An Affair Without End (Thorndike Press Large Print Core) - Hardcover

Candace Camp is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than sixty novels of contemporary and historical romance, including the bestselling Regency romances Enraptured, Treasured, and The Marrying Season. She grew up in Texas in a newspaper family, which explains her love of writing, but she earned a law degree and practiced law before making the decision to write full time. She has received several writing awards, including the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. Visit her at Candace-Camp.com.

Affair Without End Chapter 1

London was cold, damp, and dirty.

And Lady Vivian Carlyle was delighted to be there.

As the liveried footman lifted his hand to help the lady down from her carriage, Vivian paused for an instant in the open doorway, her vivid green eyes alight with anticipation. It was still January, too early for the event to be truly fashionable, and Lady Wilbourne was not known for exciting parties. But none of that was important. All that mattered was that Vivian was back in London and going to a ball, with the whole long Season stretching out before her.

She stepped down from the carriage and swept up the front steps into the house. She had barely handed her cloak to a footman when Lady Wilbourne, a small, energetic woman who reminded Vivian of a sparrow, spotted Vivian and bustled forward, both hands held out in greeting, her eyes shining.

“Lady Vivian! I am so pleased you could attend.”

“I arrived in town only yesterday,” Vivian told her. “Please forgive me for not responding earlier.”

“Don’t think a thing of it.” Lady Wilbourne waved off the apology with an airy disregard. They both knew that Vivian’s presence at her ball would raise Lady Wilbourne’s position as a hostess for the rest of the Season. “I am so glad that you made it back in time. I am sure it must be hard to leave Marchester. Such a magnificent house.”

Vivian smiled. Marchester, known familiarly to her family as the Hall, was considered one of the grand old homes of the country, but truthfully it was a drafty old pile of stones, and during the winter the family largely kept to the newest wing of the house, avoiding the vast great hall and public rooms of the original medieval castle. She loved it; the sight of it never failed to bring up a rush of pride in her. But for comfort she would take the London house any day.

“I trust you left your father well?” Lady Wilbourne went on. “Such a lovely man. And Lord Seyre? Dare we hope that your brother will make an appearance in town this Season?”

Vivian suppressed another smile at the mention of her older brother. Gregory, the fifth Marquess of Seyre, was perhaps the most sought-after matrimonial prize in England. It was not every day that a future duke happened along, and it was considered a stroke of luck that he was also a pleasant-natured young man of better-than-average looks. Unfortunately for all the matchmaking mothers and daughters of the ton, however, Gregory was a shy and studious sort who rarely visited London and who avoided flirtatious young women like the plague.

“The duke is quite well, thank you,” Vivian assured her. “As is Seyre, but I doubt that Seyre will travel to London. He was ensconced in the library the last time I saw him.”

Lady Wilbourne frowned in the same puzzled way that most did when mention was made of Gregory’s predilection for books and studies, but she said only, “Such an intelligent young man.”

She steered Vivian around the room, making sure that her guests saw her in close conversation with the Duke of Marchester’s daughter, and all the while she chattered about the upcoming Season. Was the new fashion for lower waists here to stay, did she think? Would Lady Winterhaven be able to surpass the fabulous ball she had given last year? And had she heard that Mrs. Palmer’s youngest daughter had chopped off her long blond hair, leaving her with a cap of curls scarcely long enough to wind a ribbon through?

“It’s said she looks charming, a veritable cherubim, as it were—or is it seraphim, I always get such things confused—but, really, such a willful child. Everyone hoped that she would have the same success the eldest girl had—she married a count, after all, and I suppose it couldn’t be helped that he was Italian. But I fear this one looks to be a handful. I’ve heard that Mrs. Palmer is considering holding her back another Season so that she will at least not look like a boy in a dress.”

“Mm. Oh, look, there is Lady Ludley.” With some relief, Vivian spotted her friend talking to an older woman near the edge of the dance floor. “I must speak to her. And no doubt you must see to your guests.” She threw one of her charming smiles at her hostess, murmuring a compliment about the party, and smoothly eased out of the woman’s grasp.

Vivian would have been glad to escape Lady Wilbourne’s flow of chatter in any case, but it was with real pleasure that she approached Lady Charlotte Ludley. Charlotte had been her friend since they were still in short skirts and had come out the year after Vivian had made her debut. But while Vivian had remained determinedly single all the years since, Charlotte had married Lord Ludley in her second Season and was now the proud mother of a lively brood of boys.

“Charlotte, how wonderful to see you. You are not usually here this early.”

