An Affair Without End (8 page)

“She is quite loyal.” Fitz eyed his brother with some interest. “It is unusual, but I’m sure she will carry it off. Vivian’s never been involved in a real scandal, and people have become accustomed to her eccentricities.”

“Yes, but what is considered an acceptable eccentricity in a duke’s daughter will not be so easily tolerated in plain Miss Bascombe, an American born out of a scandalous elopement and having her first Season. We cannot hope that Vivian will control any of Cam’s wilder notions. She’s more likely to join Cam than to forbid her to do it.”

“Eve will be here. I’m sure she will keep both of them from their wilder starts.”

“I wonder if anyone could do that. Especially a newlywed. And didn’t you say that you intended to set up your own household?”

Fitz nodded, his eyes glinting a little with laughter. “The only answer is for you to get married and then your wife can be in charge of bringing Cam out.”

Oliver snorted. “I am not marrying to make an easier path through the season for Camellia.”

“You should get married.” Fitz grinned. “It’s a marvelous state.”

The earl rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing worse than a reformed bachelor.”

“You can hardly fault a man for wishing the benefits of love on his brother.”

“I believe we were talking about marriage, not love,” Stewkesbury retorted.

Fitz shrugged. “Isn’t that what you want in a marriage? ’Twould be a difficult road, I’d warrant, to be fast-tied to a woman without love.”

“Not if a man chooses wisely. I will allow that everything is roses and sunshine with you and Eve. No doubt your marriage will be as happy as it will be long. But Eve is an intelligent, responsible, pleasant-tempered woman who would be a good wife whether there is love or not.”

“I notice you give all the credit to her.” Fitz laughed, then tilted his head to one side, considering. “No doubt you are perfectly correct.”

Oliver smiled. “No, there is credit to you, as well. You are a remarkably easy man to like, as you well know. You have played on that fact since you were in leading strings.” Oliver took another swig of his drink and looked away from his brother. “But what if one married for love, and the love
died? Where would you be then? Take Jerome Carlyle and his wife. They married with stars in their eyes, and now Lady Vivian says they spend their days fighting tooth and nail.”

“It happens. But I am speaking of real love, not lust or some fleeting infatuation. Love lasts.”

“As it did with our parents?” Oliver turned a sardonic eye on his half brother. “They were madly in love till the day they died, but their life was a storm. Jealousy, vases thrown, then tearful reconciliations and wild protestations of devotion.”

“Mother and Father were . . . colorful.” The faint smile dropped from Fitz’s mobile mouth, and he directed a concerned gaze at his brother. “But not all love is the sort they had. Look at their children. Royce and Mary are as content as lovebirds.” Mary, the eldest Bascombe sister, had married Fitz’s half brother shortly after returning to England. “And Eve and I have no storms. You can make better choices than other people do.”

“I intend to make an excellent choice. But I don’t imagine that love will figure into it.”

“No? What then?” Fitz looked at Oliver with interest.

“Well, clearly the woman I marry must be able to carry the weight of being a countess, which would mean that she grew up with the responsibility of title and family.”

“I see. At least an earl’s daughter, do you think? Or could a lowly baron’s child suit?”

Oliver raised one brow at Fitz. “You know what I mean. I have to consider whether she has been raised to be the lady of the manor or merely a pleasant decoration on a man’s arm. Lineage is a factor, but that does not mean she has to be the offspring of an earl.”

“So an earl’s niece would meet your specifications.”

“Jest all you like. I am serious.”

“That is what I fear.”

“I realize you think I am being pompous.”

“Pompous? No. Never. Perhaps a wee bit . . . exacting.”

“I intend to approach the whole matter rationally. I see no harm in that. It’s all very well to say that all that matters is the beauty of her eyes or how my heart speeds up when I see her. But the fact is that the Countess of Stewkesbury will have to be witty and well-read enough to make intelligent conversation, as well as plan a ball or dinner for thirty or Harvest Day for the tenants.”

