Darius: Lord of Pleasures (17 page)

“Is he trifling with you, Leah?” He’d flatten the man if he were. Leah had troubles enough as it was, and a good bare-knuckle fight would fit on Darius’s schedule with appalling ease.

“He most assuredly is not. Is Lady Cowell trifling with you?”

Sisters knew how to shut a man up. “I am not going to dignify that. Shall I lead you out or find you a place to hide?”

“Leave me in peace.”

Because Hellerington hadn’t been again in evidence, Darius acceded to her wishes. He danced with his share of wallflowers, kept an eye on Leah, and saw her later sharing supper with Reston. Wouldn’t that spike Wilton’s guns, if Reston were courting Leah and not angling for little Emily?

When Darius loaded his sister into the coach, he tucked an arm around her shoulders, and she budged up with a sigh of relief.

“Do I tell you often enough what a good brother you are?”

“I’m not a good brother,” Darius replied, thinking of John hidden away in Kent and Lucy threatening what little peace Leah enjoyed. “But I am a noticing brother. What was that business with Reston and the strawberry?”

“The strawberry?”

“He sequestered himself with you behind the ferns, Leah, and in the course of sharing supper with you, fed you a strawberry from his own hand.”

“He was flirting.” Leah yawned. “Nick likes to flirt.”

“Nick.”

“Lord Reston.” She straightened up, but Darius gently pushed her head back to his shoulder.

“You said he might be trolling for Em,” Darius reminded her. “What if he’s trolling for you?”

“He might offer, just to wave Hellerington off.”

“He might hurry Hellerington up, if he offers.” Darius frowned into the darkness. “Do you need me to speak to him?”

“No.” Leah sounded firm on that. “If there’s ‘speaking to’ needed, I can address the man directly.”

“That’s unusual, for you to be forthright with a man other than me or Trent.”

“He’s an unusual man.” Leah’s voice was dreamy, and Darius wished there were enough light that he could assess her expression. “He said to warn you off that woman all but humping your arm.”

The description left no room for confusion. “Blanche is a casual acquaintance.”

“If Nick said to beware of a lady, and Nick makes no bones about enjoying women, mind you, then you need to take heed.”

“Nick, Nick, Nick.”

“Lord Reston.”

Darius jostled her affectionately. “Keep telling yourself he’s Lord Reston, but to me, it looks like he’s already gotten to first names, strawberries, and God knows what else.”

“And if he has?”

“Marry him,” Darius said flatly. “He’s big enough and man enough to face down Wilton, Hellerington, me, whomever.”
Lucy
and
Blanche.
“You could do much worse, Leah, and he’d take care of you. If he’s courting you, he has my endorsement.”

It wasn’t something he’d been able to say before, not about the puppies who had sniffed about her skirts five years ago, not about her would-be elopement partner, not about the few men who’d shown an interest so far this year.

“Don’t tell him that,” Leah said on a weary sigh. “He’s arrogant enough as it is.”

“Not arrogant,” Darius said, almost to himself. “Reston is self-assured, and that’s a different thing entirely.”

When Leah was dozing on his shoulder, he let the conversation lapse but sent a prayer up to whatever God listened to creatures such as he that Reston took on the problem that was Leah and her situation, and please, heaven, let it be soon.

***

“You are kind to think of me.” Vivian accepted a cup of tea from Portia, knowing it would lack sugar, for Portia deemed sugared tea unfit for breeding women. Since learning of Vivian’s pregnancy, Portia was a veritable font of odd ideas regarding childbearing, and even child rearing.

“Public school builds the character,” Portia announced. “Look at Able, and he’s a product of Rugby.”

Look at Able? One could barely see the man for the way he avoided his wife’s company. Able had stayed about a week then hared back to the country, there to plough and plant and enjoy his wife’s absence, no doubt.

“And what will you name this child?” Portia inquired as she sipped her own tea—heavily sugared.

Lindsey Longstreet had a nice sound and would fit either gender—she’d yet to suggest this to William. “I assume William will want a family name.”

“And good heavens, what if it’s a girl?”