“Vivian!” Charlotte gave a delighted smile and held out her hands to her friend. “Indeed, no, Ludley had to come to London, and I could not stay home, even though we will be here for two weeks only. Come, have you met Lady Farring?”

They exchanged the usual pleasantries for a few moments, then excused themselves from the other woman and strolled farther away from the dance floor.

“I am so happy to see you!” Charlotte squeezed Vivian’s hands.

“And I, you. Please, do not tell me you really mean to leave in two weeks?”

“I fear Ludley’s business will take no longer.”

“So the rest of your family is not here? Camellia and Lily? I am so looking forward to their first Season.”

“They will come later, I am sure. Hardly anyone is here yet. Indeed, I quite feared that you would still be at Marchester.”

“I could not bear to stay away any longer,” Vivian confessed. “’Tis almost five months since I was last in London. I think it’s the first Little Season I’ve missed since I came out.” Not everyone cared so much for the social whirl that sprang up in London each fall, but Vivian enjoyed the Little Season almost as much as the elegant full Season.

“I could scarcely believe you stayed at Halstead House with your uncle for so long—especially since there was an outbreak of measles.”

“It was ghastly. I had to tend to Sabrina, and you can imagine how much I enjoyed that.” Vivian rolled her eyes drolly. Sabrina was the young woman her uncle had married after his first wife died. She was only a few years older than Vivian herself, and their relationship was rocky at best. “But I could not leave them in the lurch that way. And I did at least have the satisfaction of seeing Sabrina come all over in spots.”

“That would have been worth any price. And there was more excitement at Willowmere, I understand. I don’t know why I am never there when these things happen.”

Willowmere was the country estate of Charlotte’s family. It was only a few miles from Vivian’s uncle’s house, and it was on Vivian’s frequent summer visits to her aunt and uncle that she and Charlotte had become friends. The sprawling old house was now the residence of Charlotte’s cousin, the ninth Earl of Stewkesbury—and of his set of American cousins. The four girls, all named after flowers—and nothing like the delicate creatures their names implied—had arrived at the end of the last Season. With their blunt speech and easy manner, it had been clear that they were not ready to face London society yet, and the earl had whisked them up to Willowmere to prepare them for their debuts.

Like Charlotte, Vivian had found the young women refreshing and charming. Though it was clear that the Bascombe sisters would need some polishing to get along in the ton, Vivian had readily agreed to sponsor them this Season, and she had grown even closer to the girls during the time she had spent at her uncle’s house.

She laughed now, recalling the events of the preceding autumn. “Things do tend to happen wherever the Bascombe girls go. If it isn’t kidnappers popping up, it’s French balloonists falling from the sky. Indeed, I found Marchester sadly lacking in excitement after being around your cousins for a few months.”

“Tell me, which did you miss more—Camellia’s and Lily’s escapades or your exchanges with Stewkesbury?” Charlotte’s eyes twinkled.

“Stewkesbury!” Vivian grimaced. “As if I would miss his sniping.”

The last thing she intended to admit to her friend was that more than once while she was at her father’s house, she had found herself thinking of some particularly clever remark she could make to the earl, only to remember a moment later, with a distinct sense of disappointment, that Stewkesbury was not there.

“And here I thought it was usually you sniping at him.”

Vivian let out an inelegant snort. “I would not have to snipe at him if the man didn’t insist on being so stiff-necked and self-righteous.”

Charlotte shook her head, making a sound that was half laugh, half sigh. “And Oliver is never so stiff-necked as when you are about.”

“Then you see what I mean.” Vivian shrugged. “The two of us simply cannot get along.”

“Yes, but what is odd, I think, is how much the two of you seem to enjoy not getting along.”

Vivian glanced at her friend, startled, and found Charlotte watching her with a knowing expression. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mm. Yet if I remember correctly, you admitted only a few months ago that you once had a tendre for Oliver.”

Color bloomed along Vivian’s cheekbones. “When I was fourteen! Good heavens, I hope you don’t think I am still carrying some sort of . . . of schoolgirl infatuation with the man.”

“No. I am sure not. If you were interested in a man, I feel certain you would act upon it.”

Vivian tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. “I suppose I would . . . if there were such a man.”

“And if you were aware how you felt.”

“I beg your pardon?” Vivian’s eyes widened with surprise. “Are you saying . . . do you think . . .”

Charlotte simply waited, her eyebrows faintly raised in interest as she watched her usually articulate friend fumble for words.

“I am not interested in Oliver,” Vivian said at last. “And, believe me, I know my own feelings.”

“Of course.”

