Vivvie

The cold outside was bitter, but it felt necessary, because she was much too warm. Morgan Dunover leaned over a table toward her, entered closer proximity, and she went feverish. The man made her feel as if she were hovering on the edge of flu.

            With jerky motions, she buttoned her coat, patted her pockets for her gloves, realized she'd left them at the bakery. She didn't trust herself to walk back inside that bakery and not kiss Morgan senseless, so she stuck her hands in her pockets and told herself it was every bit as good as the rabbit-fur lined gloves she had just indulged herself in.

            She walked past the tube station and did not slow her pace. She'd decided it might be wise to walk home. If she got home too quickly, she would still be too flustered to converse properly with Evan, who would want to know all about her day. And nothing about her recent interlude with the Earl of Airesdale.

            A car drew up alongside her and honked the horn, slowing to match her walking pace. She couldn't help but look up at it, and then blinked in surprise, because it was a flashy, sporty, red Porsche.

            The passenger side window rolled down, and Morgan said, "You left your gloves in the bakery. Please don't be foolish and let me drive you home. It's cold, and I promise I'll behave myself."

            She stopped walking. She gaped at him. Then she managed, "Is this your car?"

            He lifted his chin defensively. "Yes."

            She felt her mouth twitch with a smile. The man was full of endless surprises. She walked up and leaned on the passenger window. "Compensating for something, Lord Airesdale?"

            "What sort of trite psychological evaluation is that?"

            "Get that evaluation a lot, do you?"

            "You're cheeky, you know that?"

            "There's a word I haven't heard since 1957."

            "Get in the car," he said.

            Smiling, she slid in. Warning bells were rioting inside her. She had just recently found it necessary to flee this man's vicinity, and now she was accepting a ride from him. But Morgan Dunover was suddenly irresistible to her. "Nice car," she said.

            "It is a nice car," he agreed, firmly, as he shifted. She listened to the engine of his car hum in response. "It's not just because it's a Porsche and flashy, it's because it's a nice car."

            She watched him in amusement. "Do you know anything at all about cars?"

            "Why shouldn't I know anything about cars?" he retorted. "I am, after all, a man. They teach it to us in school, you know."

            She laughed gaily. "I'll bet you the ridiculous cost of this car that I know as much about cars as you do."

            "I'm offended."

            "I had two brothers."

            "That's right. Okay, then, you probably know more."

            "Why do you have a Porsche?" she asked.

            "I-Where do you live?"

            "Oh, that's right," she realized. "You don't know."

            "Why would I know?"

            "I don't know, I-Left here, then straight for a while."

            "My father had this friend who was an Italian count. Extremely dashing sort of fellow. No money to speak of. Lived off romancing B-list actresses and such. He had a Porsche. When I was a young, I thought this man was the most glamorous creature I'd ever seen."

            "Strange."

            "What is?"

            "I wouldn't think of you emulating an Italian count. You're really not doing a good job of it, you know, Morgan. Except for the Porsche, you look exactly like you're emulating King Edward VII."

            "I have a Porsche and a mirror over my bed."

            She laughed again.

            "You think that's a joke, do you?"

            Her amusement failed abruptly, chiefly because she didn't want to think about Morgan's bed.

            His thoughts must have been running along the same path, because he said, quickly, "I came into a bit of money when I graduated, and I was having a bit of a spat with my mother. So I bought a Porsche."

            Imagine having that much money, Vivvie thought, that in a fit of rebellion you could buy a Porsche. "Evan wanted one," she said instead.

            "A Porsche?"

            "Yes."

            "He didn't buy one?"

            "No."

            "Don't tell me he couldn't afford it."

            "No, he..."

            "I see. Not confident enough to shrug off the fact that people might think he was compensating."

            Vivvie chuckled. "I suppose that's it. You have to take your next right."

            He did as he was told.

            "Where do you live in London?" she asked.

