An Affair Without End (36 page)

“Would you let go of a puzzle so easily? Don’t you want to find out the answer? To stop the thief?”

“I would prefer that it stopped, yes. I’m not sure I want to go chasing about trying to find the answer myself. That is why I hired a Bow Street Runner to look into the matter.”

Vivian glanced at him, surprised. “You did?”

He nodded. “I knew you would not stop, so I thought I had better do something to resolve it before you dragged me into another gaming hell.”

Vivian laughed. “O’Neal’s club wasn’t a
hell
.”

“Yes, but who knows what the next one will be like.”

“Dearest Oliver, you always look on the bright side of
things.” Vivian was not sure exactly why, but Oliver’s hiring a Runner made her happy. It said something that neither of them could have—or perhaps would have—put into words. She cast him a flashing grin. “Now, I suppose we’d better rescue my poor brother from his unrelenting courtesy.”

She nodded toward where Seyre was plodding along with Felicity Overbrook, glancing wistfully now and then toward Camellia and the others ranging ahead. Oliver followed her gaze and chuckled, and the two of them turned their mounts to join Gregory and his companion.

Seyre let out a sigh of relief when his sister and Stewkesbury trotted over to join them. It had been irritating enough when Overbrook and his sister joined him and Camellia just when he was hoping to start a conversation with her. But somehow he and Felicity had been separated from them, and she had had the trouble with her stirrup, and they had fallen behind. Then, instead of hurrying to catch up with the others, Miss Overbrook had grown slower and slower, so that now Camellia was far ahead of them and Gregory knew that he was doomed to finish the ride out to Richmond listening to Felicity Overbrook’s inane chatter about an appallingly boring book she was reading.

This sort of thing happened so often to him with young ladies. Vivian accused him of being unbelievably naïve, but it wasn’t so much naiveté as that though he could see he was being manipulated, he could not get out of the situation without being rude. He had seen far too many noblemen being arrogantly rude for him to indulge in such tactics himself.

Vivian, however, was a master at politely extricating one from any situation, so when she appeared, the earl in tow, she slipped in between Gregory and Miss Overbrook, then engaged the young lady in a deep conversation about the
new, lowered waists on the most recent fashion plates in Ackermann’s. Gregory gratefully gave a nod and murmured a polite farewell to the three of them, then was off before Miss Overbrook could say a word.

It did not take him long catch up to Camellia’s group. His gelding might not have quite the speed of the bay stallion he had stabled at Marchester, but he was swift enough and like Gregory had been chafing at the slow pace of Miss Overbrook. But even when Seyre joined the group, he found it difficult to talk to Camellia. Percy Overbrook and Charles Whitten had taken up positions on either side of Miss Bascombe, and they clearly had no intentions of giving way to anyone else.

They continued in this way until they drew close to the park, and then Gregory had the inspired idea of suggesting a race to its entrance. Knowing Whitten’s inferior riding skills and Overbrook’s preference for horses that were more showy than swift, it didn’t surprise Gregory that by the time they reached the park, Gregory and Camellia were far out in front, riding almost neck and neck. He considered for a moment reining in his gelding a bit to let Camellia win, but he suspected that not only would the American girl realize what he had done, she would dislike it. So he gave his horse its head, and he surged in front of Camellia’s mare.

Gregory eased up as they passed through the gates, but neither of them stopped. Instead they continued to gallop along the lane, putting more and more distance between them and the others. Finally, when they had pulled out of sight of the rest of the party, Gregory slowed down, and Camellia, after a moment, did, too, falling back to join him.

“Oh, that was wonderful!” Camellia turned toward him. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed that.”

Delight shone in her face, making her beautiful, and just looking at her made Gregory’s heart stutter in his chest.
She was without artifice, without reserve—unlike any other woman he had ever met.

Gregory smiled at her. “Yes, I miss it, too.”

She started to speak, then stopped, and the unabashed joy on her face cooled a little, her expression turning cautious. Gregory felt certain that she had just remembered that she disliked him, and he sighed inwardly.

“Well,” she said. “I suppose we ought to turn back.”

He nodded, even though rejoining the others was the last thing he desired. They turned their mounts and started back at a walk. Gregory glanced at Camellia and found her watching him, but as soon as their gazes met, she looked away. His fingers tightened around his reins.

“Miss Bascombe . . . I hope you will forgive me. I should have told you who I was as soon as we met. I—it was wrong of me, I know, but it was so pleasant to talk to someone who didn’t know I’m Marchester’s heir. To just chat, you see, without being judged.”

“Judged?” Camellia shot him a startled glance. “You? But you’re a duke’s son. That’s the top of the list, isn’t it?”

He let out a short laugh. “I suppose you could put it that way. But that’s exactly why everyone judges one. Are you acting the way a duke’s son should act? Do you do what everyone thinks you should? If you do aught wrong, it reflects badly on your family, your title, your father and grandfather and who knows who else. If you’re reserved or quiet, they’ll say you are stuffy or too proud, and if you’re friendly, they say that you don’t show the proper respect for your position. That you are too egalitarian or you don’t know how to act or your dear departed grandmother would be horrified to hear you speak so familiarly. People watch everything you do because you are the marquess.”

Camellia stared at him in astonishment, and after a moment, she began to chuckle. “But that’s how they treat
me! They watch me, waiting for me to take a misstep, and they talk about it. But it’s because I’m an outsider—an American—and I don’t know what I’m doing. Because I
don’t
belong.”

Gregory smiled. “I think that simply proves that the
ton
loves to gossip.”

“And criticize,” Camellia added feelingly. “I didn’t think about it like that—that perhaps it was a relief for you not to have to be the future duke for a few minutes.”

