An Affair Without End (12 page)

To Vivian’s surprise, Stewkesbury mimicked the dog, jumping toward the animal, then back, and Pirate exploded into barks, leaping forward and back, then side to side. As Vivian watched, the man and the dog darted about the small yard—advancing, retreating, dashing one way, then another, and Vivian could not help but laugh at the sight of the staid earl completely abandoning all dignity as he romped with his dog. Pirate was clearly in heaven, whirling and yapping and zipping back and forth wildly. And the man—Vivian studied the earl’s face, usually sober but now laughing and light, without care or pretense—yes, the man clearly loved the game as much as his pet.

Vivian leaned forward, resting her forehead against the windowpane. Something in Stewkesbury still brought up a yearning in her. Such a handsome man, she thought, and her mind turned to the kiss they had shared last night. Her lips curved in a sensual smile.

No, a husband was not what she was looking for. But a man, now, at least for a while, was an entirely different thing.

The next two days were spent in a whirl of shopping. First the four women looked at the little dolls known as fashion babies that wore miniatures of the latest dresses from Paris and pored over fashion books until the different styles began to blur. They examined fabrics and laces and ribbons and trims. Camellia and Lily made decision after decision with the guidance of the older two women, and finally even Lily declared that she could not bear to think of another gown.

So the following day they turned their attention to shoes and accessories. Camellia and Lily were fitted for new kid half boots, suitable for both walking and riding, as well as slippers for daily and evening wear in a variety of colors and materials. When Camellia protested that they had already bought several pairs of shoes when they first arrived in London, Vivian pointed out that those had been only a temporary measure.

“How could we buy the shoes you would need when we had not purchased the gowns?” she asked reasonably.

Next came the millinery shops, three in a row, followed by a visit to the glovers. Camellia, who considered the three pairs of gloves she already had perfectly adequate, was quickly informed that so few gloves would never do. A lady
must have long white kid gloves for evening wear and short gloves in both kid and a variety of white and colored silks. Eve and Vivian did at least allow that the undergarments and nightgowns the younger two had purchased six months earlier would be enough, although, of course, new stockings were a must, as well as new and much finer handkerchiefs—and one should really purchase a
few
new petticoats or chemises. Lily would need a number of such things for her trousseau, naturally, but that was an entirely different matter and could be taken care of much later in the Season. This subject was enough to make Lily giggle and blush, at which Camellia rolled her eyes.

They finished up their day with a visit to Gunter’s, and though all but Lily deemed the day too cool for an ice, they were well satisfied with the pastries they chose. Loaded down with boxes and bags, they made their way to Stewkesbury House. After reminding Camellia of their plans to go out driving in Hyde Park the next afternoon, Vivian directed the carriage to Carlyle Hall.

A few minutes later, the coach rumbled to a halt, and Vivian heard her coachman call out to someone. Curious, she pulled aside the edge of the leather curtain. They had come to a stop outside her home, but the spot at the curb directly in front of the door was already occupied. Frowning, she peered at the large, mud-splashed coach and in the next instant recognized it as her father’s comfortable, lumbering traveling coach.

The front door opened, and a footman hurried out to help her down, but Vivian was already out of the carriage and onto the sidewalk before he reached her.

“Is that my father’s carriage? Is he here?”

“Yes, my lady. His Grace arrived a few minutes ago. Lord Seyre is with him as well.”

“Gregory!” Now Vivian was truly astonished.

It was odd for her father to travel to London when she had left him only a week before carousing in the country with his cronies, but he was well-known to be impulsive. He could have taken it into his head to move the party to London. But for her shy, even reclusive, brother to come with the duke, especially in the midst of the Season, was almost unheard of.

Vivian hurried into the house, divesting herself of her outerwear as she went and handing it to the trailing footman. “Where is he?” She turned, glancing around for Grigsby, the butler, then lifted her voice. “Father? Gregory?”

“His Grace is in his bedchamber, my lady. I believe Lord Seyre is with him.”

Vivian started up the stairs, but she had not reached halfway when her brother appeared at the top of the stairs. “Gregory! What is going on? Why are you and Papa here?”

“Don’t worry. He’s all right,” Gregory said quickly, and started down the stairs toward her.

Vivian stopped abruptly, the blood draining from her face. “All right? Gregory! What do you mean? Why wouldn’t he be all right?”

“Oh, blazes, I’m telling it all wrong.” He came to the landing and stopped.

A tall man with a thin build kept lean by his devotion to riding, Gregory was quiet and scholarly. He possessed the large, dramatic green eyes and sculpted features that were considered a hallmark of the Carlyle family, but his good looks often went unnoticed by those who saw only his reticent, even self-effacing manner. His hair was dark brown with a hint of the red that flamed in his sister’s hair. His eyesight was poor enough that he wore spectacles to read, and when, as now, he did not have them on, it gave his gaze a soft, almost dreamy look, an appearance that was reinforced by his boyish, endearing smile. Though dressed in clothes
of the finest materials, he managed to look rumpled and thrown together.

Reaching out to take his sister by the arms, he said, “Papa fell—”

“Fell? From what? What foolish thing was he doing?”

“Nothing. Truly. It wasn’t exactly a fall, more a faint—though Papa bumped his head when he went down so he has a knot on it. One moment he was standing there, and the next he crumpled to the floor. I wasn’t with him. That old fool Tarrington was there, and he just stood like a stunned ox, then started bellowing for the butler.”