            "The family's townhouse. Which has literally been in the family since the turn of the last century. Conveniently, my parents don't live in town anymore."

            "Your mother's London Personality and she doesn't live in town?"

            "Shh," he chided her, grinning. "It's her secret. She usually comes up for a couple of weeks and squeezes all the interviews in. Then she goes back to the country and gardens."

            "My mother gardens, too," said Vivvie. "But she is an artistic gardener."

            "What does that mean?"

            ‘When we were little, she used to take us out into the field and have us paint the grass and flowers."

            "God's artwork could always use a little improvement, hmm?"

            "I guess it was something like that."

            "She sounds like fun."

            "She sounds insane."

            "Oh, Vivvie, we're all insane. You're a psychologist. Surely you've realized that by now."

            She burst out laughing, and he glanced at her, looking hurt.

            "What?" he asked. "What is so funny about that?"

            "Just that you must be the sanest person I know. Seriously, Morgan, have you ever done anything for the sheer fun of doing it?"

            "I'm doing it now," he replied, which effectively silenced her. "And besides, you haven't described sanity, you've described boringness. That's another personality type thing. I don't try to be boring, really I don't, but I-"

            "Worry about everything," she said. "Your mother told me."

            "God help me. What else did my mother say about me?"

            "Your mother adores you."

            "Well, she'd better. She hasn't any other children to adore more than me."

            "Are you really doing this for the sheer fun of doing it?" asked Vivvie.

            She saw his eyes slide quickly in her direction, catching the light of a few streetlamps. "Why are you doing it?" he asked, instead of answering.

            "I...Why didn't our paths at Oxford, Morgan?"

            "It doesn't matter, Vivvie."

            She wanted to say that it did. That surely she would have realized, had she known him more at Oxford, how thoroughly fascinating he was, how much world there was in his eyes to explore. But even as she wanted to say it, she thought she was mistaken. She had met him at Oxford. Not often, but enough. She had never felt drawn to him. She had never seen anything remarkable in him. He had never even slightly interested her. She was suffering from a fear of commitment, and she had managed to convince herself that Morgan Dunover was sexy and amusing and interesting and all-around lovely. When really he had never been any of those things. Maybe Gwendolen was right. Maybe it was too soon for her to be engaged to Evan.

            Because it was bloody strange that she was developing an infatuation for a man she knew wasn't infatuation-worthy.

            She turned away from his profile, looked out the window, took a deep breath. And realized. "Oh, God."

            "What?"

            "We've gone by my building. You must turn round. I didn't notice. I'm so sorry."

            "Don't apoligize. It's not a problem. This fantastic car of mine can travel in the other direction, too."

            "I know it can, I just..." What was she doing? What was she doing? Honestly, what she was doing was damn close to cheating. The only reason nothing had happened between her and Morgan was because the man had had enough willpower to move away when she'd asked. She had been ready and willing for a kiss. Hell, she'd been ready and willing for a tumble, truth be told.

            He executed a neat U-turn, sending a car behind him to angry honks, but he shifted quickly and sped away. "I do love this car," he remarked, glancing in the rearview mirror at the car he'd left in his dust.

            She didn't really trust herself to reply at that moment. She was chiefly worried that she thought he looked adorable in this car. And, God, attractive as hell coaxing it through its paces. She had never before thought that he might have good hands. Now she thought that he might have  brilliant hands. She wanted them coaxing her through her paces. She was going absolutely mad.

            "You okay?" He tilted a glance at her. "You've gotten awfully quiet."

            "I'm thinking. About where I live."

            His eyebrows lifted. "You need to think that hard about where you live?"

            "Do you ever forget what day it is?"

            "Well, yes, but that changes every day. Where I live stays pretty constant."

            "That's a good point."

            "Thanks."

            "I'm thinking."

            "To each her own."

            She looked out the window. "Oh! Stop. This is where I live."

