An Affair Without End (22 page)

A dull red color crept up Gregory’s neck. “No. I mean,
yes, she was quite, um, nice. But I’m no good with women. You know that. Besides, she’ll doubtless have scores of suitors hanging about her. It stands to reason; she’s so pretty.”

Vivian stared at her brother. “Gregory! Do you really like her? I was just teasing . . .”

He shook his head, not looking at her. “Don’t be silly. I barely know the girl. She was, um, easy to talk to. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. She dislikes me thoroughly.”

“What?” Vivian’s brows shot up. “I doubt that. The two of you were chatting away when I came into the library.”

“Yes, well . . .” He shrugged. “Things change rather quickly sometimes. Don’t worry about it.” He straightened, looking alarmed. “And
don’t
say anything to her about me. I am not about to have my sister trying to matchmake for me, too.”

“No, I won’t. Not if you don’t want me to.” Vivian regarded Seyre thoughtfully.

The more he said, the more Vivian wondered if her brother was interested in Camellia. It certainly gave her something to think about. Vivian would enjoy having Camellia for a sister-in-law. She certainly was not above a bit of subtle matchmaking. Still . . . it was hard for her to picture her shy brother with someone as blunt and high-spirited as Cam. It would be awful to encourage him to pursue Camellia if Camellia did not return his affection. It was nonsense, of course, for Gregory to think that Camellia disliked him. It was typical of her brother to be unaware of the appeal of his good looks and kind disposition.

But Camellia might only like him as a friend. Vivian had never noticed the girl seeming particularly interested in any man. She might regard Gregory in the same way she did her male cousins. No, it would be much better to wait and see on this matter. After all, there was plenty of time. It wasn’t as if either of them was likely to jump into marriage anytime soon.

Before long, the duke and Seyre departed. Vivian bade them a fond farewell, then turned back to the suddenly empty-seeming house. What, she wondered, was she to do now? She could pay calls, of course. The Season was well under way, and most people she knew had returned. Or she could go to Stewkesbury House and spend the afternoon discussing the party of the night before with Eve and Lily and Camellia. But then she might run into Oliver, and it was better, she thought, to let him spend a few days away from her.

Vivian smiled to herself. She wasn’t sure what she expected to come of this little dance she and Oliver were performing. Not anything permanent, of course. She had meant it when she told Oliver that she did not intend to marry. She might have intimated to him that she had a good deal more knowledge and sophistication about men than she actually did, but her firm opinion was that marriage was an institution that did not favor women and that a woman should be just as able as a man to engage in affairs without having to shackle herself for life. That Vivian had never actually done so did not matter. She had simply never found a man who interested her enough . . . until now.

The height of absurdity was that it should be the steady, responsible Earl of Stewkesbury who should catch her eye. There were men more handsome—his brother Fitz, for one. And certainly there were men more charming; she could rattle off the names of a handful. But just something about the way his mouth curved up on one side and his pewter-gray eyes lit in shared amusement melted her inside. Even when he was at his most annoying, she did not wish him somewhere else; oddly, arguing with him was entertaining. Invigorating. Pitting her determination against his resistance offered a challenge she could not resist.

Best of all, with Oliver there would be no question of
either of them falling in love. Vivian was certain by now that she was not a woman who was apt to tumble into love. And Oliver was the sort of practical, unemotional man whose head ruled him, not his heart. Only his sense of propriety held him back, and once she had breached that wall, they could have an affair that would be mutually satisfactory. There would be no need to worry about fallen expectations or bruised feelings. When it was all over, they would go their separate ways, with no hearts broken.

However, pleasant as it was to think about, Vivian knew that she must step back for the moment. Stewkesbury was not a man to be pushed, and Vivian was certainly not the sort to dangle after a man. No, Oliver would have to come to her, she thought, not the other way around.

That left her with nothing to do that particularly interested her. Even the prospect of planning the ball she would have in a month or two for the Bascombe sisters did not appeal. She supposed she could simply wait to receive afternoon callers, but that seemed an even more lackluster way to spend the day.

So it was with real pleasure that she received a note an hour later from Lady Mainwaring. Kitty could be counted on to keep life interesting. Vivian broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Her eyebrows floated upward as she read:

Dearest Vivian,
I am in the most dreadful straits! I must see you on a matter of the most VITAL importance. Please, please, call on me this afternoon. I would not ask you were I not on the Edge of Despair!

Yr Loving Godmother,
Kitty, Lady Mainwaring

Vivian was not alarmed. She was familiar enough with Lady Kitty Mainwaring’s ways to know that the woman’s proclamations of disaster usually contained as little truth as her claim to be Vivian’s godmother. Lady Kitty had been her father’s friend and longtime mistress, and she had lavished Vivian with a careless but heartfelt affection throughout the often lonely years of Vivian’s childhood. Vivian doubted that the situation was anywhere near as dire as Lady Kitty claimed, but she welcomed the prospect of visiting her.

She sat down to dash off a reply to Kitty to expect her that afternoon, then went upstairs to dress. Shortly after luncheon, Vivian set off in her carriage for the Mainwaring mansion, a great gray-stone pile of a house, built after the Great Fire and in an area that was no longer the most fashionable part of London. Its location had vexed Lady Kitty, but on that point her much older husband had refused to budge, and she had become resigned to the place over the years, opining that at least it was closer to the gambling clubs she favored.

