Darius: Lord of Pleasures (5 page)

She took his arm, unable to quell the thought that poor William would have been wrapped up to his wrinkled brow in such weather, while on Mr. Lindsey, the cold hardly seemed to make any impression at all.

Darius led his guest into the sturdy, unprepossessing manor house he called home, a little surprised Vivian hadn’t cried off. She was nervous, maybe still scared—as he was—and her discomfort sparked some sympathy for her.

A little sympathy, though she was even prettier by day than she had been in the candlelight of her husband’s townhouse. Or maybe she was prettier when her natural curiosity had her looking all around at new surroundings rather than listening for the sound of her husband’s tread on the floor above.

A long month awaited, for Darius and his guest.

“May I make you a toddy?” Darius asked when they reached his study.

“You burn wood.” She approached the hearth, sniffing the air as she pulled off her gloves and extended her hands toward the fire. “I don’t know what’s worse, the stench of London in winter or in summer. A toddy would be lovely, especially if you’ll join me.”

“Be happy to.” Darius started pouring and mixing at the sideboard, having made sure the fixings were to hand. “How did you leave Lord Longstreet?”

“Reluctantly.”

When Darius interrupted his concocting to approach her, she shrank back against the fire screen then turned her head to the side.

He frowned down at her, feeling a blend of amusement and exasperation. “I am not in the habit of pouncing on unwilling women.” He unfastened the frogs of her cloak, which she’d claimed to have kept on in deference to the cold. When he stepped back he heard her exhale and knew a moment’s consternation. With Lucy, Blanche, and their ilk, a man had to be the one to pull away, to long for a little more finesse and consideration.

“Do you prefer nutmeg, cloves, or cinnamon?” He laid her cloak on a chair and spoke to her over his shoulder.

“A little of all three?” He heard her rubbing her hands together near the fire.

“My own preference.” Darius poured his recipe into a pot and hung it on the pot swing to heat. Beside him, Vivian was staring at the fire as if she could divine the future in its depths.

He laid the backs of his fingers against his guest’s cheek. “You are chilled. Shall I order you a bath?”

She flinched at his touch then shook her head. “Mr. Lindsey.” She took in a breath and still didn’t face him. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“This?” He used a wooden spoon to stir the butter into the toddies, seeing no reason to give up his place right beside her before the fire.

“Spend this month with you, conceive a child. Doesn’t a woman have to be relaxed to conceive? My sister said…” She broke off and wrapped her arms around her middle, tightly, as if holding in words, emotions, everything.

Darius eyed her posture. “I am not undone by a woman’s tears. If you’d like to cry, I come fully equipped with monogrammed linen and a set of broad shoulders.”

“I don’t w… want to cry,” Vivian replied miserably. “Your toddies will boil off.”

He swung them off the fire, put the spoon in the pot, and turned her by her shoulders to face him.

“I seldom want to cry either.” He urged her against him. “The tears come anyway.”

She wasn’t very good at being comforted. Darius concluded this when she remained stiff against him for a long moment. Or perhaps she wasn’t used to being held, which he could understand better than she’d think.

“Maybe it’s your menses bothering you,” he suggested, resting his chin on her crown. “You started when, today?”

“Yesterday,” she muttered against his collarbone, and Darius felt her relax. “I hate that you know that.”

“It’s worth paying attention to, if you want a baby.” He let his hand trail in a slow caress over the bones of her back, pleased when she didn’t bristle further. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I have two sisters, and they take great glee in informing a fellow when they’re crampy and blue and feeling unlovely.”

She stepped back, taking his proffered handkerchief. “It’s hard to think of you with sisters, cousins, aunts.”

“You’d rather I come with a sniveling leer, pinching the maids and telling bawdy jokes?”

“I don’t know what I’d rather,” she admitted, sinking down onto the raised hearth. “I’d rather William gave up on this whole ridiculous scheme.”

“I thought all women wanted children.” Darius sat beside her—which caused her another little startlement—and poured their toddies.

“I do want a baby.” She closed her eyes briefly. “When one takes vows, one assumes they mean the children resulting will be those of the husband and wife.”