Portia’s own gender must have temporarily escaped her notice, so great was her dismay at this possibility. “We’ll love any child God sees fit to give us, Portia.”

“But a girl can’t inherit the viscountcy, and then where will we be?”

“We’ll manage, Portia.”

Except Vivian wasn’t going to manage another minute of the woman’s conversation.

“I’m for a little shopping,” she decided, though what she’d shop for was a mystery. “How about you?”

“Shopping?” Portia’s eyes took on a gleam, and Vivian realized she should have been more devious. “I might need to pick up a few things.”

“You must accompany me then.” Though invariably, Portia needed something at every shop they browsed, and somehow, Vivian ended up paying for it. Portia’s maid forgot her pin money, or her reticule, or didn’t think to bring quite that much with her. The excuses were as endless as they were lame.

No matter, every outing was a potential opportunity to cross paths with Darius
.

Vivian recalled shopping with him, the way he’d managed the proprietors and clerks, the eye he had for quality, and the way he’d teased, reasoned, and cajoled her into everything from embroidered underthings to new gloves. His name stood for the ache in her heart and the empty place in her bed and the life growing in her womb. She missed him and missed him and missed him, and worse, she sensed William knew it.

She’d see Darius at the christening, and for more than the space of a single moonrise. He’d said as much, and if there was one thing she’d believe about Darius Lindsey, it was that he’d keep his word.

Thoughts of him had her nipping up to her bedroom to retrieve a little slip of paper from her vanity. She was still kept waiting a good ten minutes before Portia joined her at the foot of the stairs.

“Shouldn’t we take a footman or two with us?”

So
Portia
could
collect
more
purchases?
“They have enough work. It’s a pretty day, and I can use the exercise.”

“We’re not taking the carriage?”

“I need to stretch my legs. Shall we be off?”

Portia gave her a peevish look but linked arms and marched off with Vivian into a lovely spring day.

“Well, Vivian,” a male voice called out when they were nearing Green Park, “won’t you introduce me to your pretty companion?”

The benevolence of the spring day muted. “Thurgood.” Vivian stopped abruptly, so lost in her ruminations she hadn’t seen him on the sidewalk before them until he’d spoken. “A pleasure. Portia Springer, may I make known to you the gentleman who used to be my stepfather, Thurgood Ainsworthy. Thurgood, Mrs. Portia Springer, late of Longchamps, Oxfordshire, where she is the wife of William’s hardworking steward.”

Hell would freeze over before Vivian would discuss her husband’s illegitimate son with the likes of Thurgood.

“Ladies.” He bowed low over each of their hands, holding Portia’s—of course—a moment too long. “May I escort you somewhere, or are you returning home?”

“We’re off to Bond Street,” Portia caroled, batting her lashes.

“All the way to Ludgate, actually,” Vivian said. “I need to pick up a bottle of scent made to order. But it’s kind of you to offer.”

“Nonsense.” Thurgood slipped his arm through Portia’s, and Vivian wasn’t at all surprised to note Portia had turned loose of Vivian without a second thought. “Lead on, Viv, and let me be your gallant escort.”

There would be no getting rid of him, not when he was having such a good flirt with Portia, and Lord, wouldn’t William laugh to hear of this. Portia was handsome, true enough, but girlish coquetry on her looked about as believable as spectacles on a flying pig.

Thurgood insisted on fetching a hackney, so they arrived to their destination shortly where, thank a merciful deity, Thurgood made his excuses.

“Mr. Ainsworthy.” Portia held out her hand again. “It has been the most sincere pleasure. You must call on us at Longstreet House.”

Heaven
help
me, I shall kill her.
Portia had no business extending such an invitation.

“I’d be delighted. My dear daughter and I always have a great deal to talk about.” Thurgood gave Vivian one of his indulgent smiles, and Vivian smiled back, trying not to choke. He’d been enough of a pest lately, with his carping about grieving together and William’s failing health. Everlasting God, the man was a disgrace.

Once in the shop, surrounded by a blend of lovely scents, Vivian was possessed of an immediate sense of well-being. She felt closer to Darius here. He’d had this shop mix up her personal scent for her. She’d come here only once since Christmas, but she wore the scent every day and never wanted to run out.

