An Affair Without End (20 page)

That would be a social sin that would never be forgiven. But shouting at Dora would be only slightly less unpardonable, and even a sharp, angry exchange would be looked upon askance, especially after the faux pas Camellia had already committed by galloping in the park. There was nothing for it, she knew, but to get out of this situation as quickly and quietly as she could.

So with a supreme effort, she forced a smile onto her face. “Why, Miss Parkington, I wouldn’t dream of being unkind to you, any more than you would be unkind to me. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

Without waiting for an answer, Camellia slipped away from the group. Fury was shooting through her, making her almost tremble with the effort of suppressing it. She could
not bear to stay in this room, among these people, a moment longer. Camellia headed for the door, skirting around groups of people in conversation. Within moments, she was in the corridor, walking as fast as she could away from the sounds of people. She passed a couple of closed doors and slipped around a corner into a back hall. Paintings graced one wall of the hallway, and the other was lined with tall windows that Camellia guessed looked over the garden when there was light enough to see. The corridor continued the length of the house, but it was soon intersected by another hall leading back toward the front. She turned up it and saw a door, half-opened, that led into a library.

Eager to escape anyone who might come looking for her, Camellia slipped through the door and closed it behind her. She sagged against the door, breathing a sigh of relief. The walls of the room were filled with books, and in the center of it was a conversational grouping of wingback chairs with small tables and lamps beside them. Camellia started toward the chairs.

Much to her surprise, there was a noise, and a man leaned out from one of the tall chairs, peering warily at her.

“Oh.” Camellia stopped, startled.

The man blinked, staring at her for a moment, then unfolded himself from the chair and stood to face her. He had a book in his hand, a finger holding his place.

“Hello.” Camellia gazed back at him with more interest than she had felt all evening. This man looked . . . well, different. His dark reddish brown hair was mussed and flopping down over his forehead, and his neckcloth was askew, as though he had tugged at it. Round glass spectacles perched on his nose, somewhat obscuring his eyes and making it difficult to read his expression.

“Hello,” he answered.

“I’m sorry. Am I intruding? I thought the room was empty.”

“No. I mean—well, it’s just me. That is . . .” He trailed off, a line of red creeping into his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m blathering.”

Camellia smiled, liking him immediately. He had none of the stiffness or arrogance that she had seen in so many of the young men tonight. She strode forward, holding out her hand and saying, “I am Camellia Bascombe.”

“Oh.” He started to reach out his hand, then seemed to
remember his glasses and reached up to whip them off and stuff them into his jacket pocket before he shook her hand.

“What’s your name?” Camellia asked, then hesitated, looking uncertain. “Or is that one of those things I shouldn’t ask?”

“No. I’m the one who should apologize for not introducing myself. I’m, uh, Seyre.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Seyre.” Camellia shook his hand.

“Yes. That is—” He stopped, then smiled, and his face lit up boyishly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bascombe. Would you care to join me?” He gestured toward the chair across from his.

“I’d love it. I have been dying to escape for hours.”

He laughed. “I’m afraid I never do well at this sort of thing—parties and talking and such.” He lifted the book, looking rueful. “I’m more at ease with books.”

“What are you reading?”

“Actually, I was reading a treatise on Newton’s laws of motion.” He looked a trifle sheepish.

“What are they?”

He raised his eyebrows a little. “Are you sure you want to hear?”

Camellia nodded. “Why not?”

“Well, the first is that a body in motion stays at the same rate of motion unless acted upon by an external force.”

Camellia thought for a moment, then nodded. “That makes sense.”

“The second is that a body is accelerated when a force acts on the mass, and the greater the mass, the greater the force would have to be. The formula is F equals ma.”

“I don’t know anything about formulas. But that means that you would have to push something to make it move.”

“Exactly. Or if you hit a croquet ball with a mallet.”

“And you have to push harder or hit it harder if it’s heavier.”

He smiled, nodding. “Exactly.”

“That makes sense, too.”

“The third, and last, is that for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Take the croquet mallet. When you hit the ball, the mallet moves back.”

“That’s like a gun.” Camellia sat forward, intrigued. “When you fire, the gun recoils.”

“Yes!” He, too, leaned forward.

“But surely it’s not an equal thing. I mean, the bullet shoots out a lot farther than the gun comes back.”

“Ah, but you see, that’s the matter of the mass. The gun is much heavier than the bullet, so the force is the same, but the mass of the two objects is different, so their acceleration is not the same.”

“I see.” Camellia nodded. “That’s interesting. I never learned anything like that. My mother and father taught us, but they weren’t very interested in science and such. We read a lot of Shakespeare. And poetry.”

“Science is fascinating.” He paused. “Well, at least I think so. I’m afraid I tend to run on a bit about it. I hope I haven’t bored you.”

“No. It was interesting. I like things that are real. And practical. I’m not so fond of philosophy. And I’m not much of a reader. At least, not like my sister. Lily loves books—well, stories, not anything real.” She grinned. “We’re not very alike.”

“I’m not very like my siblings, either.”

“I’d rather ride than sit around reading.”

“Given the way you ride, that’s perfectly understandable.”

Camellia looked at him blankly, then blushed. “Oh! Oh, no, did you see my infamous ride?”

