Darius: Lord of Pleasures ll-1

by Grace Burrowes

  The words I’m not your daughter remained firmly clamped behind Vivian’s teeth. Ariadne wasn’t her stepmother, she was merely Thurgood’s fourth or fifth wife, and Ellsworth the Waddling, Whining Wonder Child was no relation to her at all. But better to let Thurgood have his say and be done with it—for now.

  Vivian sipped her tea and presented a placid exterior. “I’m all ears, Steppapa.”

  “William is a good man,” Thurgood began, the soul of earnest concern, “but he’s going to shuffle off this mortal coil, Vivian, and you must think of what awaits you then. His parliamentary cronies and titled confreres aren’t your friends, and they’ll do nothing to look after you when William’s gone. You need to assure me now you’ll not try to manage on your own through those unhappy days. Your mother would turn over in her grave were you to live anywhere but with Ariadne and me, letting us protect and guide you in the time to come.”

  I must not toss my tea into the face of my guest. “That’s kind of you, and generous, but I couldn’t possibly make that sort of decision without consulting William, and then too, Angela and Jared might be able to use my help with the children.”

  Thurgood’s face lit with a credible rendition of indignation. “You must not consider it! That Jared Ventnor would have you as some kind of unpaid nanny for Angela’s pack of brats, and you an earl’s daughter.”

  “That pack of brats has an earl’s daughter for a mother.”

  “But you could do so much better,” Thurgood insisted. “Angela hadn’t your looks or your poise or your grasp of political affairs. For you, we could aim much higher.”

  Just as Vivian’s patience was threatening to snap, Dilquin’s discreet rap sounded on the door.

  “Beg pardon, your ladyship, but Mrs. Weir is insistent that you come to the kitchen to supervise the sorting of the linens and spices. Cook claims Longchamps’s inventory is lacking, but the matter requires your attention if she and Mrs. Weir aren’t to come to blows.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Vivian rose, while her stepfather tried to hold his ground by staying seated—a subtle betrayal of his upbringing and his true agenda.

  “Give me your word, Vivian, that you’ll let me be your haven when grief comes calling. You and I have grieved together before, and you know I’ll have only your best interests at heart.”

  His thespian talents should have made him a fortune. “As I said, Thurgood, I can’t make such a decision without consulting my very much alive and well husband. It’s good of you to call, but I must leave you for my domestic responsibilities.”

  He affected his Wounded Look, which meant his You’ll-Regret-This speech was not far behind, and his frustrated rage not far behind that. Vivian ducked out, directing that Thurgood’s hat and coat be brought to him.

  There was no squabble in the kitchen, of course, just as Thurgood hadn’t grieved the loss of Vivian’s mother for more than a few weeks before he’d been busy courting Ariadne’s predecessor up in Cumbria and trying to pawn Vivian off on some wealthy, desperate old lecher with no sons and fewer wits. Thank God, Muriel had offered employment, and thank God, William had a protective streak.

  Which he seemed to have misplaced, or at least allowed to take an eccentric twist. Vivian reflected on that conundrum all the way down to Kent the next morning, wondering if William hadn’t concocted this scheme not for the continued glory of the House of Longstreet, but for her, to prevent her from becoming that poor relation at the mercy of Angie’s nursery or Thurgood’s next moneymaking project.

  All too soon, she was being handed out of the coach by the object of her musings. Mr. Lindsey seemed larger than ever, but perhaps not quite as serious.

  “My lady.” He bowed over her hand. “Welcome to Averett Hill. I hope your journey was uneventful?”

  “Considering the roads are frozen and we could have snapped an axle at least a half dozen times, yes, it was uneventful.”

  “Let’s get you out of this cold.” Mr. Lindsey drew her toward a tidy Tudor manor. “I have food and drink waiting, unless you’d like to see your rooms first?”

  Vivian opted for the truth—several truths. “Something hot to drink sounds good. I sent William to Longchamps in the traveling coach, which means he got the hot bricks while I got the lap robes.”

  “We can send you back to him in the relative comfort of my traveling coach,” her host replied.

  She halted in her tracks. “Not if it’s recognizable, we won’t.”

  His expression remained… genial. “There’s no coat of arms. I wouldn’t have made the offer of it if there were.”

  Vivian had the grace to know she’d been abrupt. “My apologies, I’m just…”

  He waited, while she cast around for a way to not make an awkward situation even worse.

  She met his gaze and knew she was blushing. “I’m at sea here, Mr. Lindsey. Are we going to enjoy a spot of tea and then repair above stairs, there to…?”

  “We can,” he said, amusement lighting his dark eyes, “or we can get out of this cold, and while we get you that something hot to drink, discuss how you’d like to go on.” He offered her his arm, and Vivian realized he was standing around in the bitter cold without a proper winter coat on. His fingers were ink stained, and his dark hair was riffling in the breeze.

  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.

  Three

  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, conceiv
e 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-acq
uainted 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.”