“What a handsome specimen you have for a steppapa.” Portia took Vivian’s arm as they strolled the shop. “You never said, Vivian.”

“I don’t think of him as handsome or ugly,” Vivian said, though she did—he was as ugly as a week-old sheep carcass in high summer. “He’s a terrible flirt, Portia, so mind yourself around him.”

Portia’s nose tipped up. “He’s not a flirt. He’s gallant, and that’s something else altogether.”

Vivian gave her order to the clerk then started on a round of the shop, sniffing idly at this and that scent. She was hunting for the one Darius used, but suspected he had his custom-made as well. And then she caught it, a little hint of his scent, as a woman’s voice drifted across the shop.

“Really, Darius,” the lady drawled, “rose is too juvenile, and lavender doddering. You can’t expect me to wear those
in
public
.”

He was there, leaning in to say something quietly to the woman, speaking right into her ear. She laughed softly in response, and her bosom was positively mashed against his arm.

Vivian had ached over Darius Lindsey, and cried a bit, and sighed and wished and wished. Those tender sentiments paled to nothing when between one heartbeat and the next, her heart broke, leaving both anger and sorrow to flood into the breach.

“Perhaps in
private
then,” the woman said, loud enough that others could overhear. Darius straightened, and whatever he’d been intending to say died on his lips as he realized Vivian was standing only a few feet away.

Gaping, like a stupid cow. She shut her mouth and turned with brittle dignity. From behind the woman’s shoulder, though, she caught Darius mouthing the words, “cut direct.”

What was he trying to say to her? Cut him? Prepare to be cut by him? And there was Portia, catching sight of Darius and his companion as if they were the most fascinating entertainment since the coronation of Mad George.

Darius touched the woman’s arm. “Excuse me, Lucy. I see an acquaintance. An old acquaintance.”

He prowled over to Vivian, his entire manner exuding a kind of mute swagger, but his eyes held a plea Vivian still couldn’t fathom. He sidled up to her and picked up her hand, bowing low over it.

“My lady.” He kept hold of her hand, just as Thurgood might have, until she snatched it back. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Sir.” Vivian’s voice shook. “I believe you have me at a disadvantage, and I would like to remain there. Portia, it’s time we left.” She walked out without retrieving the perfume the clerk had brought from the back, but then she had to wait at the door of the shop for Portia to join her.

“Another satisfied customer, Darius?” The woman’s voice held amusement.

“Hardly.” Vivian heard him dismiss her without a backward glance. “If you don’t like the single-note fragrances, Lucy, you should try the blends. Over here…”

Portia came huffing up to Vivian’s side. “What was that all about? I was about to make a purchase.”

“I needed some air.” Vivian put a hand over her stomach, for reassurance, to steady herself, to quiet the pounding of her heart. “Shall we be on our way?”

“But we just got here.” Portia glanced back at the shop with longing. It wasn’t a cheap place to spend money.

And
Darius
had
so
little
of
it
to
spend.

“We’re going home, Portia.” Vivian’s tone was for once sharp. “We can come back later.”

“Who was that man?”

“I haven’t the least notion,” Vivian replied, walking faster, and her words were true. That fawning, droll, insouciant tramp was not her Darius, and that woman… how could he bear it? To be intimate with such as that? Had he taught that creature how to press up against him? Was she going to leave the shop with a personal blend chosen by the handsome Mr. Lindsey?

Or was the better question how Darius had borne being intimate with Vivian? She was unsophisticated, retiring, and more knowledgeable about Corn Laws than quadrilles, and it hurt, terribly, to see how she compared with Darius’s usual fare.

It hurt for her, and worse, it made her hurt miserably for him.

How he got back to his rooms, Darius didn’t know. Lucy had ambushed him on The Strand, and that was how they played their game now. She and Blanche both insisted he acknowledge them when they met in public. And lately, he’d been running into them far too much for it to be mere happenstance.

He felt stalked, hunted, like a wee mouse in the shadow of the hawk.