“And what about this paragon’s looks? Are they unimportant?” Fitz’s blue eyes danced.

“Not entirely. Of course, I would wish for a wife with reasonably good looks. She must have some sense of fashion. But not one so beautiful that there are always moonstruck youths clustered at her feet. Certainly not anyone flamboyant or eccentric.” Oliver scowled at the fire as he went on, “The last thing I want in a wife is the sort of woman who is always winding up in some predicament or other. Or arguing with one over every little thing.”

Fitz raised his eyebrows a little at this pointed description, but said nothing.

“Marriage should be tranquil. Calm. Reasonable.”

Fitz let out a little crow of laughter and raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Ah, Oliver. I cannot wait until love takes you in hand. Reason, I think, will never stand a chance.”

Early the next afternoon, Lady Vivian Carlyle set out to visit her jeweler. She could have, she knew, sent for Mr. Brookman to bring his wares to her house. He would not have refused such an excellent customer as herself. However, Vivian enjoyed going to his shop. There was so much more to see, and she enjoyed traveling through London. Besides . . . today just seemed to sparkle, and she was in too high spirits to remain bottled up indoors.

It did not take much reflection to know the cause of her good mood. Oliver—the stuffy, reliable, responsible Lord Stewkesbury—had kissed her. But, no, that was far too tame a word for it. What had happened between them could hardly be described as a mere kiss. It had been far too startling, too amazing, too combustible, to use the same word one might for a simple buss on the cheek. When his lips had fastened on hers, Vivian had felt the shock all through her, down to her very toes. Who could have imagined that Oliver could feel such passion? Or, even more astonishing, that he had felt that sort of passion for her!

She was far too much of a realist to imagine that it meant anything lasting or deep. It had been a spur-of-the-moment act, one doubtless engendered by a roiling mix of fury and resentment as much as by any feeling of passion. By the time Stewkesbury had reached home, Vivian felt sure, Oliver would have been appalled and thoroughly regretting the impulse that had brought him to kiss her. Nothing would ever come of it. She would not even wish for anything to come of it. The thought of her and Oliver together was absurd. Laughable. Impossible. No doubt the earl would soon apologize to her, stiff and proper, and assure her that it would never happen again. He would have recovered his customary calm, and after that, things would return to normal between them.

Still, for the moment—for the brief, bizarre, amazing thrill of the moment—it had been nothing short of exhilarating. Vivian believed in enjoying the moment.

Vivian dressed with her usual eye to fashion. She did not believe in leaving the house looking anything but her best, even if she was going only to the jeweler’s. Today she wore a deep blue wool round gown and over it a matching pelisse in a military cut with black frogged fastenings marching down the front and black braid around the cuffs and collar.
Her hat was a cunning little black one she had bought last summer, shaped like an upside-down boat, coming to a point on her forehead. Black kid gloves and half boots completed the ensemble.

Just as she stepped out of her house and started down the steps toward her carriage, she spied Lord Stewkesbury crossing the street toward her. He pulled up short at the sight of her, then continued, his face set in a look of iron determination. Vivian had to smother a smile; clearly Oliver was steeling himself to face her with an apology.

“Lord Stewkesbury,” she said pleasantly, not giving him a chance to get started. “How fortunate I met you; I was just about to leave.”

“My lady.” He bowed somewhat woodenly. “Please, do not let me detain you. I shall call on you another time.”

“Nonsense.” Vivian’s amusement increased at the clear sound of relief in his voice. “I am going to the jeweler’s. It can wait for a moment.”

“What?” He scowled. “Why? The devil. Don’t tell me you are snooping about. I told you—”

“Yes, no doubt you did. But I have something to pick up at the jeweler’s. Why don’t you escort me, and we can talk on the way?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then said somewhat sourly, “My pleasure.”

Vivian ignored his tone, smiling at him sunnily and accepting his hand to step up into the carriage.