            He slammed his brakes on. The car responded beautifully. He was right. It was a great car. "Glad you recognized it," he commented, and picked her gloves off his lap and handed them to her.

            They were warm with him, and she stuffed them hastily in her pockets so she wouldn't be tempted to revel in it. "Thank you for the ride home."

            "I like to put the car through its paces every once in a while."

            She had just been thinking the same thing. She cleared her throat. "And everything else. Thank you for everything else."

            "What everything else? We split the food at the bakery."

            "I know. But you've been very sweet to me."

            He chuckled in a self-deprecating fashion. "Oh, Vivvie. You must realize by now that being sweet to you is...You needn't thank me."

            She leaned forward on an impulse and kissed his cheek, before darting out of his Porsche.

-------

There was a message from Evan on her cell phone. She had not even realized that Evan had called her. She hadn't heard her phone ring, and she didn't even discover the message until she'd walked through the empty flat, shrugged, and pulled out her cell phone to charge it. Working late. On her own for dinner.

            She hesitated. There were lots of people she could call. But she wasn't in the mood for Rachel or Penelope, and she didn't care to talk to her mother at the moment, and Evan would not appreciate being interrupted at work because his fiancee was panicking over the ring on her finger.

            She called Geoff's cell.

            He picked up on the fourth ring, and his greeting was so warm and affectionate and comforting that she was immediately glad she'd called him. She adored both her brothers but they were quite different adorations. Michael was her best friend. She was older than him by barely a year, and, especially when Geoff had gone off to university, it had been just the two of them, struggling through their strange family. Geoff, meanwhile, was more of a father than a brother, certainly more of a father than her real father. Her childhood memories of her father were scant. It was Geoff who had always been there, taking her to her first day of school, bringing her to have her hair cut, even pulling her through the minefield of boys and adolescence with nary a scar. Geoff would know what to do.

            "Hey, Viv," he said. "What's up?"

            "I..." She trailed off, deciding it would be a bad idea to get into everything over the phone. "Evan had to work late tonight, so I'm free for dinner."

            "And you're asking me? I'm flattered."

            "Naturally I'm asking you. You're my big brother."

            "Mmm," he agreed. "And not usually glamorous enough to go to dinner with."

            "That isn't true," she told him, earnestly. "You know that isn't true, right?"

            She felt the pause on the other end of the phone. Then he said, "Of course I know it isn't true. I was teasing you, Viv. Everything alright?"

            "Yes, I just...want to have dinner with my lovely older brother."

            "Then have it you shall," he assured her. "Where would you like to go?"

            "I'm not really in the mood to go out. I could pick something up on my way over."

            "Sounds good. When are you coming?"

            Vivvie glanced at her watch, blinked in surprise. Was it really that late? She'd spent much more time with Morgan than she had supposed. "Er, I've just walked through the door, so give me time to shower and change and...an hour, say?"

            "An hour. I'll see you in an hour, then."

            "Food preferences?"

            "I've a craving for Indian."

            "You got it," she promised him, as she hung up the phone.

            An hour was more than enough time, so she ran a bath instead of a shower and threw on an old comfort CD from the last decade. The bath did her good. She was much more relaxed when she emerged from it, and, in keeping with comfort, she tossed on a pair of very worn jeans and a soft, fuzzy sweater. Then she pulled on the ski parka Evan had given her. Had it really only been two weeks ago? He had suggested St. Moritz for Valentine's Day. Had presented her with the ski parka in anticipation. She zipped up the ski parka and dug for her rabbit-fur gloves in the pockets of the camelhair coat. Then she stepped out the door, locked it, called for the elevator, and then unlocked the door and stepped back into the flat.

            She left a hasty note for Evan, although she assumed that she'd be home before him. Then she left the flat again. She picked up Indian food from a place she knew Geoff was fond of, and then went on to his flat.

            He'd just starting renting the flat, and, since he was about as interested in decorating as she was, it was practically devoid of furniture.