And then his worst nightmare, a potential encounter between Vivian and Lucy.

Between good and evil, between his dreams and his deserts.

Vivian had looked so stricken, seeing him with Lucy on his coattails, and well she should have. Her thoughts had been clear enough: she’d been comparing herself to Lucy and finding herself wanting. And that,
that
, was what hurt the most, that his lovely, sweet Vivian should doubt herself.

Though wouldn’t Lucy have a fine time shredding Vivian’s reputation? Leah had been through the worst treatment gossip and scandal could cause, had dealt with heartbreak, grief, and a load of earthly woes. Lucy could hurt Leah, but she could
destroy
Vivian.

So Darius had dealt what he hoped was a survivable blow first, and now he had to do something, had to make amends to Vivian lest she fret and brood and doubt herself further. He owed her an explanation and an apology, and that was that.

He was about to put pen to paper when a knock sounded on his door.

“Mister Darius Lindsey!”

Darius opened the door to find a running footman panting on his doorstep.

“I’m Lindsey.”

“I know.” The man bent over to ease his breathing. “I’m to give you a message from Reston. Your sister is at his place, and she’s right enough, but you’re to come. Don’t tarry or discuss your plans, and I’ve told your brother the same. I’m off to the grandame’s when I get me wind.”

“Grandame?”

“Lady Warne.” The man straightened. “Reston’s grandame.”

“Leah’s all right?”

“She be fine.” The man’s gaze slid away, and Darius could only guess Leah wasn’t quite so fine.

Darius caught up with Trent, whose toilette had likely required some attention before he could call on Reston even casually. Together, they arrived to find a teary Leah burrowed against Reston’s side, a visible bruise rising on the side of her face.

Reston explained that their sister had nearly been abducted from the park, and further ventured his suspicions that it was likely Hellerington’s doing. To Darius’s thinking, the near tragedy was a blessing in disguise, as it put any notion of Reston’s offering for Emily off the table.

Leah wasn’t just comfortable with Reston’s touch, which would have been noteworthy enough, she was positively clinging to him, and Reston was damned near clinging right back. On a man of his size, the behavior was oddly sweet and… dear.

Which was fortunate, for Reston announced his intention to marry Leah, and from what Darius could see, Leah was going to allow it.

Arrangements were made for Leah to be chaperoned under Reston’s roof by his grandmother until a special license could be procured. Reston was confident he could handle Wilton, and so Darius was left to stroll home in the slanting twilight with Trent. Later, he’d troll in low places for clues regarding his sister’s would-be abduction; for now, he’d see his brother home.

Trent shook his head. “Just like that. We’re fretting over her being dragged into Hellerington’s clutches one day, and she’s marrying Bellefonte’s heir the next.”

“I like him.”

“You know him?”

“Some. Not as much as I should, but Leah trusts him, and that has to count for a lot.”

“How can you tell?”

Darius cocked his head at his brother. “She was wrapped around him like seaweed, Trent. You had to have seen that.”

“I
saw
him whispering at you in the corner and looking alarmingly ferocious when he did.”

Nick Haddonfield looking ferocious was a sight to give any sane man pause. “He was suggesting, as a wedding present to our sister, I leave off associating with certain women of questionable character. Reston delivers a very convincing scold.”

Trent delivered a very convincing look of fraternal disappointment, which suggested Darius’s public encounters with Lucy and Blanche were being noticed.

Bloody, sodding hell.

“I will not waste my breath echoing Reston’s sentiments, but I will point out that our situation with John will be considerably complicated if Leah marries Reston. He’s not stupid, Dare, and if he’s part of the family, sooner or later, he’ll pop in on you at Averett Hill.”

Darius stopped walking. “Good God.”

“Beg pardon?”

“He’s my bloody neighbor.” Darius blew out a breath. “Not two miles up the lane, and closer as the crow flies. Reston, that is, down in Kent. This is going to get tricky, Trent.”

Trent kicked at a loose piece of cobblestone, sending it skittering and bouncing down the lane. “I hate tricky. Perhaps he’ll be at the family seat now that his papa is sticking his spoon in the wall.”

