An Affair Without End (15 page)

In general, the young ladies were little help. They tended to giggle or blush or ply their fans flirtatiously, none of which gambits he had any idea how to respond to. On the occasions when he tried to discuss with them something he was interested in, he was met by blank stares or murmurs of vague acquiescence. He knew that few people, male or female, were interested in scientific matters or history, but he was able to discuss other things, such as philosophy or music or books, but the young women rarely expressed an opinion on those topics, either, simply gazing at him with wide, limpid eyes and nodding occasionally. Some had been inspired to say breathlessly that he was so deep or learned or profound, and such statements had immediately filled him with such embarrassment that he had stopped talking.

If he pressed a girl for her opinion of some matter, she would invariably say she did not know or would ask him what he thought. Since he had usually just said what he thought, this seemed nonsensical, and in any case, he
knew
what he thought. It was the woman’s thoughts he wanted to learn. He was not sure whether he talked only of such boring things that none of the young ladies wanted to discuss them or if it was simply, alarmingly, that young women truly did not have any thoughts of their own to express.

If he could simply have avoided speaking to most women in London, he would have been all right. But to what he considered his great misfortune, Gregory was deemed the most eligible bachelor in England. He was a marquess and
the heir to a dukedom; any woman who married him would have one of the highest titles in the land. This, coupled with his family’s wealth, would have made him a great catch. But that he was young, sane, and attractive (if one looked past his retiring manner and the spectacles he wore for reading and often forgot to remove) turned him into the most hunted man in England for young ladies and their mothers.

Not a hostess in London did not dream of his presence at one of her parties nor a mother not impress on her marriageable daughter the importance of catching Seyre’s eye. When he came to town, he was besieged by invitations, which he universally ignored. He wouldn’t have minded attending a party or two, he would tell Vivian, but whenever he did, he was invariably surrounded by mothers swooping in and carrying him off to meet their daughters, and he could hardly take a step, it seemed, without some girl dropping her fan or handkerchief in his way to force him to stop and politely pick it up. He felt foolish, harassed, and often appalled, and so he simply avoided all parties.

Even walking down the street, there was always the danger of someone’s stopping him to chat. He could not get away without being impolite, and so he was introduced to the woman’s daughter or niece or cousin or at least pressed to come to some party. For that reason, he had taken to walking on the street without looking around, keeping his focus on the sidewalk in front of him.

Thus in this manner he left the bookstore and turned toward Hyde Park. There, he thought, he could feel almost as if he were in the country again. He would have to avoid the members of the
ton
who might be walking there or riding along Rotten Row, but—he pulled out his watch to check it—it was earlier than the fashionable hour of presenting oneself in the park. He could slip past the popular paths and go deeper into the park.

Still, when he reached Rotten Row, he could not keep from stopping to look at the riders. He wished he had thought to bring a horse with him, but the departure from Marchester had been rushed. He could hire a horse, but he was sure that he would not find any mount satisfactory after the prime animal he was accustomed to riding. Besides, walking or trotting along Rotten Row, where the riders’ main purpose was to see and be seen, could not compare to riding across his own land, sailing over fences and walls, splashing through streams, the sun on his back and the sweet scent of the country all around him.

With a sigh, he realized that he was simply standing there, daydreaming. He started to move forward, and that was when he saw her. She rode a bay mare, an unimpressive mount, but a confidence, an enjoyment, a
presence,
about the woman who rode drew Gregory’s eye. She wore a dark blue riding habit of military cut, decorated with black frogging, and the fitted jacket showed off a trim figure. She rode beside a handsome man whom Gregory vaguely felt he should recognize, and the two of them were talking and laughing.

As he watched, she suddenly spurred her horse forward, and the mare took off. In defiance of all the rules of the
ton,
the woman galloped down Rotten Row. She rode as one with her mount, leaning forward over the mare’s neck as she urged the horse on. Her hat flew off, and her hair came loose, tumbling down and flowing out behind her like a dark-gold banner. Gregory had thought her attractive the moment he saw her, but her face was beautiful now, bright with joy. His heart rose up inside him as she flew along, swelling with an answering joy. He knew that thrill, understood in a deep and visceral way the emotion that must be coursing through her now.

Then she thundered past and was gone. Behind him, he heard a shocked exclamation: “Who
was
that girl!”

A goddess,
he thought, looking after the figure disappearing around a bend in the path.
A Valkyrie
. And he could not help but echo the woman’s words—who was she?

He started forward again, striding away from the other people who stood about chattering over the girl’s gallop. He felt suddenly energetic, excited. He could find out who she was, he thought. Within a day’s time, the gossip about her gallop down Rotten Row would be all over the
ton
. Vivian knew everyone, so he had only to tell Vivian about it, and before long he would know her name and everything there was to know about her.

Father was improving; they could take the time to go to a party or pay an afternoon call. Why, there was that ball that Lady Carr was giving the following weekend to announce her son’s engagement to the Bascombe girl; he knew Vivian would be attending it unless the duke took a decided turn for the worse. She would be happy for the escort. He might not have to tell Vivian about the girl at all. If he went to the ball, he might see her; from what Vivian had told him, the ball would be one of the events of the Season, and everyone who could do so would be there.