“Yes.” Relief rushed through him. “That is exactly how I felt. As though I could be myself, not Marchester’s son, and it was . . . well, it was wonderful. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you who I was.” He smiled a little crookedly. “Especially after you told me how you felt about the aristocracy.”

“Oh.” Camellia blushed. “That. My sisters can tell you that my tongue runs away with me sometimes. I don’t dislike you because you are a marquess. The reason I got angry was because you hadn’t told me the truth. I thought you were playing a game with me, pretending not to be a nobleman just so you could trick me.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked, puzzled.

Camellia shrugged. “I don’t know. But I frequently don’t know why people here do the things they do. I thought you must somehow be making a jest of me, and it stung because . . .” She paused, then went on softly, “Because I liked you.” She looked over at him. “It made me feel foolish that I had enjoyed talking to you.”

“I enjoyed it, too.” He looked at her. “I would never make a jest of you. I swear it. You have only to ask Vivian; she will tell you that I am far too serious.”

Camellia smiled faintly. “I don’t have to ask her. I believe you.”

“Good. Then perhaps we can do that again sometime . . . enjoy talking to each other?”

“I’d like that.” They exchanged a smile, and slowly they rode back to join the rest of the party.

Vivian shaded her eyes, watching her brother and Camellia returning. Gregory and Camellia were talking, she saw with satisfaction. She darted a look over at Dora. The girl had gotten down from the barouche and was almost literally surrounded by young men, all trying to get her attention. But Dora, Vivian saw, was looking past her admirers, her gaze on Gregory.

“I believe it will be some time before the wagon arrives and they are able to set up the luncheon,” Oliver said from close behind Vivian. “Shall we take a stroll while we wait?”

Vivian smiled. “It sounds far more enjoyable than standing here watching Miss Parkington work her wiles on the gentlemen. Still . . . they must have chaperones.”

“Let Fitz and Eve chaperone them.” Oliver had no compunction about tossing his brother and sister-in-law to the wolves. “After all, they’re married now, far better as chaperones than a bachelor and a spinster.”

“A spinster!” Vivian raised her brows in mock indignation. “I like that!”

“My lady, it is you who are always trumpeting your single state,” Oliver reminded her with a twinkle in his eye.

“It is far different if
I
say it. I ought to refuse to go with you for that insult . . . however, I fear I will be the one to suffer if I stay.”

She turned, putting her hand on his arm, and they walked away from the others.

“I am an unfeeling sister to leave poor Gregory at the mercy of Miss Parkington,” Vivian confessed.

“No doubt. But comfort yourself with the fact that you have rescued me from listening to Miss Willis-Houghton’s giggles any longer.”

Vivian laughed. “Then I have saved your sanity, in short.”

“Indeed you have.”

They strolled along a path that wound through a stand of graceful birches. Though they were in view of everyone, Vivian could not help but think how no one was around to hear them or see their expressions. They were as close to alone as they could be among a party of people. The thought stirred a spark of desire deep within her. She cast a sideways glance up at Oliver. He seemed to feel her gaze, for he turned his head and looked down at her. Something changed in his face, his mouth softening, his eyes turning brighter and more piercing.

“I don’t know which is more difficult,” he said. “To not see you and spend all my time thinking about you, as I have the last two days, or to see you, be with you, and be unable to touch you.”

“We are touching now,” Vivian pointed out, looking at her hand on his arm.

He followed her gaze and grimaced. “’Tis not the touch I imagined.” He made a low growling noise. “Bloody hell! I hate this—creeping out of your bedroom, hiding from the servants and your brother, hopping in and out of your bed.”

“I know. It isn’t your way.” Vivian tilted her head a little, considering. “And I like that. Which makes it even more imperative that I purchase a house of my own. My man of business has found one or two that might do, he thinks.”

Oliver glanced at her sharply. “You know what I think of your moving into a house on your own.”

“Yes, but it will make things easier.”

His expression was clearly that of a man torn. “Your reputation is more important.”

“I got a note from my agent this morning before I left the house. He suggested I see one of the houses. I think I shall look at it tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to come?”

“I must be mad, participating in this . . .”

“Mm. No doubt.” She paused. “It would be perfectly natural for me to seek the advice of a man, after all.”

Oliver let out a snort. “To anyone who did not know you, perhaps it would seem natural.”

“Maybe you are influencing me to become more proper.”

He stopped and turned to her. “You do not need me there.”

“No.” Vivian gazed up steadily into his gray eyes, stormy now in his indecision. “Nor do I need a new hat. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting it.”

“You know I will go with you. Only send me a note to tell me the time.”

He stood for a moment gazing down at her. Vivian wished he would lean down and kiss her. It would cause a perfect uproar, of course, but at the moment she thought it would be worth it. She could almost feel his lips on hers, soft yet demanding, as they had been the other night. It had sent a shiver through her to hear him say that he had been thinking about that night, too . . . wanting her. Just as she had lain in her bed last night, wanting him.

“Do you always get your way?” he murmured, his eyes glinting.

Vivian smiled up at him. “Almost always.”

By the time they walked back to the group, the servants had arrived, and they were spreading out rugs for the members of the party to sit on and laying down the glasses and plates for the cold luncheon they had brought in the wagon.

Vivian noticed that Dora managed to maneuver her way over to stand near Gregory as the servants laid out the food. When everyone started toward the feast to sit down, Dora stumbled and had to grab Gregory’s arm. He glanced at her, surprised, but steadied her with his other hand. Dora raised
her large, lovely eyes to him, murmuring a sweet thanks, and kept her hand looped through his arm the rest of the way to the rug. When Camellia sat down beside Eve, Gregory took a step toward her, but Dora gripped his arm more firmly, declaring that she must sit down, for she was feeling a trifle faint. Though two other men sprang forward to help her, Dora kept her iron grip on Seyre’s arm.