Darius resumed walking at a more brisk pace. “Not Reston. He hops around like a great flea, and I’ve seen him often enough on this or that huge horse to know he’ll be in evidence around the neighborhood. As will Leah.”

“Give it time,” Trent said, his tone grim. “They’re not married yet, and even when they are, we’ll want to see how they go on. Reston’s no saint. He’ll be decent about John, and he’ll keep his handsome, smiling mouth shut.”

“We could send John to Crossbridge.” Trent’s estate, one where he’d spent precious little time in recent years, and more distant from Town and all its gossip than Averett Hill. The notion of sending John away to strangers left Darius feeling sick in the pit of his stomach.

“I’ll write to my staff there,” Trent said, though the way he wrinkled his nose suggested the idea of moving John had no appeal to him either.

“It’s just a thought. There’s no need for any hasty maneuvers yet.” And, Darius reminded himself, he had a letter to write too.

***

Darius tried to write the letter, the
brief
note to Vivian, and it kept escaping him. Instead of a simple, innocuous apology, he’d trail off into admissions that he missed her, worried for her, regretted their encounter, but didn’t regret it either.

He stared at the little bottle of scent she’d left behind. He sniffed it repeatedly, and he missed her.

He worried for his brother, took Emily riding, and missed Vivian. He kept to his rooms lest Lucy and Blanche have more opportunities to accost him in the broad light of day, as lately they’d grown miserably bold and uncaring of appearances. It was as if they had put a collar and leash on him in truth.

Reston’s papa died, and Darius considered popping out to Kent to attend the funeral, just to get away from London. He discarded the notion because Leah needed privacy with her new husband, not Darius hovering at an awkward time.

And the truth was, Darius could never again be with Vivian the way he had been in Kent. The pain of that was sobering and checked his need to spend time with her again. So the silence between him and Vivian lengthened, until Darius was at a bookshop, looking for a gift to present to Emily on the occasion of her seventeenth birthday.

He caught Vivian’s scent first, then the sight of her, back turned to him, but it had to be Vivian. He knew the nape of that neck, knew the curve of that spine, and the soft, muscular swell of those glorious female buttocks.

“Vivvie.”

He’d spoken softly, for there were other patrons elsewhere in the shop. She went still at first, so he said her name again, and what a pleasure that was, just to say her name out loud. “Vivvie, look at me.”

She turned slowly and looked at him, and over his shoulder and everywhere else.

“I’m alone,” he assured her, closing the distance between them slowly, as if she might spook and bolt did he move too quickly. Except she was visibly, wonderfully pregnant, and bolting was likely beyond her. “You’re well?”

He stood as near to her as he dared. Seeing her up close was intoxicating, sending currents of pleasure and longing out over his limbs and down into his gut.

“Say something, Vivvie. Please.” He’d been paid to beg, but now, here, in this public place, he had to struggle not to go down on his knees. “Laugh me to scorn, ring a peal over my head, kick me anywhere you need to, but please don’t—” He fell silent.

Her gaze held his, and in her eyes, Darius read a wealth of conflicting emotions: wariness, hurt, confusion, and—thank you, Jesus and the holy saints—longing.

“I’m well, Mr. Lindsey. And you?” Her hand settled over the bump where her waist used to be, and he had to touch her. He reached out and traced his fingers over her knuckles where her hand rested over her tummy.

“I’m…”
Miserable.
Miserable for want of her, for worrying about her, worrying about Trent, dodging the female predators he’d invited into his life, fretting over John… “I’m glad to see you. I’ve wanted to explain, to apologize for our last encounter.”

“You needn’t.” She turned from him, as if to study the shelf of books at her eye level.

“I need to,” he corrected her and leaned in close enough to whisper, close enough to inhale her fragrance. “The woman I was with would hurt you and enjoy doing it.”

Lucy and Blanche would hurt Leah, Trent, John, anybody Darius was foolish enough to allow within their ambit.

Vivian shook her head, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were glistening.

