An Affair Without End (7 page)

Her eyes blazed at him as she went on quickly, “I thought you had changed somewhat, but I can see that I was wrong. You are still a sanctimonious prig.”

His nostrils flared, and a ridge of red stained his cheekbones. “It does not make me a prig because I point out that your dress shows entirely too much of you.”

“By your standards!” Vivian came closer. She was vivid, glowing in her anger.

“By anyone’s standards. There wasn’t a man there tonight who could take his eyes off you.”

“Don’t be absurd. I looked . . . fashionable.”

“You looked delectable.”

She stopped, her eyes opening wide, her mouth rounding into an
O
. Oliver was looking at her in a way she’d never before seen, his eyes hot with anger, but with a different sort of heat, as well. He wanted to kiss her, she thought with astonishment . . . then realized, with even more surprise, that her insides were suddenly warm and liquid. She wanted him to kiss her, too.

In the next instant, all thought left her head entirely as Oliver took a long step forward, looped his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him, bending down to take her mouth with his.

Vivian went still, riveted to the spot. Oliver’s lips were warm and firm on hers yet somehow as soft as velvet, and the sensation they sent through her was like nothing she had ever before felt. She had been kissed by others, but none had ever sent pleasure sweeping through her, hot and demanding. None had ever made her feel as if everything inside her were rising up to meet his kiss. Her skin tingled. Her breath caught in her throat.

Without thinking, almost without volition, her arms went up and around his neck, and she swayed closer to him, her body pliant and yielding. He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her into him, curving his body around her in a way that was both protective and possessive. His lips moved against hers, opening her mouth to him, and his tongue swept inside. A tremor shot through Vivian at this new delight, and she dug her hands into his shoulders.

At last he raised his head, breaking the seal of their kiss. He stared down for an instant into her face, his eyes dark and intense. His face was flushed, his mouth soft and reddened from their kiss. She could hear the harsh rasp of his breath. Vivian gazed back at him, too stunned to speak. He leaned
almost imperceptibly toward her, and Vivian was certain he was about to kiss her again. But then he caught himself.

He took a quick step backward. “Oh, God. Vivian.” One hand came up, sinking back into his hair. “I—I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I should never have—please forgive me.”

Then he turned and strode out of the room as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

How could I have let this happen?
Oliver charged out of Carlyle Hall and down the steps. Waving an impatient hand at the coachman waiting for him, he turned and hurried up the sidewalk. The last thing he needed was a slow carriage ride in Vivian’s luxurious coach, which no doubt still smelled of her rich perfume. No, he needed a good walk to clear his head. To clear—dear Lord, to clear everything from him. Desire was still pulsing through him, strong and insistent; it paid no heed to the more rational caution that had finally penetrated his brain.

His long legs ate up the blocks that lay between Vivian’s abode and his own while his thoughts ran madly through the last few minutes, struggling to understand how he could have let go of all reason and sanity in such a way. He had kissed Vivian Carlyle! And not just kissed her—he had grabbed her and yanked her to him as if she were a tavern wench, had sunk his mouth into hers and taken it in a thorough—and, yes, he would admit it, pleasurable—way. That he had enjoyed it wasn’t the point. What man wouldn’t enjoy kissing such a vital, beautiful, incredibly sensual woman? But a gentleman, a man of honor and sense such as himself, should have had more control. However alluring she was, whatever madcap things she did, she was a well-bred young woman, a lady. Kissing a woman like that involved promises and expectations—the sort of things that could never come to fruition with Lady Vivian.

He had been mad, absolutely mad, to act the way he had. He could not excuse it. He could hardly believe it. And he knew, darkly, that it was all somehow Vivian’s fault.

Oliver stalked up the steps to his home, brushing past the doorman in an uncharacteristically brusque way. However, there was no escaping the small black-and-white dog that bounded down the stairway as if he had springs on his feet and launched himself straight at Oliver’s chest. Fortunately Oliver was accustomed to such a greeting from the animal, whose practice it was to sit in the oriel window at the front of the house and keep watch for Oliver to come home.

“Hello, boy, good Pirate,” he murmured, smiling down at the scruffy dog in an affectionate way that would have surprised a number of people. He scratched the mutt in the certain spot behind his ears that was guaranteed to make Pirate close his eyes in ecstasy. Still holding the dog, Oliver started down the hall to his study. Halfway there, he registered the voices in the room beyond the study, usually designated as the smoking room. He stopped, surprised. A woman’s light laugh drifted out, followed by the murmur of a male voice.

“Fitz!” Oliver walked past his study toward the smoking room just as an attractive blond woman left it.

“Stewkesbury.” She smiled at him, holding out her hand. She was slender as a reed, which the elegant lines of her dark blue carriage gown accentuated. Her hair, piled up in a simple coil atop her head, was a pale golden blond, and her face was delicately lovely.

A tall man with the thick, dark hair and light-colored eyes that were a hallmark of the Talbot family followed her out the door. “Hallo, Ol. Finally came home, eh?”

With a sharp yap, Pirate jumped down from Oliver’s arms and ran a mad dash around the couple, leaping and twirling and yipping with delight as if he had not just performed the same dance of greeting only an hour before.

“Eve. Fitz.” Oliver beamed as he stepped forward to shake his brother’s hand and to kiss Fitz’s new bride on the cheek. “I didn’t expect you this evening.”

“We made good time, and you know the ladies I was traveling with. No easy pace for Eve or our cousins.”

“Of course not. I’m very happy to see you. Where are the girls?”