            "We should have done your place," he said when he opened the door on her. "We'll have to sit on the floor here."

            "It'll be fun," she said, brightly.

            "Let's see what you've got here," he remarked, taking the bag from her and dropping it on the kitchen counter.

            "I think I got your favorites."

            "Good choices," he approved, pulling the meals out and examining them. "Want to grab the silverware?"

            "Geoff," she inserted.

            "Uh-huh."

            "Could I have a hug?"

            "Huh?" He looked up at her quizzically, then opened his arms for her. "Of course you can have a hug." She stepped into the welcoming embrace, snuggled against him for a second. "You okay, Viv?"

            "I'm fine, I just..." She took a deep breath. "I just felt like I needed a hug."

            "Well, it is good to see you," he commented. "I mean, not at some function where you have to be charming as hell for everybody. My God, you move to London, and I think I talk to you less than I did when you were at university."

            "I know." She drew back from him with a bright smile. "It's my fault. I'm always running around like a chicken with my head cut off."

            "No, I run around, too."

            "Well, let's eat, shall we?"

            "Certainly."

            She turned and pulled out the silverware, following him and the food into the living room, where they sat on the floor, each chose a dish, and dug in.

            "Have you heard from Michael?" he asked, after a couple of seconds.

            "No," she grumbled.

            "I'm sure he's fine. You know how difficult he is to get in touch with, running around in warzones as he is. I'm sure he'll send you the most extravagant engagement gift."

            "I hope so. Of course Mum, with her usual optimism, is convinced he's dead."

            "He isn't dead. You mustn't let yourself think that, Vivvie. He's absolutely fine."

            "I know. If I let myself believe Michael was dead every time a little time went by without contact..."

            "Exactly." Geoff chewed and swallowed a bite of his food. "So what did Mum have to say?"

            "Oh." Vivvie sighed. "Not a lot. We actually went to dinner."

            "And you left me out of it? Why, thank you."

            She chuckled. "I didn't do it entirely for you. Mum and Dad and I went to dinner with Evan and his parents."

            "Oh, God. No wonder you're in need of a hug. How'd that go?"

            Vivvie laughed, then looked across at him. "Oh, Geoff, it was awful."

            "Poor Viv. It's alright."

            "It wasn't just awful because of our parents, it was awful because of his parents, too. They hate me. Want to switch meals?"

            "Uh, sure." He handed across his meal, accepted Vivvie's in return. "I'm sure they don't hate you, Viv."

            "No, I'm pretty sure they do, Geoff."

            "Why would they hate you? They'd have to be blind. You're the most fantastic woman I know."

            "That means a lot, coming from an impartial person like you. Thanks, Geoff."

            "Well, what could they possibly find to hate about you?"

            "They hate everything about me, Geoff. They even hate my name."

            "Your name?" he echoed. "Oh, God, are they that stuck-up that they're ashamed of the Westcott thing? Ashamed it isn't, I don't know, Windsor? I mean, don't you think that was setting their son's sights a bit high?"

            "Well, I suppose they hate the Westcott part of my name, too."

            "'Too?'" he echoed. "I don't understand. They hate Vivvie?"

            She nodded. "They hate Vivvie, Vivian, and Leigh."

            "You can't possibly be serious. How are you supposed to help your name? It's like...hating the fact that your eyes are brown."           

            "They probably will hate that, too, once they get around to thinking about it. Do you think I'm too young for Evan?"

            "Is that what they told you?"

            "Yeah."

            Geoff shrugged a little. "Be a bit worse if you were thirteen and he were nineteen."

            "That's exactly what I said!"

            "And what did they say?"

            "They had absolutely no reaction to it."

            "The brilliant Westcott wit, eh? Vivvie, you are only too young for Evan if you feel that you are too young for Evan. The numbers of your respective ages means absolutely nothing. You have to make sure that the two of you are at the same level of maturity. That's all."