“I can’t understand it, Darius.” She stared at the books again. “I can’t understand what the attraction of such a woman is to you, but I must conclude you have a talent that serves to provide you coin, and where you exercise that talent matters little.”

“It’s not like that,” Darius protested in a whisper. “It
wasn’t
like that.”

She pierced him with a gimlet gaze, and Darius slipped his arms around her. This was dangerous, stupid, and utterly irresistible. He had to touch her, had to feel her embrace again. For a moment, she was stiff and resisting, but then, ah, then…

Vivian’s hands slid around his waist, and she pressed her face to his sternum. “I tell myself not to miss you. I should not miss you.”

“Hush.” He held her, rubbed her back, and breathed her in with his every sense. Her shape had changed, delightfully, so the baby rested between them, and he knew a flare of desire for her, even there, in public, with her upset and him needing to soothe her. He noted it, noted that it was the first bodily stirring to visit him since the last time he’d seen her, and then firmly ignored it.

Though he needed to kiss her, to soothe himself by kissing her. She startled a little—he remembered those little shocks and how they felt radiating through her body—and then she groaned softly into his mouth and kissed him back.

Ye gods and little fishes… He’d never kissed like this, with all the longing and tenderness he possessed, with all the apology, despair, and hope. He wanted to be better for her, but he was only Darius Lindsey, and she was married to William Longstreet, and so the kiss was a prayer too, for forgiveness and for time and for…

The kiss was not about any sexual passion on his part, though for her he had that in abundance. As he gloried in the sheer feel of her, what welled up in Darius’s soul was a passionate wish for her happiness, for her well-being, and that in some way, he might contribute to both.

“Vivian?” A shrill female voice carried from over the next set of shelves. “Where have you gotten off to, my dear?”

Slowly, Darius let her go, feeling as if a cold wind had pierced the first sunshine his soul had seen in months.

“I have to go.” Vivian rose up and kissed his cheek. “Stay well, Darius.”

“You too.” He watched her go, but it was the hardest thing he’d done. Harder than dealing with Lucy and Blanche, harder than handing Leah off to her giant viscount, harder than knowing John was lonely and inadequately supervised at Averett Hill. She moved off with that rolling gait common to women approaching the later stages of pregnancy, and Darius imprinted the vision of it in his imagination.

“Vivian, really, you shouldn’t go off like that by yourself,” he heard a woman complain. “What if I’d wanted to purchase something?”

“My apologies, Portia.” Vivian’s voice was softer. “One gets distracted by all that’s on offer. Have you found something to take back to Longchamps with you?”

The women moved off, while Darius kept to his niche in the back of the store, trying to think his galloping emotions into submission and letting the gladness in his heart and mind subside. He’d seen her, he’d held her, they’d spoken, and his cup was running over with relief. He waited until they’d left the shop then waited another fifteen minutes lest he run into them on the street.

He didn’t wait quite long enough though, because as Darius quit the bookshop, a purchase for Emily in his hand, he saw Vivian and her companion emerging from the shop across the street. He couldn’t help but smile like an idiot when their gazes met fleetingly across the distance. He was still smiling a moment later when a voice at his elbow snapped him out of his reverie.

“I’ve never seen you look that way,” Lucy Templeton mused. “Not at your sister, not at Blanche, and certainly not at me. Who is she?”

***

Portia Springer did not want to return to Longchamps, but William had spoken. Not loudly, for William was a gentleman, and Portia wasn’t stupid. He’d merely suggested London in summer wasn’t healthy and he’d appreciate it if Portia would repair to Longchamps and ensure all was in readiness for Vivian’s confinement.

Portia had never had a child, so the request was a transparent excuse to send her packing. Ainsworthy knew it; Portia knew it. If nothing else, Ainsworthy felt a grudging admiration for old William’s deft maneuvering.

“I don’t want to go.” Portia settled against Ainsworthy in blatant invitation. “You smell ever so much prettier than Able. But then, you’re a gentleman, and Able is a glorified farmer.”

“I don’t want to let you go,” Thurgood crooned. “Though I’m sure your husband must be mad with missing you by now.” He shaped her generous breast lingeringly, and she let out the predictable sigh.