“That’s implied but not spelled out,” Darius said, wondering how sheltered from the doings of titled society she’d been. “There’s that obeying part though, and it’s very explicit. I think that’s what you’re having trouble with.” Darius tasted the spoon. “I would too. Try your toddy. It might brighten your outlook.”

“You’re being charming,” she accused but sipped her drink. “Oh, my… winter just became a more bearable proposition.”

The hint of mischief graced her smile, which yielded Darius relief from the cold far greater than any toddy offered.

“I’ll write down my secret recipe for you.” Darius poured his drink and stirred the spices in briskly to encourage the soothing—expensive—aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove. “I came by it in Italy, got it off an old priest who said he got it from a gypsy witch.”

“You lived in Italy?”

They sat there, side by side on the hearth, and gradually, Lady Longstreet thawed. She smiled as Darius recounted being unable to keep up drink for drink with the local clergy, and some of his own more brilliant mix-ups with the Italian language. A maid brought in a tray of sandwiches, and those disappeared, and still they talked, until Darius’s guest had finished her second toddy.

She peered up at him. “So you’ve put me at my ease—or your toddies have. Now do we get to the pouncing part?”

“By no means.” Darius took her empty glass from her and set it on the sideboard, along with any notions he might have entertained involving pouncing in the immediate term. “You are indisposed, and will be for several more days. There will be no pouncing, unless it’s Waggles bothering the mice.”

“Waggles?”

“A younger relation lives with me here,” Darius said, gauging her reaction. “His cat is named Waggles. Don’t ask me why.”

“Is he your son?” She rose and moved away, starting on an inspection tour of the room. That she would conclude a man available for prurient purposes might have a by-blow shouldn’t have been a surprise, and it wasn’t—she thought exactly what Darius intended people to think.

Though it was a disappointment.

“He’s a relation,” Darius said, watching her perambulations. “He’s dear to me, though, and I’ll tolerate no insult to him.”

“I know.” Lady Longstreet nodded, even as she picked up a jade-handled letter opener and held it point-first toward her sternum. “It’s why I chose you.”

“Why is that?” He ambled over and took the letter opener from her hand.

“You will protect this child, if it comes to that,” she said, meeting his gaze.

“How could you know such a thing?” He didn’t like her reason. He’d rather she had picked him because he was a handsome toy, reliably discreet, naughty by reputation—not this other nonsense.

“I’m of an age with your sister, Lady Leah. I attended her come-out ball. Lord Amherst led her out for her first set, but you danced the supper waltz with her.”

“That had to be… eight years ago, at least. Why would you recall such a detail?”

“Because you and your brother Amherst weren’t dancing with her from duty. You were genuinely proud of her, and you hovered all evening and monitored her dance card and how much champagne she drank and so forth.”

He recalled Leah’s come out very clearly—she’d been so happy. How could he not? “I am no longer that man. I’m sorry if you think I am.”

“We all change. I am no longer that girl, either.”

“One hopes not.” Darius considered her, casually denouncing youth while beaming inexperience in every direction. “How would you like to proceed with me this month?”

“I’d like”—she subsided onto the couch—“to put a sack over my head, stuff cotton wool in my ears, and hum some good old Handel while you do the
going
on.
You can let me know when I’ve conceived.”

“Interesting approach.” Darius couldn’t help a slight smile. “One surmises you’d be more comfortable in darkness then.”

“You’re going to get mortifyingly personal now, aren’t you?”

“A little personal. Not pouncingly personal.”

“When does that start?” She wrinkled up her nose, as if they were discussing liming the jakes. Nasty business, but necessary.

“It can start now.” Darius settled in beside her uninvited. “Except given your indisposition, that might be untidy. It’s up to you.”

“I didn’t know one could…” She let the observation trail off and turned her face away, though he could see the blush creep up the side of her neck.

“Copulation now isn’t likely to result in conception,” Darius said, wondering just how much of their bargain William had shared. “That can be part of its appeal.”

“How do you know these things?” She studied her hands where they lay in her lap. They were lady’s hands, fine-boned, clean, soft, the nails tidily manicured and free of color.

“I’m naughty,” Darius said, for once finding it useful, not merely expedient. “Women who disport with me are usually bent on not conceiving, as any childbirth is dangerous, and most are at least inconvenient.”

