An Affair Without End (37 page)

Vivian watched with some interest as her brother politely helped the girl to sit down on the rug spread out on the grass by the servants. So far Dora had completely outmaneuvered Gregory, and Vivian wondered if she ought to step in and rescue him.

“Let me get you some water,” she heard Gregory say, and Dora gave him another of her grateful, gracefully weak looks.

Much to Vivian’s surprised delight, her brother straightened up, grabbed a glass of water from one of the maids, and handed it to Dora, then nodded to the girl politely and excused himself. Vivian chuckled as she watched Dora gape at Gregory as he walked over to join Camellia.

“Well, well,” Vivian murmured as she sat down at some distance from Dora and her admirers. “So he cares enough to fight it.”

“What?” Oliver glanced at her curiously. “Who? What are you talking about?”

“Miss Parkington has been relentlessly working her wiles on Seyre for the past few minutes, but he left her to sit beside Camellia.”

“I would think so.” Oliver made a face. “If he sat with Miss Parkington, he would find himself so busy doing things for her that he wouldn’t have time to eat.”

Vivian chuckled. “Too true. But Gregory usually finds himself outmaneuvered by girls such as Miss Parkington. All
I can think is that for the first time, perhaps he cared enough not to let her do so.”

“Cared enough?” Oliver asked, and Vivian answered by nodding toward where her brother sat beside Camellia.

“Camellia?” Oliver’s eyebrows rose. “Seyre is interested in Camellia?”

Vivian couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, they seem quite different, I suppose.”

“That is a model of understatement.” Oliver studied Camellia and Gregory for a moment. “Does he realize that one of her hobbies is sharpshooting?”

Vivian shrugged. “I believe that he has nothing against firearms. And he does like to ride.”

“Yes, but in every other way I would say they are ill-suited.”

Vivian shrugged. “I imagine there are those who would say that you and I are ill-suited.”

Oliver glanced at her. “My dear Vivian,
I
would say you and I are ill-suited.”

Vivian laughed and leaned closer, saying in a low voice, “Not in
every
way, my lord.”

She was rewarded by the faint line of red that spread across the earl’s cheekbones, and the look he sent her held more heat than reproof. “Careful, my dear, you will make me forget myself.”

“I should like to see that.” Vivian’s eyes danced.

The look in his eyes then took her breath away, and for once, Vivian was the one who had to look away.

Her gaze fell upon Miss Parkington. Two gentlemen were on one side of her and another man on the other, all of them trying to outdo the others, but Dora’s eyes kept straying to Seyre, sitting beside Camellia. Vivian studied the young girl’s face as she watched Camellia and Gregory,
and she knew, without a doubt, that Camellia, without even knowing it, had acquired a fierce enemy.

Dora spent the rest of the afternoon trying in one way or another to pull Gregory into her retinue of admirers. Vivian, observing her, had to admit that the girl was skillful. First she tried to gain Seyre’s attention and arouse his jealousy by laughing and flirting with her admirers. When it became clear that Vivian’s brother had not even noticed what Dora was doing, she moved on, announcing with a pretty little shiver that the afternoon was too cold for her. Four young men solicitously offered her the use of their own jackets, and one of the maids went to fetch a carriage robe to lay across the girl’s legs.

None of these solutions, however, seemed adequate. The only thing that would help, apparently, was to sit in a place more sheltered from the spring breeze—and that place was on Lord Seyre’s left side. When confronted with Dora’s large-eyed helplessness, Miss Willis-Houghton somewhat reluctantly moved over to make room. Gregory seemed happy to comply, moving closer to Camellia to give Miss Parkington space.

After starting up a conversation with Miss Willis-Houghton and Lord Cranston, Dora then began to pull Seyre into it with questions and remarks. Any answer he made was regarded with considerable attention, even awe, by Miss Parkington. She admired his knowledge, his gift of speaking, his foresight, his hindsight, and his opinion on everything.

When Dora exclaimed in her soft voice, “Oh, Lord Seyre, you are so intelligent,” for the fourth time, Camellia could not hold back a laugh.

Dora turned to Camellia in astonishment. “Why, Miss Bascombe, do you not agree that the marquess is an unusually learned man? I vow, I have never before heard a man so able to discourse on almost any subject.”

“No doubt he is quite smart,” Camellia agreed. “But he was only answering a question about some plants in his garden.”

“But I could tell you all about every plant there,” Gregory assured her, grinning at Camellia.

“I wish you would not,” Camellia responded with a horrified look, and the two of them laughed.

Dora glanced from Camellia to Gregory in bafflement. Had Miss Parkington been a more good-hearted young woman, Vivian would have felt sorry for her. It was clear—even to Miss Parkington, Vivian thought—that all her never-miss tactics were failing with Lord Seyre. Indeed, Vivian could have told the girl that everything Dora did—from cutting Camellia out of the conversation to regarding Seyre with girlish admiration to requiring his strong masculine help at every turn—only drove Gregory further from her. Being made the center of attention embarrassed him, as did false flattery. And since his primary interest was in conversing with Camellia, Dora’s frequent interruptions and diversions only irritated him.

By the time the luncheon had ended and it was time to make the trip home, Miss Parkington seemed to have given up her campaign. She let herself be escorted by Lord Cranston and Mr. Overbrook back to her barouche, flirting madly with the two men as she went. Vivian stood watching the girl, wondering if Dora had actually surrendered her hopes of catching Seyre or if she was once again attempting at make him jealous.