“Was Papa in his cups?” Vivian wrinkled her brow. “I don’t understand why he came to London.”

“I was the one who insisted. He would have let old Smithers poke and prod at him and harrumph for a while, then recommend he cup him or leech him. You know how I feel about such antiquated methods. The French are making far greater strides in—”

“Yes, yes, I know, dear, but what about Papa?” Vivian, used to her brother’s ways, gently pushed him back to the subject.

“I insisted that he come to London to see one of the physicians from the Royal Academy.”

“But why? I mean, why do you think it is so serious? If he was drinking—”

“He wasn’t. That is the thing—I mean, of course, he had been drinking. They all were. You know how it is when he and Tarrington and the Blakeneys and all that lot get together. But this happened in the morning before he’d even begun to drink. Papa was in a mood. I heard him yelling at Blevins.” Gregory named the duke’s long-suffering valet. “I think he threw a boot at him. Then he went downstairs to breakfast, and suddenly he just went down. I think—I think it may have been an apoplexy.”

“Gregory, no!” Vivian’s hands flew up to her heart, which felt suddenly cold in her chest.

“When he came to, he was—his speech was garbled. And he’s—well, you will see him. His condition hasn’t gotten worse, and I think he has improved somewhat. His speech is clearer. But still, I think he should see a good physician.”

“Of course. Gregory, I must see him. Is he awake?”

“He was a few minutes ago.” Vivian started up the stairs again, and Seyre fell in beside her. “When we got here, old Grigsby hustled him upstairs and into bed. He and Blevins, of course, are jockeying for position as the most indispensable to His Grace. Grigsby had the bed made and warmed just as the duke likes it, and Blevins had to point out that he would fix Marchester a nostrum, as the duke trusts no one else to do so. There were enough dagger glares and nose twitchings and sniffs for a Drury Lane farce.”

“I can imagine.”

“I could tell Papa was enjoying it.”

“He always did like to be fussed over.”

Though Gregory’s words had frightened Vivian, she was glad that he had warned her of her father’s condition before she entered the room. Otherwise, she would have let out a cry of alarm.

Her father had always been a robust man, even after he had gotten older. His hair, though almost entirely white now, was still thick, and his square-jawed face was handsome, his green eyes bright and arresting. His tall frame had thickened around the middle, but his shoulders were broad, with no sign of a stoop. Most of all, vitality always shone from him.

Now, however, lying there in the high-testered bed, his face and hair pale against the white sheets, Marchester looked somehow shrunken. His eyes did not sparkle, and the smile he gave her lifted only one corner of his mouth.
He held out his left hand to her, and she noted that his right hand was curled against his side, unmoving.

“Viv! My girl.” His voice sounded thick, and she could see that it was an effort for him to speak. Her heart twisted inside her chest.

“Papa!” Vivian smiled brilliantly and came forward, taking his hand in both her own and bending over the bed to place a kiss on his cheek. “What lengths you will go to in order to drag Gregory to London!”

“That’s it.” He mustered up another faint smile. “Fool peacock Mullard . . .”

“Dr. Mullard is one of the best physicians in the country,” Gregory told him firmly. “And you’d best pay heed to him this time.”

“This time?” Vivian’s brows lifted. “You’ve seen him before?”

Her father’s mouth twitched. “Saw him . . . end of Season . . . told me go home. Rest. I did.”

Gregory snorted. “If you call burning the candle at both ends with all your friends ‘resting.’”

“Papa! You should have told us!” Vivian scolded, but she could not bear to say anything else with the duke looking so ill.

The physician had already been sent for, and after a few minutes, he came into the room with such a majestic gliding gait that it would have done it an injustice to term it walking. A large, well-fed man dressed in the finest of suits, with a brightly patterned waistcoat of embroidered silk, he came over to the side of the bed and stood gazing down at the duke.

“Well, well, Your Grace, back again?”

“Come to gloat?” Marchester asked.

The doctor allowed himself a benign smile. “I can see
that you are not done in yet, Your Grace.” He turned toward Gregory and Vivian and rather majestically informed them that he must see his patient alone.

Vivian and her brother meekly left the room and waited outside in the hall until finally the doctor opened the door and came out. He looked so grave that Vivian’s heart began to thump wildly.

“How is he?” Gregory asked, and Vivian heard the same nerves in his voice as danced in her stomach. “Will he be all right?”

“I will not lie to you. Your father has suffered a serious episode. I warned him how it could be if he did not moderate his . . . um, excesses. Gout was the most likely ailment, I thought, but as it turns out, it was apoplexy that struck him first. He survived the initial attack, which is good. Many pass on immediately. He appears to have regained some of the movement which he lost, and that is also hopeful.”

“He is going to recover, isn’t he?” Vivian asked. “I mean, since he has survived the initial attack.”

The doctor looked even more grave. “I cannot promise that. There may or may not be another episode. It is imperative that he remain here for a time so that I can monitor his condition. He should rest. No strenuous exercise, and I would not advise visitors. I have written down my recommendations regarding the foods he should eat. The duke must begin to practice some moderation. He is no longer a young man, a fact I cannot seem to impress upon him.”

The doctor handed a piece of paper to Vivian, and her heart sank as she read the list of foods the doctor recommended. The bland food was hardly the sort of fine cuisine her father was accustomed to.

“Thank you for coming,” Gregory told the physician now. “I know my father is not the easiest of patients.”