Read Online An Affair Without End by Candace Camp - Free Book Online

with interest.
    “Well, clearly the woman I marry must be able to carry the weight of being a countess, which would mean that she grew up with the responsibility of title and family.”
    “I see. At least an earl’s daughter, do you think? Or could a lowly baron’s child suit?”
    Oliver raised one brow at Fitz. “You know what I mean. I have to consider whether she has been raised to be the lady of the manor or merely a pleasant decoration on a man’s arm. Lineage is a factor, but that does not mean she has to be the offspring of an earl.”
    “So an earl’s niece would meet your specifications.”
    “Jest all you like. I am serious.”
    “That is what I fear.”
    “I realize you think I am being pompous.”
    “Pompous? No. Never. Perhaps a wee bit . . . exacting.”
    “I intend to approach the whole matter rationally. I see no harm in that. It’s all very well to say that all that matters is the beauty of her eyes or how my heart speeds up when I see her. But the fact is that the Countess of Stewkesbury will have to be witty and well-read enough to make intelligent conversation, as well as plan a ball or dinner for thirty or Harvest Day for the tenants.”
    “And what about this paragon’s looks? Are they unimportant?” Fitz’s blue eyes danced.
    “Not entirely. Of course, I would wish for a wife with reasonably good looks. She must have some sense of fashion. But not one so beautiful that there are always moonstruck youths clustered at her feet. Certainly not anyone flamboyant or eccentric.” Oliver scowled at the fire as he went on, “The last thing I want in a wife is the sort of woman who is always winding up in some predicament or other. Or arguing with one over every little thing.”
    Fitz raised his eyebrows a little at this pointed description, but said nothing.
    “Marriage should be tranquil. Calm. Reasonable.”
    Fitz let out a little crow of laughter and raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Ah, Oliver. I cannot wait until love takes you in hand. Reason, I think, will never stand a chance.”
    Early the next afternoon, Lady Vivian Carlyle set out to visit her jeweler. She could have, she knew, sent for Mr. Brookman to bring his wares to her house. He would not have refused such an excellent customer as herself. However, Vivian enjoyed going to his shop. There was so much more to see, and she enjoyed traveling through London. Besides . . . today just seemed to sparkle, and she was in too high spirits to remain bottled up indoors.
    It did not take much reflection to know the cause of her good mood. Oliver—the stuffy, reliable, responsible Lord Stewkesbury—had kissed her. But, no, that was far too tame a word for it. What had happened between them could hardly be described as a mere kiss. It had been far too startling, too amazing, too combustible, to use the same word one might for a simple buss on the cheek. When his lips had fastened on hers, Vivian had felt the shock all through her, down to her very toes. Who could have imagined that Oliver could feel such passion? Or, even more astonishing, that he had felt that sort of passion for her!
    She was far too much of a realist to imagine that it meant anything lasting or deep. It had been a spur-of-the-moment act, one doubtless engendered by a roiling mix of fury and resentment as much as by any feeling of passion. By the time Stewkesbury had reached home, Vivian felt sure, Oliver would have been appalled and thoroughly regretting the impulse that had brought him to kiss her. Nothing would ever come of it. She would not even wish for anything to come of it. The thought of her and Oliver together was absurd. Laughable. Impossible. No doubt the earl would soon apologize to her, stiff and proper, and assure her that it would never happen again. He would have recovered his customary calm, and after that, things would return to normal between them.
    Still, for the moment—for the brief, bizarre, amazing thrill of the moment—it had been