“Thank God Cranston and Overbrook don’t mind escorting her,” Gregory said in a low voice, coming up beside his sister. “I think I’d throw myself under the carriage if I had to ride back to the city with Miss Parkington.”

Vivian turned to look at Seyre, suppressing a smile. “I think some men find her quite alluring.”

“Really?” Seyre studied Dora for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose she’s attractive. But . . . well . . . I don’t understand how she’s able to get through a day, being so unable to do anything for herself or have a thought of her own.”

Vivian laughed. “Ah, Gregory, I am so glad you are you. I could not bear it if you brought home a girl like Dora Parkington as your wife.”

To her further amusement, a look of sheer horror crossed her brother’s face. “Good Gad, Viv, what a thing to think!”

The groom led over their horses, and they mounted. Ahead of them, Stewkesbury turned his horse aside and looked back, waiting for them, and Vivian noticed with a great deal of interest that Camellia, too, looked back and held her horse in check. Vivian smiled a little to herself. Perhaps things were going to work out well for Gregory. She clicked her tongue, urging her horse forward to join Camellia and Oliver. It was, Vivian thought, a perfectly glorious day.

When they reached London, the party rode past Stewkesbury House on the way to Carlyle Hall, so the Talbots turned off there. As the Talbot party made their good-byes, Vivian glanced at Camellia and saw that she was staring over at the narrow walkway beside the house that led toward the back garden. Vivian followed her gaze curiously and saw a short, slight man standing on the edge of the walk, watching them. He leaned against the wall, and in his dark, drab clothes, he blended into the shadow cast by the house.

Vivian looked back to Camellia and saw that she had dismounted, handing the reins of her horse to one of the grooms. Vivian’s attention was then distracted by Oliver, who came over to bid Vivian good-bye. Vivian leaned down from her horse, stretching out her gloved hand, and he took it, bowing briefly.

“You will come with me tomorrow afternoon?” she asked. A peculiar little pain was in her chest, and she realized that she wished she did not have to wait until tomorrow to see Oliver. It would be different, she thought, when she had a house. She could see him frequently. It would not bother her so much then to part from him. Indeed, it seemed foolish that it should make her feel so lonely and disappointed now.

“I shall be there,” Oliver assured her, and the smile that lit his eyes warmed her.

Vivian straightened, watching him stroll into the house with Eve and Fitz, and it struck her that Camellia was not with them. Vivian glanced back and saw that Camellia had walked over to the small, sandy-haired man standing in the shadows. As Vivian watched, the American girl exchanged a few short words with the man. Camellia shook her head, and the man appeared to plead with her. He pressed a piece of paper into her hand.

Vivian frowned and turned away. Her gaze fell on the barouche, and she realized that she was not the only person who had observed Camellia and her odd companion. Dora Parkington, a faint, self-satisfied smile on her lips, was watching Camellia, too.

Oliver arrived at Carlyle Hall promptly at one o’clock the next afternoon, just as Vivian had expected him to. There was something to be said, she thought, for knowing that a man would be exactly on time. Indeed, she was discovering a number of things about Oliver that were quite appealing—completely aside from the heady feeling of excitement that arose in her whenever he appeared. It seemed absurd that a man as steady and reliable as Stewkesbury, a man one had known practically all one’s life, could cause such a jangle of nerves and lust as soon as one saw him.

Vivian had been ready and waiting for almost fifteen minutes—another absurdity and one she was not about to reveal to him—and at the sound of Oliver’s voice in the entryway below, she jumped to her feet, grabbing up her bonnet and gloves. She forced herself to pause at the door for five seconds before she started down to greet him. A quick glance in the hall mirror assured her that every hair was in place and she was looking her best. She was wearing a carriage gown from last year, something she rarely did, but the deep dull gold color and the simple, almost military lines were especially flattering. These days, she found, she
was more concerned with how good an outfit looked on her than she was with being in the first stare of fashion.

Oliver was standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for her, and she saw the slight, appreciative widening of his eyes as she walked down the steps. She smiled, drawing on her gloves as she came.

“You must be a man of great faith not to sit down in the drawing room to wait for me. Everyone will tell you I am rarely on time.”

He smiled back at her, coming forward to give her his hand down the last two steps. “Ah, but we are going somewhere you are eager to visit. That makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”

Vivian saw no point in telling him that the difference was that she was eager to see him. She was aware of an urge to reach out and caress his cheek, but that was unthinkable with the footman standing by the door, waiting to open it for them. Instead she turned to the mirror and put on her hat, taking an extra moment to tie the bow and let her emotions settle. Then she slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm, and though it was a poor substitute for caressing his face, it made her heart beat a little faster anyway.

Outside, Oliver took her hand to help her up into the carriage, and his hand lingered on hers longer than was necessary—just as it had when he’d reached out to her on the stairs earlier. He was, she thought, as eager to touch her as she had been to touch him. The desire that simmered not far below the surface turned such courtesies into a titillating taste of the full repast they wanted—and aroused that hunger more than it fed it.

Vivian settled into the carriage, and Oliver took the seat across from her. The look in his eyes was enough to take her breath away. She wondered what would happen if she
moved across the carriage and sat beside him. Would he pull her into his arms and kiss her? She imagined him knocking her bonnet askew, sinking his hands into her hair, his mouth taking hers deeply, hungrily . . .

Oliver cleared his throat and turned his head to look out the window, shifting slightly in his seat. “Um . . . I received a report from the Bow Street Runner this morning.”