An Affair Without End (4 page)

Vivian lifted her face to look at him, unaware of the slow, dreamy smile that curved her lips and lit her eyes. Oliver’s hand tightened on her waist, and he pulled her almost imperceptibly closer, but then he turned his head away quickly, and his fingers relaxed their grip. As he looked out over the other dancers, a frown started between his eyes.

He glanced around, then said, “We seem to be the object of a number of gazes.” His eyes returned to her, and his frown deepened. “No doubt ’tis the gown you’re wearing.”

Vivian came crashing quickly back into the present.
How could I have thought Oliver was any different?
She scowled back at him. “My gown? You think people are staring at us because of my gown? I take it you do not mean because it is so fashionable.”

His mouth tightened. “It exposes rather more of you than is quite decent.”

Vivian’s eyes flashed. “There is nothing improper about my dress, I assure you. Mrs. Treherne’s neckline is a good deal lower than mine.”

“You wish to be compared to Mrs. Treherne?”

“I don’t
wish
to be compared to anyone,” Vivian retorted. “It was you who commented on the appropriateness of my dress. I was merely pointing out that there are a number of women here whose gowns are no more decent than mine, and I don’t see anyone staring at them.”

“That is because they don’t look as you do in yours.”

Vivian stared at him, nonplussed. “I scarce know whether to take that as a jab or a compliment.”

He looked faintly surprised. “I’m not sure that I meant it as either.”

She could not help but let out a little laugh. “Really, Stewkesbury, you are quite hopeless. Have you never looked in the mirror and seen that you are not old?”

It was distinctly unfair, she thought, that a man should have such compelling pewter-colored eyes, not to mention a smile that could suddenly light his face so that one’s heart turned in one’s chest . . . and yet be so unwaveringly staid.

His face stiffened. “Are you saying that one has to be old to expect certain standards of—”

“No, I am saying that no young man has ever criticized me for exposing too much of my bosom.”

Color rushed into Oliver’s face, and a light flared briefly in his eyes. “Vivian! Have a care what you say. Not everyone knows you as I do. There are those who would take your free sort of speech quite the wrong way.”

“But I know you never will.” Vivian sighed. It was useless to get upset over what he said. Oliver was simply being
Oliver, after all. She cocked her head a little to one side and smiled up at him. “Please . . . let us not argue, especially over something as inconsequential as my gown. The music is too lovely, and I am too happy to be back in London.”

“Of course.” He gave a brief nod of his head. “I did not intend to argue with you.” He paused. “How was Marchester? Did you enjoy your visit home?”

“Yes.” The lackluster tone in her voice was clear even to Vivian, and she went on hastily, “I could scarcely imagine being anywhere else at Christmas. ’Tis home, after all.”

“And that means a great deal,” Oliver agreed.

Vivian suspected that it meant far more to him than to her, but she did not say so. “I am always happy to see Papa and Gregory.”

“How is Seyre? Still buried in his books?”

Vivian chuckled fondly as she nodded. “And in his correspondence. Gregory receives letters and packages from all over the world—gentlemen farmers in America, managers of tea plantations in Ceylon, explorers from around the globe. He is mad for plants at the moment, and I think he is going to build another greenhouse.”

“Yes, I have talked with him now and then about crops. He has some interesting ideas.”

Vivian grinned. Few besides her brother and Oliver would term such a conversation interesting. “I think that experimenting with the farms is one of the few things that reconciles him to inheriting the title someday. Of course, most of the tenants think him mad—harmless and good, but a trifle touched in his upper works.”

“I am sure his people are most fond of him.”

“Yes, they are—but I don’t believe they think he will be quite a proper duke, not the way Papa is.”

“They prefer your father?”

“You needn’t be so surprised.”

“I’m sorry.” Oliver looked somewhat abashed. “I didn’t mean—”

“That the duke is a little wild? The sort who hies off to London instead of inspecting his lands? Who has never gone over an account book in his life?” Vivian chuckled at the earl’s rueful expression. It was clear Oliver did not approve of her father, but of course he was far too polite to admit it. “The truth is, yes, they feel Papa is precisely what the Duke of Marchester should be. Not that they would prefer someone like my grandfather, of course, whom everyone agrees was a proper libertine. But Papa is just the right blend of charm and arrogance. A duke, after all, isn’t supposed to care. Or to worry.”

“Mm.” Stewkesbury seemed to have nothing to say to that statement.

For a few moments, they were silent as they twirled around the floor. It was easy, Vivian found, to follow Oliver’s steps; his hand at her waist guided her firmly without pushing or tugging. One could always be sure with Stewkesbury, Vivian thought, and while that might not make him terribly exciting, it was a very good thing in a dance partner. Actually, she supposed, it was a very good thing in many ways. Especially, she mused, when he had a firm yet mobile mouth and wide shoulders . . . and that charming stray bit of hair that curled against his neck.

“I am surprised you stayed so short a time at home,” Oliver said after a moment, breaking into Vivian’s reverie.

“Oh!” She glanced at him, wondering with embarrassment if he had noticed her eyes straying assessingly over him. “Well . . .” She shrugged. “I love Gregory and Papa, but there’s little to do at the Hall. I found it too cold for walking or riding—though little deters Gregory from riding.
The Hall had to be decorated for Christmas, but Falworth and Mrs. Minton had that well in hand. They are quite able to run the entire place without my advice, as they do the remainder of the year. And Gregory is usually stuck away in the library or the study or his greenhouses.”