            "Right. I think that we are, but..." She trailed off into her food, and Geoff let her eat in silence for a little while. She loved this about Geoff. He never forced. He also never stared at you. He would pay attention to his food and be listening intently without any uncomfortable gazes. "I don't know if...Do you think I'm absolutely mad?"

            "Nothing of the sort. About what?"

            "I've only known him six months."

            He looked up at her now, briefly. "Are you having second thoughts?"

            "I don't...I don't know," she admitted in frustration. "I've been trying to psychoanalyze myself, but it's always a tricky thing, psychoanalyzing oneself. I've diagnosed a fear of commitment. This wouldn't be surprising, given the marriage role model we have. So it's a fear of commitment, and if I call all this off because of...I mean, I love Evan-"

            "And if Evan loves you, he'll give you the time that you need."

            "The publicity-" she began.

            "And if Evan cares about the publicity more than your peace of mind, then he doesn't even half deserve you. Have you set a date yet?"
            "No. Don't you think I would have told you?"

            "Then don't pick one. Or, if you pick one, put it far in the future. There isn't any need to hurry into this, sweetheart. You should take your time."

            "But...do you think it's mad, to think that I would know, that a man is right for me, for the rest of my life, after six months?"

            "I'm not the best person to have this discussion with, having never fallen in love myself. I've heard tell that sometimes it is virtually instantaneous. I do not think you're mad, Vivvie. But neither would I think you were mad if you decided six months wasn't enough time to know for certain. I hope you are not staying engaged to Evan because you think it's the right thing to do. Because someone in some silly magazine told you he's the most eligible man in the country. I want you to marry Evan if you want to marry Evan. If you think Evan will make you happy. I'd gladly tell him to go to hell otherwise. And Michael would tell you the same thing."

            "I know he would. Dad would think-"

            "Considering how Dad would gladly auction you off to the highest bidder like it's the bloody twelfth century, we needn't consider his opinions in the matter."

            Vivvie was silent for a second.

            "Want to switch meals?" Geoff asked.

            "Yeah." She occupied herself with the mechanical task and tried to consider what else to say. Do you remember Morgan Dunover? I danced with him at Evan's birthday party. I had a couple of tarts with him this afternoon. He drove me home in his Porsche. I kissed his cheek and regret not kissing more. All this would be stupid to say. Morgan was a manifestation of her fear of commitment. Geoff would not understand this.

            And she was secretly frightened that Geoff might like Morgan better, although what gave her this idea she didn't know.

            "I do love Morgan," she said.

            "Who?"

            "What?"

            "Who do you love?"

            "Evan."

            "That isn't who you said."

            "What?"

            "You didn't say you loved Evan. You said you loved Morgan."

            "I said what?"

            "You said you loved Morgan." Geoff was watching her now, not accusingly, just curiously.

            "I...Slip of the tongue." A Freudian slip? A simple accident? There were no such things. "I meant Evan. I meant to say Evan. I do love Evan. You know I love Evan."

            "I do, yes. You don't need to convince me of it. Who's Morgan?"

            "He's..." She waved her hand, forced herself to laugh. "Oh, it's silly. I spent the day with Gwendolen Dunover today. Her son's name is Morgan. She talked about him endlessly. The name must be on my mind."

            "You know him, don't you?"

            "Who? Morgan Dunover?"

            "Yes. You danced with him at Evan's birthday party."

            Damn, why did he have to remember absolutely everything? "Yes. Yes, I did. But I...I don't really know him. I mean, I barely know him. We were just at Oxford together. It's nothing, Geoff. Let's switch meals again."

            He allowed her the distraction before saying, softly, "Viv."

            Oh, God, she so didn't want a lecture. She so didn't want the subject pursued. She forced a smile on her face. "Yeah."

            "I know I'm not Michael. I know you would prefer Michael. But you know how much I love you. You know you could talk to me about anything."