“Even Camellia and Lily admitted to being tired after driving all the way from Willowmere,” Eve said lightly. “They went to bed early. In fact, I was about to retire myself and leave Fitz to wait up for you. So if you gentlemen will excuse me . . .”

Oliver bowed and moved into the smoking room, leaving his brother to conduct a protracted good-bye with his wife in the hallway. They had been married three months now, but no one had yet seen any diminution of their affection. By the time Fitz joined him, Oliver had already opened a bottle of port and poured them each a glassful. He turned to hand his brother a glass, and a smile once again crossed his face.

“By heavens, it’s good to see you. I feel as if I’ve been rattling about in this house by myself.”

Fitz grinned. “I would think you would welcome some peace and quiet after the last few months.”

Oliver tilted his head to one side, considering. “You know, I think I have grown accustomed to the noise and disruption, even missed it.”

They settled down in the deep wingback chairs in front of the fireplace and sipped their drinks, comfortable with each other as only brothers can be, a lifetime of habit and closeness behind them. Pirate, after a few sniffs around their chairs, whirled a few times on the rug in front of the fire and curled up to sleep.

“How was the journey?” Oliver asked after a moment.
“No Bascombe incidents?” Since their American cousins had arrived, it seemed as if something untoward was always happening.

The corners of Fitz’s mouth quirked up. “Not a thing. It was remarkably peaceful. Makes one almost uneasy.”

“The calm before the storm, you mean?”

“I cannot help but wonder. There hasn’t been a kidnapping attempt or blackmail threat in three months now. We made the journey quickly. Neither Lily nor Camellia seemed inclined to comfort, and, of course, Eve never complains.” Fitz smiled fondly at the thought of his wife.

“Of course.”

“Lily was positively champing at the bit to get to London. It’s been almost a month now since she has seen Neville. Camellia hated leaving the country, I think—you know her, she prefers riding to soirees and balls, but she was willing enough, knowing how eager her sister is. They mean to storm the milliners and mantua-makers, I gather. Lily and Eve are waist-deep in the plans for Lily’s trousseau, and even Cam seems interested in acquiring a few new gowns for the Season.”

“A few!” Oliver let out a grunt. “Lady Vivian intends to lead the charge, no doubt, and I can assure you that it will take a wagon to carry the load home. ’Tis a good thing the farms earned well last year.”

“You can grumble all you want; I know you don’t begrudge the girls their gowns and fripperies.”

“No, you’re right. They are remarkably levelheaded, really, when it comes to money. I never dreamed when they arrived that they expected so little of me.”

“They have a different sense of responsibility, I think.” Fitz paused, a smile playing about his lips. “Remember how they expected to do chores around the house when they arrived in return for your taking them in?”

“Yes. I can well imagine what Bostwick would have done if they had started sweeping floors and emptying ash cans.” Oliver took a swig of his drink, shaking his head. “Does Eve really think they are ready for a Season?”

Fitz shrugged. “She thinks Lily will rub along well enough. She’s already engaged, in any case. Camellia . . . well, she has her own sort of charm, and there will be those who love her. But one never knows what she’ll take it into her head to do.”

Oliver smiled and glanced over at the dog stretched out in front of the hearth. “Like bringing home a dirty, flop-eared stray.”

Fitz’s eyes followed his brother’s gaze. “Exactly.”

“I wouldn’t worry so much if it were not Lady Vivian who will guide them through the
ton
. With her frivolous nature and outrageous conduct, it’ll be a wonder if she doesn’t land herself in a scandal. How can she keep two naïve American girls from making a misstep?”

“Lady Vivian is adept at managing to skirt scandal.” Fitz’s eyes twinkled. “Remember the time she came to Lady Berkeley’s rout with that monkey on her shoulder?”

“How could I forget?” Oliver retorted drily. “The creature ran up the draperies and jumped from window to window. The footmen couldn’t get it down.”

“Made that party the talk of the Season. Once Lady Berkeley recovered from the vapors, I’m sure she was ecstatic about the whole thing.”

“Perhaps.” Oliver grimaced. “I saw Lady Vivian at the Wilbourne ball tonight. She was the cynosure of every eye.”

“She usually is.”

“Too dashing by half. She isn’t even married. What single young woman wears black—and with a bodice that exposes her shoulders and a great deal of her chest, as well?”

“She’s scarcely a girl at her first come-out,” Fitz pointed
out reasonably. “One would hardly expect her to wear white and pastels for ten years.”

“That’s just the beginning. Do you know what mad thing she’s taken it into her head to do?” Since his question was rhetorical, Stewkesbury rolled on, “She wants to buy a house in London and set up her own household. Says Carlyle Hall is too large, and her father’s rarely there.”

“Mm. I imagine that will raise a few brows. Still, if she has a chaperone—doesn’t that cousin of hers, a wisp of a woman, follow her about sometimes?”

“Oh, yes, Vivian intends for Mrs. Morecomb to act as her companion and chaperone. You know very well that the woman could not put a stop to any mad start Vivian seized upon.”

Fitz shrugged. “Probably not. But if you think about it, it’s little different from the way Lady Vivian’s lived the past few years. As you said, the duke spends less time here than he used to. Half the time he’s in Brighton or off to one of his houses. And Seyre avoids London like the plague. So she’s actually been living on her own for some time now.”

“You’re as bad as she is. Clearly her father is not doing his duty by her as he should. She shouldn’t be left on her own in the city. Not, of course, that she will allow that the man is anything less than an ideal father,” Oliver added darkly.