presence. She tested his vaunted
control much too often. Much too deeply. Yet, he could not seem to keep from placing himself in temptation’s way. It hadn’t been necessary for him to agree to accompany her to this club tonight. A dozen men, including ones far more honorable than Mounthaven, would have been happy to escort her. But he could not think of her being escorted by any other man without his blood beginning to boil.

He did not want Vivian going there—or, indeed, anywhere—with another man, even with a man whom he could trust not to dishonor her or encourage her in one of her mad, willful schemes. He wanted to be the man beside her, the one who heard her laugh and saw her smile, the one who brought a glint of temper or challenge or amusement to her eyes. Most of all, he did not want her to find some other man good company. Or desirable. Or a suitable husband.

Even the thought of it brought a sharp stab to his chest. That, he knew, was the most dangerous thing of all. It was absurd to think of marrying her himself—she was entirely unsuitable, whatever her fine bloodlines. They would be at each other’s throat before they walked out of the church. Yet . . . yet it cast him into a black mood to think of her marrying anyone else.

None of this was like him—the dog-in-the-manger attitude, the inability to control himself, the deadly boredom that fell on him when Vivian was not around. This morning he had missed at least ten minutes of his businessman’s report while staring out the window, daydreaming about seeing Vivian this evening. He frowned now, thinking about it. The woman was a menace.

“What? Already scowling?” Vivian asked, laughter brimming in her voice. “We haven’t even set forth.”

“You said you were going to wear a domino.” Oliver knew that he sounded like some grumbling old man,
disapproving of every little thing. Vivian did that to him, too—she reduced him to the worst possible aspects of his character.

Vivian sighed. “I know. Still, I hate to hide this dress.” She turned around, the skirt swirling a little, caressing her hips, so that he could see the low-cut back, as well.

His mouth went dry, and he fumbled for something to say. How was it possible for her to rob him of speech so often and so thoroughly?

“Are you certain that someone will recognize me?” she asked.

“No. But it’s safest not to take the chance. You are . . . well known.”

“At least you did not say
notorious
.” Vivian smiled and turned toward the stairs, down which a maid was hurrying, a black garment in hand.

“You intended to wear it all along,” he said accusingly as he watched her maid help Vivian into the garment and tie the two strings in the front. “I might have known—you just wanted to make me tell you not to.”

Vivian chuckled. “Ah, Oliver, you take the darkest view of things. Why should I do that?”

He scowled at her. “Because you seem to enjoy making me appear a villain.”

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, leaning in toward him to murmur, “Perhaps it was that I wanted
you
to see me without disguise.”

Once again, he thought ruefully, she had rendered him speechless.

Oliver escorted Vivian out to the carriage he had hired for the evening. He had not wished to depend on catching a hackney when they left the club that evening, but neither had he wanted to leave Vivian’s participation in this
excursion open to servants’ gossip. While he considered his servants quite loyal and did not think that the coachman would tell anyone that he had driven Lady Vivian with the earl to a gambling club, Oliver was not willing to chance any smudge on Vivian’s reputation on his belief. Therefore, he had wound up hiring a carriage to take them and wait for them.

The club was not in a disreputable area, and when they entered, Oliver saw that it was indeed one of the more elegant gambling clubs. He relaxed a little, though he was aware of the way half the heads in the place immediately turned to stare at Vivian. Even with the domino and mask, one could see enough to indicate a woman of elegance and beauty.

“Lord, Oliver, there is old Aspindale.” Vivian brought up her fan and whispered her words to him behind it. “I thought he died five years ago.”

“He looks as though he might have,” Oliver responded, “and someone simply forgot to ship him home.”

Vivian chuckled. “And there is Lord Harewood’s son, is it not? He looks as though he is in the grip of gambling fever.”

Oliver glanced over at the roulette table where the young man was standing. His eyes were bright, and sweat dotted his forehead as he gazed intently at the wheel going round and round. Vivian was right; Harewood’s son looked to have already fallen into the snare of many a young aristocrat. One could only hope that he would get free of it before he inherited his estate.

They continued to stroll through the club, glancing at the tables, taking in the games and the patrons. Oliver nodded at several men whom he knew, and he noticed that more than one glanced at him in surprise. His presence at a gambling club was rare; for him to have a mysterious beauty at his side was even more astounding. He smiled to himself,
thinking what sort of gossip would be flying around the
ton
tomorrow. He suspected that tongues would be clacking, giving him a new mistress who was judged to be a diamond of the first water. He could not say that he minded giving everyone a little jolt . . . so long as no one guessed the identity of the woman at his side.

Vivian kept up a running commentary on the people they saw, and Oliver could not help but laugh at her wry observations. He would not have admitted it to her for the world, but he was enjoying being here with her more than he would have imagined possible. They paused at one table to roll the dice a few times. Oliver went down in defeat each time, but Vivian won on nearly every roll.

“Fulhams,” Oliver commented tartly as they left the table.

Vivian laughed. “Just because you lost doesn’t make the dice false. If you’ll notice,
I
did very well.”

“They were hoping to pull you in. If you had stayed, you’d have found your luck going very sour soon.”

Vivian linked her arm through his, leaning into him, and reached over to pluck a piece of lint from his jacket. “Well, if it makes you happy to think so . . .”

The gesture was more intimate than she would usually have made in a public situation, and Oliver knew it was because she was in masquerade. The situation created an enticing atmosphere of mystery and secrecy. He felt the lure of it himself, as if they were in private while in the midst of a crowd. Unknown even though they were the center of attention.

Oliver could not deny the frisson of excitement that ran through him at the feel of her side pressed against his arm, the sound of her voice pitched low just for his ears. Her eyes gleamed, huge and mysterious behind the mask, and her mouth, exposed by the lower edge of the black satin mask,
looked even more kissable than usual. Perhaps, he thought, he had underestimated just how dangerous this evening might prove for his own equilibrium.