Oddly, he realized that he was a trifle reluctant to bring up the subject of the girl to Vivian. He rather liked the idea of keeping his Valkyrie to himself. Besides, much as he loved Vivian, if he expressed interest in any young lady, his sister would be on it like a hound catching the fox’s scent. Vivian would not only have him meeting the girl, but dancing with her, seated beside her at some dinner, escorting her to the opera . . .

Gregory slowed his steps, his thoughts beginning to order themselves in his usual rational way. What did he know about the girl he had just seen, other than that she rode well? She was high-spirited; she was beautiful. Did he really want Vivian matchmaking for him just because he had
responded for a moment to the way a girl sat a horse? If he met the young woman, how likely was it that she would be any different from any other lady he had met? He thought of being introduced to the girl and having her bat her lashes at him over her fan. He imagined her gazing at him vapidly or saying, “What do you think, Lord Seyre?” or perhaps chattering about her dress or her gloves.

It occurred to him that it might be better not to meet his Valkyrie at all. Perhaps it was better to let the girl remain a perfect memory in his mind.

Vivian had just left her father sleeping in his room when Jenks appeared to tell her that she had a visitor downstairs. She started to tell him to make her excuses, but then she saw the card he held out on the silver tray to her, and instead she said, “Show Lord Stewkesbury into the blue drawing room. I shall be down directly. I’ll ring if we require refreshments.”

Quickly she slipped down the hall to her bedchamber and went to her vanity table. Her dress would do, she thought, but she shrugged off the old shawl she had thrown around her shoulders and slipped on a spencer of forest green that deepened the color of her eyes. She smoothed a strand or two of hair into place and pinned them, then pinched a little color into her too pale cheeks. She had looked better, certainly, but she could do nothing right now about the shadows under her eyes or the weariness in them.

Putting on a smile, Vivian went downstairs and into the smaller drawing room, which was her favorite for daily use. Oliver was standing by the fire, warming his hands, and he turned at her entrance.

“Lady Vivian.”

“Stewkesbury.” She came forward, extending her hand, and he bowed over it. “How kind of you to call about my father’s health.”

He smiled faintly. “How kind of
you
to attribute such sterling motives to me. Actually, I came to see how you were doing, though I hope, of course, that the duke is better.”

“He is, I think, and his doctor seems to agree.”

“But I can see that his illness has taken its toll on you.” His brows pinched together. “You look tired and pale.”

Vivian raised a brow. “Indeed? How like you to manage to find a disagreeable remark to make about me.”

“Ah, but you always make that so easy,” he tossed back with a grin, and Vivian could not help but smile. “You know I did not mean it as a criticism. I am concerned that you are wearing yourself out taking care of your father.”

“I do little enough other than worry.”

“Worry can be more tiring than physical activity.”

“Well, hopefully I shall not have so much of it now that he seems to be improving.”

She had not taken a seat, so they still stood facing one another. Vivian could see Oliver gathering himself, and she was certain what he was about to say before he opened his mouth.

“I should apologize about the other night.”

“No, please, Oliver, do not ruin it.”

“Ruin it?” He looked astonished. “I don’t know what you mean. I ruined the other night, acting as I did. I came here because I was concerned, and yet I wound up acting on my basest instincts.”

“I never thought you were a saint.” A faint smile played at the corners of Vivian’s mouth. “Or even a parson, for that matter.”

“I hope I am a gentleman. I took advantage of your emotions. I don’t know why I did so. I never act in that manner.”

Vivian chuckled, and a flirtatious dimple winked in her cheek. “You did it because you wanted to. If you will
remember, you did the same thing the night of Lady Wilbourne’s ball.”

Stewkesbury drew himself up even more stiffly. “It was an aberration.”

“Twice?” Vivian’s eyes danced. “Really, my lord. Once may be an aberration. Twice is more of a habit.”

Oliver set his jaw, glaring at her. “This is scarcely a laughing matter.”

“Is it not?” Vivian moved closer to him, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “What you did was not so terrible. I, for one, quite enjoyed it. Didn’t you?”

Looking harassed, he took a step backward, coming up against the mantel. “Blast it, Vivian, of course I enjoyed it. That is not the issue.”

“Oh, but I think it is. Perhaps you ought to try giving into your ‘basest instincts’ more often. You might find it rewarding.”

“Vivian . . .” His voice was a low growl, warning her.

“No?” She stopped only inches from him, one eyebrow arching up. “Well, then, I suppose that I will just have to.”

With that she went up on tiptoe, her arms curling around his neck, and kissed him.

For an instant, his mouth remained unmoving beneath hers, frozen in shock. Then, as if a floodgate had opened, his body surged with heat, his arms wrapping around her hard and fast, and his mouth opened to hers.

The sudden fire of his passion startled Vivian, but she responded to it eagerly. She pressed her body up into his, her arms tightening around his neck as their lips clung and parted and came together again. Her skin had become supremely sensitive, so that she was aware of the touch of the fabric of her dress upon her skin as she stretched up against his body. Her nipples prickled and grew taut, and she could not refrain from rubbing her body experimentally against him, causing her nipples to tighten even more with pleasure.

At her movement, he let out a low noise and tore his mouth from hers, kissing his way across her cheek and over the line of her jaw down to her throat. Vivian shivered at the feel of his lips on her sensitive skin, fire springing up in her wherever his mouth touched. She had started out kissing him teasingly, but now he filled her senses, delighting and confusing her. She was at once weak and filled with power, aching and happy. She knew a fierce yearning, a need to
melt into Oliver, to fill herself with his scent, his taste, his very breath.