Vivian was accustomed to visiting her friend there; Kitty never called on her. Kitty had married young to a man poles apart from her not only in years, but also in temperament
and interests. Her marriage had been for duty and prestige, and like a number of others of her generation and class, she had looked outside her marriage for love and affection. Kitty, however, had been less discreet than many, and because of her scandal-marked past, she was no longer received in the very best households. She did not mind, she told Vivian, for she cared more about enjoying her life than she did about pleasing the ladies of the
ton
. Vivian knew that Kitty’s behavior had been no worse than her own father’s—better, really, for Kitty did not drink to excess and carouse with her friends—and Vivian found it unfair that her father was not exiled from society, but Kitty was, simply because she was a woman. Vivian had told Kitty so and had assured her many times that Kitty was always welcome at her house, but Kitty would not call on her, not wanting to bring any question to bear on Vivian’s behavior.

When Vivian arrived, she was shown into the drawing room, where her old friend sat with Wesley Kilbothan, the “poet” who was currently her “protégé.” Lady Kitty rose with a cry of pleasure and held out her hands to Vivian. Though in her fifties, Kitty was still an attractive woman with golden blond hair miraculously untouched by gray and cornflower blue eyes. If her figure had thickened a little over the years and her complexion faded, those were kept hidden with stays and a subtle application of lip rouge, and her blue silk round dress was in the latest fashion. Diamonds winked at her ears and fingers, and a sapphire necklace graced her throat.

“Vivian, my love, how entrancing you look! Doesn’t she, Mr. Kilbothan?” Kitty half turned toward the man, who had politely arisen at Vivian’s entrance and now stood waiting to greet her.

“Indeed—but then, Lady Vivian always looks enchanting.” Kilbothan came closer and made an impeccable bow.

He was a slender man of medium height, whose age Vivian would have guessed to be around forty. His face was attractive in a sharp way, with a narrow nose and lean cheeks, his brows flying slashes of black. He was well dressed, wearing a jacket of bottle green kerseymere, with a shirt of white cambric and a waistcoat of a green-and-blue floral pattern. And if his collar points were higher and his clothing more colorful than, say, Lord Stewkesbury’s, he was no dandy, either. He was, as always, polite and well-spoken, yet Vivian could not find it in herself to like the man. She was aware that her distrust, even dislike, of the man stemmed from the fear that he was taking advantage of the generous and loving Kitty, but that knowledge did not make her feelings any kindlier toward him.

The look he sent toward Vivian was knowing as he went on, “I fear I must leave you ladies. The Muse is calling, and one must not ignore her.”

“Of course, dear.” Lady Kitty smiled and watched him walk out of the room. She heaved a little sigh of satisfaction. “Such a lovely man. And so thoughtful. Dear Wesley knew I wanted to speak with you alone.”

“And I am eager to speak to you.” Vivian led her friend over to the sofa. “Now tell me, what has brought you to such a pass?”

“Oh, it is the most idiotic thing!” Something more like exasperation than despair flashed across the older woman’s face. “But that can wait. First, you must tell me about your father. I heard he had been carried to London, all but on death’s door. Tell me it isn’t so!”

“It certainly is not. I would have written to tell you if it were so serious.” Vivian smiled. Kitty was not fond of bad news, so Vivian kept the story light. “He had a bit of a turn, that is all, and Gregory wanted to make sure he was fine. He does not trust the doctor at home—Gregory, I mean; Papa,
as you know, quite likes the man, for the doctor allows Papa to bully him.”

Kitty chuckled, her fondness for the duke evident in her eyes. “Of course. Then Marchester is not ill?”

Vivian knew how little her father would like her telling his former lover about his physical ailments, and she knew how equally little Lady Kitty wanted to learn that her former lover was vulnerable to the effects of age. It was better all around not to delve too deeply into the details of her father’s condition. “The doctor says he must reform the way he lives.”

“Well!
That
will make Marchester ill.”

“I have no idea how long Papa’s good intentions will last. But for the moment, at least, he is willing to change in order not to have to see the doctor again. He and Gregory have returned to the Hall already.”

“Without even gambling or going to parties?” Kitty looked alarmed.

Vivian shrugged. “I believe he felt the need to recover in the peace of the country.”

Lady Kitty looked vaguely puzzled. “I suppose . . . if it makes him feel better. Although, my dear, I never could understand why everyone says the country is peaceful. All those birds set up such a clatter at dawn, and the dogs bark at just everything, and that dreadful peacock of Mainwaring’s! I nearly fainted the first time I heard it screech. It’s a wonder to me that anyone can have any rest there. Although at Marchester, Buttons was always careful to have them put me on the side away from the stables and the kennels, and he wasn’t foolish enough to have a peacock, thank God.”

“‘Buttons’?” Vivian repeated, gaping at her. “Are you talking about my father?”

Kitty let out a trill of tinkling laughter. “Oh, my, yes, that was my nickname for him. And the way he got it was so
amus—” She cut a sideways glance at Vivian and stopped, clearing her throat. “Perhaps that’s a story best left untold.”

Vivian suppressed a smile. “Dear Kitty, why don’t you tell me why you wrote me?”

Kitty sighed. “Oh, Viv, I have made a dreadful mistake. I cannot think what your papa would say.” She paused, considering. “Actually, Marchester would doubtless tell me not to worry my head about it—that is always what he would say when I’d done something foolish. He would think nothing of it, for he is not a man who cares about possessions.”

It seemed an odd thing to say about a man who owned seven homes, at least that many vehicles, several stables of horses, and baubles, paintings, and statues too numerous to detail, but Vivian understood what her friend meant. The duke had never been unduly attached to anything he owned. He had no interest in possessing things simply to have them.