“Here we are again,” she said. “Odd, isn’t it, two days in a row when it has been months since we have seen each other?”

He ignored her attempt at light conversation, settling into the seat across from her and straightening his shoulders with the air of one facing a firing squad.

“I came today to apologize, my lady, for the way I behaved last night. I deeply regret my actions.”

Vivian raised her brows. “You regret kissing me? I must say, Stewkesbury, that’s rather an ungentlemanly thing to say. Was it so terrible?”

“What?” He stared at her. “No, of course not. It wasn’t terrible at all.”

“I am relieved to hear that.” A smile hovered at the corners of Vivian’s mouth. “I found it quite pleasant myself.”

“Vivian!” He closed his eyes.

“What? Would you rather I had found it unpleasant?”

“No! Of course not. Oh, the devil! It is more than a man’s life is worth trying to talk to you. I came to apologize!”

“So you said. What I can’t understand is why you should want to, since it seems that both of us enjoyed the experience.” Vivian’s eyes twinkled.

“Well, you shouldn’t have,” Oliver retorted crossly. “Or, at least, you should pretend that you didn’t.”

“Really, Oliver—I feel I may call you by your given name, don’t you, now that we are, well, better acquainted?” He stifled a groan, and Vivian paused, one eyebrow raised, then went on, “I cannot understand why I should pretend something I don’t feel and which surely would not make you feel any better.”

“I did not behave like a gentleman,” he replied, goaded. “And you should not be so blithe about the whole matter. You should be shocked. Upset.”

Vivian laughed. “I am twenty-eight years old, Oliver, and, though I know you will think me vain, I am aware that I am pleasing to look at. I have been kissed before. It seems absurd for me to be upset.”

He scowled. “You routinely go about letting fellows kiss you?”

“No, not routinely. Truthfully, there have not been many men I wanted to kiss me. And some I have even slapped because they were quite presumptuous. But I could see that you wanted to kiss me, and I did not discourage you.” She looked down, casting her eyes back up at him flirtatiously. “So you see, I can hardly fault your behavior, now, can I?”

Oliver simply stared at her as though stunned. He pulled his eyes away, shifting a little in his seat. “Good Lord, Vivian, it’s no wonder that men kiss you if you go about talking in that manner.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t speak to most men that way. But with you, it’s entirely different. We have known each other this age. Why, you are practically like a cousin to me.”

“A cousin! I trust you don’t go about kissing your cousins so!”

Another merry trill of laughter burst from her. “Goodness, no. My cousins are generally horrid. And I never had a
tendre
for any of them when I was a schoolgirl.”

She had apparently rendered him speechless again. A line of red crept along the ridge of his cheekbone, and he turned his head abruptly away, gazing out the carriage window.

“There, I have embarrassed you. I shall say I’m sorry, too, and we’ll call the account settled. Let us speak of something else.” Taking his silence for assent, Vivian went on, “Would you like to hear why I’m going to see Mr. Brookman?”

“Who?” He turned back to her, apparently willing to drop the matter of their kiss the night before. “I thought you were going to Rundell and Bridge.”

“Oh, no. Papa always used them, of course, but several years ago I saw a magnificent brooch on Lady Sedgefield, and she told me that she purchased it at Brookman and Son. So I visited his shop, and I’ve gone back ever since. The man is a genius at design and just as splendid at resetting old pieces. A number of the things I buy are old, you see, and
magnificent as they are, I can’t wear them. They are much too ornate for today’s fashion. Some are too wonderful to break up, of course, and those I simply put in my collection, but, well, what’s the point of buying jewels if one cannot wear them? So Brookman resets most of them in simpler pieces. That is what he’s done with the Scots Green, which I’m picking up today.”

“The what? An emerald?”

“No, a green diamond. They are one of the rarest of diamonds, you know; only red ones are rarer. And ones the size of the Scots Green are most unusual. They’re difficult to cut because the color can be splotchy or only on the surface.”