            "Why would you think I would prefer Michael? I know I could talk to you about anything. I don't prefer Michael to you. It's just that there's nothing to really talk about. I love you, and I love Michael, and I love Evan. I don't love this Morgan. Whoever he is."

=======

"David!" Her husband didn't answer, but her call did bring the butler in from the front drawing room. "Grantley." Gwendolen smiled at him in greeting. "Still down here?"

            "Yes, Your Grace," he answered, accepting her coat. "Someone smuggled a water bottle onto one of the tours, and spilled it all over the hardwood floor. That is why food and drink are not allowed on tours of Ashfield House."

            "I know, Grantley. You needn't convince me."

            "His Grace is in the East Wing."

            "Oh? I thought tonight was the night he was going to start reading one of the library's books in his quest to finish all of them."

            "Yes, Your Grace. I believe he took one with him to the East Wing."

            "Ah. Well, that's farther than I thought he would get. You should leave the hardwood floor, Grantley. Have a maid do it in the morning before the house opens for tours."

            "Yes, Your Grace," he said, formally.

            "Good night," she told him, as she walked swiftly the length of the great hall to the conservatory on the back of the house, through the conservatory to the long hallway of random rooms that had been closed off since before Gwendolen had moved into Ashfield House. She then pulled out her key and unlocked the door that led to the East Wing, where the Dunovers had lived since the late nineteenth century, when they had decided to open the rest of the house to tours and close off any part that wasn't interesting.

            She locked the door automatically behind her so curious tourists wouldn't be able to get through the following day, walked down the hallway to the East Wing's own great hall, and from there into the main drawing room, which was darkened in a way not conducive to reading.

            Her husband was watching His Girl Friday. The book he'd taken out of the library was laying on the coffee table.

            "Cary Grant, huh?" she said, dropping her purse next to the book.

            "They should have given up movie-making after Cary Grant died," David answered.

            "No argument from me." She stood in front of the couch, waited for him to shift to give her room to snuggle against him.

            "I didn't think you'd drive home tonight."

            "Yeah, so that you could carry that book there into the drawing room and tell me when I came home the following day that you had read it. When, in actuality, you spent the evening watching movies from the 1940s."

            David was silent for a second. "Okay, so that was the plan. I did read a little of the book."

            "Define little."

            "The title."

            She laughed and watched Cary Grant deliver his lines with an impossibly quick cadence.

            "I take it your matchmaking scheme didn't go well," David commented, as Rosalind Russell started to respond.

            Onscreen, Cary Grant cut her off. Gwendolen lifted herself up to look in her husband's face. "What makes you think that?"

            "You would have come in bubbling about it. Instead you're watching Cary Grant."

            "I didn't want to interrupt the movie."

            "I've seen it before. I'd much rather say ‘I told you so.'"

            She pouted a little. "Then you're going to be terribly disappointed, Your Grace."

            "Yeah? Then tell me of your triumph, my love, in great detail."

            "It isn't a triumph."

            Her husband laughed.

            "Yet," she warned him. "You have to give it time. Morgan's stubborn."

            "Wonder where he gets that from."

            "You?" she suggested.

            David laughed again, then said, "More than being stubborn, Morgan is practical. I suppose he pointed out to you that the girl is already engaged to another?"

            "Well, he did mention it-"

            "Not only another, but Evan Thorne-Brighton, who I am assured daily by various reporters who make it their business to know such things is dashing and attractive and-"

            "Do you truly believe that Evan Thorne-Brighton is a better man than Morgan?" Gwendolen demanded.

            "Of course I don't. But then again, one of those men is my son, and the other isn't, so I'm thinking I'm inevitably biased in any comparison of the two." His wife made a face which said quite eloquently that she didn't give a damn about his bias. "At any rate, it isn't my opinion that matters. I'm not Vivvie Westcott."

            "Vivvie Westcott is not entirely happy with Evan Thorne-Brighton. There's plenty of room for Morgan to maneuver if he would just make a bloody move," she mumbled, grumpily.