“Are there many women disporting with you?”

Some women knew how to wallop a man broadside with no warning—and Darius had the sense Vivian hadn’t even meant to.

“Right now, there’s only the one, and she has forbidden me to pounce.”

“I have.” She nodded, relief evident in the way her shoulders gave. “How do we manage for the next few days?”

“As we please.” Darius took one of those hands in his and laced his fingers with hers. “As I see it, I’m a stranger to you, and you to me. While I might be used to dealing intimately with strangers, you are not. I think you’d be better served were we to use the time to become acquainted.”

She frowned at their joined hands. “You make it sound logical, while I’m not sure this getting-acquainted business is wise. We’re going to have to get thoroughly unacquainted in thirty days, and stay that way.”

“I know, Vivian.” He patted her knuckles with his free hand. “You need have no fear I’ll appear at your balcony, spouting poetry. We have a month, and then, nothing.”

“Right. Nothing, except—possibly—a baby.”

***

William Longstreet regarded his son over the chess board, knowing the man was only pretending to consider his next move. Able wasn’t an intellectual giant, but he tried to observe the civilities, and he had common sense, for which a father could be grateful.

William stifled a delicate yawn. “My concentration is not what I’d wish it to be. Perhaps I’m still fatigued from traveling.”

“It’s too damned cold for a man of your dignified years to be shut up in that drafty old coach for hours.” Able straightened away from the board. With his lanky frame, brown eyes, and sandy hair, he could have been William forty years past, at least physically. “How about a nightcap?”

William glanced at the clock, wondering idly if Vivian were at that moment bouncing on the sheets with the handsome Mr. Lindsey. William did not envy young Lindsey the effort, which was a sad testament to the effects of great age.

“A drink is in order,” William said. “So tell me, Able, how fares my son?”

“I’m well.” Able poured them each a couple of fingers of brandy. “The estate had a better harvest this year than last, and as bad as this winter is, it hasn’t yet equaled the past two for sheer miserable cold.”

“Have you given any thought to running for the local seat?”

Able smiled thinly and resumed his place across the chessboard. “We’ve had that argument, your lordship. It’s generous of you to offer, but I’m not cut of the same parliamentary cloth as you are.”

“I wasn’t either, the first few years.” William held his drink without taking a sip. Not until Muriel had gotten hold of him had he really started to enjoy his parliamentary work. “But the Lords is going to have to cede some power to the Commons. It’s inevitable, and the longer they put it off, the worse the struggle will be.”

“You’re no doubt right.” Able usually agreed with his father. “I’m surprised Vivian didn’t join you here for the holidays this year.”

“She’ll be down in a few weeks.” William glanced at the clock again. “Her sister, Angela, is expecting a fourth child, and Vivian is a doting aunt. Then too, every couple needs a little breathing room if polite appearances are to be maintained.”

“Portia would have my head were I to suggest such a thing.” Able’s smile was more fatigued than humorous. His drink had disappeared in very short order.

“She seems in good health.” One could not say Portia Springer was in good spirits, ever. The woman had a decidedly pinched view of life despite the embonpoint quality of her frame.

“She’s sturdy, my Portia. How long can you stay?”

The question wasn’t really appropriate, since William owned the home and was technically the host, though Able lived at Longchamps a great deal more than William ever had. Still, the inquiry wasn’t mean, but more likely one Portia required an answer to and hadn’t had the nerve to put to William directly over dinner.

“I’m not sure.” William eyed his drink. “Depends some on Vivian’s preferences, since she doesn’t particularly like Town life.”

“She doesn’t?” Able seemed surprised by this. “All that entertaining, all those titles gathered around at her dinner parties, she doesn’t enjoy that?”

“Rather dreads it.” How was it his wife and his son were no better acquainted? “She’s a good sport though, and now that she’s figured out most who vote their seat are more interested in the Catholic question than in gobbling her up, she’s gotten much better at it.” She’d never be quite the hostess Muriel was, but that comparison was hardly fair.

Able crossed back to the sideboard to refill his drink. “You’d think she’d be here, though, with you, instead of lingering in Town.”

“Meaning?”