“I would think that after your time at Halstead you would have found it restful.”

Vivian smiled. “Yes, but while I cannot wish for a repetition of the measles and all the rest, it was never dull there.”

“That is true, at least since my cousins arrived at Willowmere.” The earl gave a rueful smile. “Before, as I remember, it was rather peaceful.”

“I could have endured the boredom at home, but then my brother Jerome and Elizabeth and their brood of hellions came for Christmas.”

Oliver grinned, and the movement changed his face, suddenly making him look far younger and turning his gray eyes almost silver. “You are not a doting aunt, I take it.”

Vivian could not help but smile back at him. At moments like this, when Oliver was warm and open, his face alive with humor, it was impossible not to like him. Indeed, it made her want to do or say whatever it took to keep that look on his face. “I think not. But my niece and nephews are less than lovable children. If they were not whining and sniveling, they were running about the halls, screeching. However, that was only part of it. Jerome and Elizabeth cannot bear each other’s company—which would be all right, I suppose, if only they would keep themselves apart. But they seemed determined to inflict themselves on each other—and on us.”

“I thought they were a love match.”

“So they were . . . at one time. But I have known a number of marriages of sheer convenience that were more pleasant
than their ‘love match’ after the first year or two.” Vivian saw no need to explain the basis for the couple’s falling out; she felt sure that Oliver knew as well as she of her brother Jerome’s string of London mistresses.

“But surely they left after a time?”

“Thank goodness. Then Papa decided to invite a number of his friends for a few weeks of cards and conviviality. As that sort of party generally entails as much port drinking and general revelry as cardplaying, I decided I would be more comfortable in London. Besides, I was eager to get started on the Season with Lily and Camellia.”

Stewkesbury’s brows pulled together. “The devil. Your father shouldn’t have invited his lot there with you at home. A drinking party with a gentlewoman in the house! What was he thinking?”

Vivian stiffened. Her father had not been the best of fathers; she would admit that. But she loved him and would not stand by to let others criticize him. “It
is
his house, after all.”

Oliver grimaced. “That does not make it right. It’s all of a pattern—to have raised you the way that he did, bringing in his latest para—” He stopped, apparently realizing that the topic he was broaching would not be considered fit for a lady. “That is to say, he did not always have a care who he allowed around his children.”

His words made Vivian bristle even more. Naturally Oliver would not decry that her father had spent most of his time in London, leaving his motherless infant daughter to the care of nannies and governesses for much of her life. What bothered him was the inappropriate lifestyle her father had lived, that he had brought home groups of his friends, sometimes including one of his mistresses.

“Whom Marchester brought home is no concern of yours,” Vivian shot back. “Nor is the manner in which he raised his children.”

She stopped abruptly, jerking her hand from his. Startled, Stewkesbury, too, came to a halt as the other couples whirled about them.

“Vivian! The devil! What are you doing?” he hissed, glancing around. “You can’t just stop in the middle of a dance.”

“Can’t I? I believe I just did.” Whirling, Vivian walked off, winding her way through the other dancers.

Stewkesbury stood for a moment in stunned disbelief, then strode off the floor after her.

Oliver caught up with Vivian at the edge of the dance floor. Wrapping one hand firmly around her arm, he steered her away from the crowd to an empty chair.

“Let go of me!” Vivian protested. “What are you doing?”

“Saving us from gossip, I hope.” He thrust her down into the chair as he bent over her, doing his best to fix a solicitous expression on his face. “Try to look as if you felt faint.”

“I don’t feel faint. I feel furious.”

“You’ll recover,” he replied unfeelingly. “Now, wilt a little in your chair and look as if you were overcome by the exertion of the waltz—unless, of course, you wish to have half the
ton
speculating as to what is going on between us to make you stalk off the floor like that.”

She would have liked to jerk her hand away and give him a piece of her mind, but Vivian was wise enough in the ways of the
ton
to know that Stewkesbury spoke nothing less than the truth. She had committed a social solecism by leaving the floor in the middle of a dance. It would only make it worse if she was seen arguing with Stewkesbury now. It would set all the gossips’ tongues to wagging, and while she did not care overmuch what others might say about her, she knew that any bit of gossip about her and Oliver would affect Lily
and Camellia, and she certainly did not want to make the Bascombe sisters’ task any harder than it was already.

So she contented herself with sending him a glare from beneath her lashes as she slumped in the chair, raising one hand to her forehead.

“Don’t overdo it,” he told her. “Or I shall have to employ your smelling salts.”

“I don’t carry smelling salts.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Still, I imagine I could borrow some.”

“You are the most annoying man.” Vivian dropped her hand and gave him a hard look. “Why don’t you just go away?”

“I can scarcely leave you in your weakened state. I beg your pardon—did you just growl?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Vivian sighed. “I don’t know how you are able to always say exactly the thing that will make me the angriest.”

“Apparently it is quite easy.” He turned to glance out over the room. “Ah, here comes Charlotte, looking suitably concerned.”

“Dearest Vivian,” Charlotte said as she crossed the last few steps to them. “Are you ill?” She bent to take Vivian’s hand in hers, murmuring, “Fighting again?” She cast a laughing glance up at Stewkesbury.