            "You act like it's easy to make a move on an angel. It must be even harder when she's engaged to a man you have been told is the most eligible bachelor in the country."

            "I'm telling you, the girl is lovely, David."

            "Is she? Did you enjoy your day with her?"

            "I did. I had a brilliant time. She is not only pretty, she's smart."

            "And certainly deserves her reputation for being too charming by half, I see."

            Gwendolen frowned, not hearing him. "And not entirely happy. I'm sure she's not."

            David hesitated for a second, trying to determine how best to broach the subject. They had reached the comfort point in their marriage. He usually let his wife do what she pleased, amused and unconcerned by turns. But there were certain things he wouldn't let her do, and one was to let her more forceful personality run roughshod over a son he knew resembled him too closely to often call her on it. "Gwen," he began.

            "I'm going to have her to tea," she said.

            "That's fine. If you want to be friends with Vivvie Westcott, that's splendid. But I'm concerned that you're..."

            Her blue eyes sharpened on him. It was too dim to see their color but he knew they were sharp ice. "I'm what?" she demanded.

            "I don't want you to choose the daughter-in-law you most would want and foist her on Morgan. Morgan will only have to tell you no, and think he's disappointing you, and it isn't your choice. It's his. He'll find a girl on his own. It has been known to happen, you know."

            "Men making the right decision about the girl they ought to marry? That's been known to happen?"

            "Yes, it's been known to happen."

            "Without any help?"

            "Gwendolen..."

            "If I had waited for you, David, I'd still be waiting."

            "Alright, granted. So if the girl wants him, she should go for it."

            "And how will she go for it if she never spends any time with him? And he avoids her."

            "He avoids her? Who told you that?"

            "I perceived it."

            "Ah. And your powers of perception..."

            "Known the world over, David." Her husband made a sound which she chose to interpret as affirmation instead of skepticism. Anyhow, she had more important things to deal with. "I'm going to invite them both to tea."

            "I hope by ‘both' you mean Vivvie and Evan."

            "Don't be silly. You know I'd rather die than sit to tea with a Thorne-Brighton."

            "Evan might not have turned out like his parents. He might be a perfectly lovely man."

            "He might be. I do not dispute it. But he isn't right for Vivvie."

            "You do not know this girl."

            "We are kindred spirits, Vivvie and I, David. I spotted it instantly."

            "I knew you did," he groaned.

            "We are very much alike."

            "I don't doubt it. There was a time when I was told you could charm the bloom out of a rose."

            She sent him a cat's self-satisfied smile. "I still could, if I put my mind to it. Morgan is so much like you."

            "Morgan's a Dunover. Dunovers are always the same."

            "Formal and indecisive."

            "Handsome and irresitable," he corrected.

            "So if Vivvie's like me. And Morgan's like you."

            "This is interesting logic here."

            "Wouldn't you say they'd be happy, David? Didn't people tell you you wouldn't be happy with me? Would you say there were right?"

            "You know I would never say that. You know even my worst days with you have been better than my best days without you. I simply...He..." He sighed in frustration. "I'd rather he not get his heart broken over some girl he should never have been setting his sights on in the first place. I don't want you getting ideas of Never-Neverland in his head when he's going to have to settle for London."

            "He won't get his heart broken. Morgan will get this girl. You know how I know that?"

            "You perceived it," he guessed, miserably.

            She chuckled and tugged at his lower lip playfully. "No. Morgan's a lot like you. And you're right. Dunovers have always been handsome and irresistable."

            "Also formal and indecisive," he reminded her, trying to ignore the nip of her teeth across his lips.

            "Let's hope the good genes overcome the bad. Smile when you kiss me, Your Grace."

            "I'm not kissing you," he denied.

            "I noticed."

            He did smile then, and returned the kiss.

            Onscreen, Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell fell into inevitable love.