“I will admit,” Vivian went on candidly, “that Stewkesbury is a handsome man. That much is obvious.”

“Of course,” her friend agreed soberly.

“There is nothing to mislike in his face or form.”

“No, indeed.”

“He is intelligent, if often provokingly narrow in his thinking. He rides well. He dances well.”

“It goes without saying.” Charlotte’s eyes danced, though she kept her lips pressed firmly together.

“I am sure that he is as eagerly pursued by marriage-minded young ladies as is my brother.”

“Mm.”

“But I am not marriage-minded. And I am not foolish enough to think that there is any possibility of romance between Stewkesbury and me.”

“Still, I cannot help but notice that you seem . . . happy . . . when you and Cousin Oliver are engaged in one of your clashes.”

Vivian’s lips curved up faintly. “Sometimes it is rather fun.”

“Even though you dislike him.”

“I don’t dislike him,” Vivian protested quickly.

“No?” Charlotte cut her eyes toward Vivian slyly.

“Of course not. Why, there is no one I would trust more if I needed help.” She paused, then added judiciously, “Though he would, of course, make a perfect nuisance of himself afterwards telling me how foolish I had been.”

Her friend chuckled. “Indeed he would.”

“But the two of us? We are as unlikely as oil and water.”

“I am sorry to hear it. For I believe that the two of you will be thrown together a great deal this Season, what with your sponsoring Lily and Camellia.”

“I shouldn’t think it will be a problem.” Vivian dismissed the idea with an airy wave of her hand. “I am sure Stewkesbury will be up at Willowmere most of the time, as he usually is.”

“I would not count on that,” Charlotte said drily, glancing over Vivian’s shoulder.

An instant later a deep male voice said, “Lady Vivian. Cousin Charlotte.”

Vivian’s face went suddenly hot, and her hands cold. “Stewkesbury!”

Stewkesbury strode purposefully across the floor, a tall, lean man in black breeches and jacket, his shirt blazingly white and decorated with a conservative fall of ruffles down the front. His white linen neckcloth was tied in a simple arrangement and centered by a pin of onyx. Neither on the cutting edge of fashion nor lagging behind it, his attire was of the finest quality and cut, but with no hint of flash or ostentation. His thick, dark brown hair was cropped close, more for the sake of convenience than for any attempt at fashion. He could not claim the male perfection of face that was his brother Fitz’s, but he was, as Vivian had said, a handsome man, with firm, even features and level gray eyes.

He had seen his cousin and Lady Vivian the moment he stepped into the ballroom. Indeed, he thought, it would have been hard to miss Lady Vivian. She was dressed in rich black satin overlaid with a filmy material of the same color, a stark contrast to the pale white skin of her shoulders and elegantly narrow neck above it. Her flame-red hair burned like a beacon.

It was one of the many annoying things about the woman, he thought. She never blended in, never entered a room quietly. She was always immediately, flamboyantly there. He started across the room toward her, wondering as he did so how she managed to make a simple black ball gown look so thoroughly elegant, yet also seductive. Vivian Carlyle was never anything but stylish and tasteful, clearly a lady, but there was always something about her that made one think of secret, illicit passion. Oliver was not sure if it was the way her lips curved up in a slow smile, her green eyes lighting as if only the person she looked at shared in her humor, or perhaps it was the way the delicate hairs curled upon the milk-white skin of her slender neck, or maybe the way she carried herself, without stiffness or shyness, her curvaceous body pliant and soft.

Whatever it was, Oliver was certain that only a dead man could look at Vivian and not imagine, at least for an instant, having her in his arms, that soft skin beneath his hands. Certainly he had found himself thinking it on more than one occasion, and Oliver was certain that he was more immune to the lady’s charms than most. After all, he had known her when she was a gawky girl, all sharp angles and giggles and mischief, that wealth of fiery hair tamed into bright orange braids down her back. She had been the bane of his summers down from Oxford, always up to some trick or other with his cousin. She still had the ability to annoy him as almost no one else could. God knows why he had agreed to let her sponsor his American cousins this Season. No matter how high a place she held in London society, it could not be worth the aggravation of dealing with her daily.

Oliver had been expecting to see her at any time for the past week. The social life that London offered was like food and drink to Vivian. Where others might grow weary during the exhausting round of activities that constituted the Season, Vivian thrived on it. He knew that she rarely stayed away from the city longer than a month or two. It had been most unusual for her to spend as much time as she had this fall at her uncle’s—or, he should say, at her uncle’s and at Willowmere, for it had seemed that every time he turned around, she was there in his house...