Seyre laughed, showing even white teeth, and it occurred
to Camellia that she had never seen a smile more winning. She felt warmer somehow, just looking at him, and it surprised her how relieved she felt that he was smiling and laughing, not frowning in disapproval over her escapade.

“I did indeed see it, and I was awestruck.”

“Now you are teasing me.”

“No. Truly. I was impressed by your skill on a horse.”

“Well, you are the only one,” Camellia retorted wryly. “Everyone else seems to think it was scandalous.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand people here. They are concerned over such odd things. I understand why you wouldn’t want someone galloping through the streets, but the path was virtually empty, so I can’t see why it was a sin. And I can’t fathom why it’s right to wear a certain dress in the morning, but you’d never wear it to supper. Or why men have to have so many fobs upon their watch chain.”

“That indeed is one of life’s imponderables.”

Camellia chuckled. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little. I, too, see little reason for piling fobs onto a chain. But, then, I am often taken to task because I forget even to wear the watch.”

“And why is everyone so enamored of titles? I overheard a girl earlier confiding to her friend that she intended to marry at least a baron. She wants a title, not a person. How does it make one a better person to be an earl instead of a plain mister?”

“I cannot see how it does.”

“I’m so glad. I mean, you would not be any different if you were an earl, would you?”

“Indeed not.”

“I would be the same person if someone called me
lady
instead of
miss
. It means nothing about you except that you were born into a certain family; it’s nothing you’ve earned, nothing you’ve accomplished.”

“A trick of fate,” he agreed with a smile. “Being born first.”

“Exactly.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “I take it you are not, ah, fond of our country? Do you wish you were back in America?”

Camellia shook her head. “No. I don’t mind England, just some of the people I’ve met. I love Willowmere. And I love riding. I never had a horse back home.”

“You’ve become this good a rider in the time you’ve been here?” he asked, surprise making his brows shoot up.

“Anyone at Willowmere will tell you, I’ve ridden nearly every day since we arrived. I’m not that good at jumping yet.” She flashed a grin. “But I will be one day.”

“I’m sure you will. You should try riding at Richmond Park. You’d enjoy it far more than trotting down Rotten Row.” He described to her the large open park just outside the city, a frequent day trip for Londoners, with plenty of room to roam and to let mounts run.

The talk soon turned to the horse Camellia had left behind at Willowmere and then to Seyre’s own steed. Her companion, Camellia realized, loved horses and riding as much as she, and so they chatted quite happily, moving on after a time from horses to Seyre’s interest in farming and the experiments he was performing on his own land and then to America and in particular to Camellia’s home there. He listened with fascination to her description of her father’s peripatetic ways and of the various places in which they had lived as Miles Bascombe drifted, searching for a profession that suited him.

“He wasn’t trained to be anything but a gentleman, you see,” Camellia told her companion. “But that isn’t very useful in a new country.”

“No, I can see it wouldn’t be. No doubt I would be in the same predicament.”

Camellia smiled. “No, you, I think, would be a teacher—probably at a college.”

He grinned back. “You are probably right. A bit dull, I’m afraid.”

“No. Why?” Camellia frowned. “You can talk about almost anything.”

“Would it were that easy,” he murmured. He looked at her, uncertainty in his eyes, and started to speak.

At just that moment, a woman’s voice said, “There you are! I knew I’d find you—” She stopped abruptly. “Camellia!”

Camellia and her companion turned to see Lady Vivian standing in the doorway. To Camellia’s surprise, Seyre’s cheeks reddened, and he stood up, tugging at his jacket.

“Er, hallo. I . . . um . . .”

“So both of you have been hiding in here!” Vivian continued merrily, smiling and walking toward them. “I’m glad you met my brother, Cam; I wanted to introduce you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“Your brother!” Camellia stared at her, stricken. “You mean the one who’s a . . . a duke?” Her voice rose almost to a squeak at the end.

“Gregory! Do you mean you didn’t introduce yourself?” Vivian scolded. “Really, if that isn’t just like you. Camellia, this is my brother Gregory, Lord Seyre. And he’s not a duke, not yet anyway. Gregory, this is Miss Camellia Bascombe—”

“Yes, no, I mean, I did introduce myself,” Seyre said in a rush.

“Not entirely,” Camellia murmured.

“Lily has been looking for you,” Vivian told Camellia, her brows knitting at the dark expression on the girl’s face. “I had come to tell you, Gregory, that I think I am ready to go home. I have developed a bit of a headache.”

“Oh! Well, yes, of course.” He cast a sideways glance at Camellia. “We’ll, um, leave right away.”

“Thank you. I’ll go make our good-byes to Lady Carr.” Vivian smiled and nodded to Camellia. “Good night, Camellia. I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as Vivian left the room, Camellia whipped around to face Seyre, fury and embarrassment surging up to replace the astonishment that Vivian’s words had caused. “You lied to me!” she hissed.

“No! I didn’t.” He shoved a hand back into his hair, his eyes troubled. “I did tell you my name.”

“But not who you were!” Camellia retorted. “You let me go rattling on about—about snobs and titles and everything! And all the while you were
laughing
at me!”

“No! No, please, Miss Bascombe. I wasn’t laughing . . . I didn’t mean . . . that is, I just wanted . . .” He trailed off, looking frustrated.