“Probation.” Darius hoisted the child onto his lap. “If you’re on your best behavior, you can have breakfast with us, and perhaps we’ll go riding while Lady Vivian is here.”
Lady Vivian, not Lady Longstreet, because Darius intended to exercise as much discretion about her visit as he could.
“Do you like horses?” The look John aimed at Vivian suggested this was the pressing question of the day.
“Very much. Do you like bacon?” She held up a crispy slice.
“Darius?”
“You may.”
“Thank you!” John took the slice of bacon and was away from the verbal starting line at a gallop, waving his bacon around minus one bite as he spoke. “I have a pony. He’s old but sturdy, and his name is Hammond. He doesn’t like Waggles, because Waggles is sneaky and hard to see in the dark, which is good for hunting mice, though there aren’t any in my bedroom ’cause Wags sleeps with me. May I please have another piece of bacon?”
“I’ll fetch you a plate.” Darius rose and sat the child in his own seat as John went on about how cold weather made his pony harder to groom, but friskier, which was good.
“Would you like to go riding?” John raised brown eyes to Vivian, and Darius swore the boy was batting his lashes at her.
“It’s too cold for riding today,” Darius warned. “We can introduce Lady Vivian to Hammond, if she’s amenable.”
“What’s amendable?”
“Amenable,” Vivian corrected him. “Willing, which I am.” As he put a plate before the child, Darius shot her a naughty smile—the opportunity was too good to let pass. “Willing to meet your pony, that is.”
“Capital!” John started on his eggs. “I visit him every day before my lessons. Darius says the company of a horse starts a gentleman’s day off right, and I take care of him all by myself, except sometimes Dare helps. What’s your horse’s name?”
“I don’t have just one,” Vivian said. “When I want to ride, the lads tack up a mare and off I go.”
John frowned as Darius gestured to the child to put his serviette on his lap. “But what’s her name? You have to know your horse’s name, so you can say, ‘Whoa, Hammond,’ or ‘Good boy, Ham.’ You know, her name?”
“One of them is named Pansy, or I’ve heard the lads calling her that, so it’s probably her nickname.”
John devoured his breakfast, peppering Vivian with questions as his eggs, toast, and most of Vivian’s bacon disappeared, while Darius sat back and watched.
“John, you need to put on your boots and collect a carrot or two for your steed,” Darius said when the child’s plate was clean. “Lady Vivian needs another cup of tea, and then we’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir.” John scooted off his seat then paused abruptly. “Sorry, I forgot. I am still on proba… Whatever that word was?”
“Probation,” Darius supplied. “You caught yourself, and having such a pretty lady at table is distracting, but let’s do it right, shall we?”
John resumed his seat and met Darius’s eye. “Sir, the meal has been very good, but I’d like to visit my pony now. May I please be excused?”
Darius smiled. “Well done. You may.”
“Thanks for the bacon!” John dashed off, leaving the door to the breakfast parlor banging in his wake.
“What a delightful little boy,” Vivian said in the ensuing silence. “You must be very proud of him.”
“I am, and I’ll be just as proud of you if you finish your toast.”
“I told you I couldn’t possibly…”
He passed her a half slice, slathered with butter and jam. “It’s cold out, and you’ll need your sustenance.” He held it to her mouth, and her hand came up to cover his. She took a bite and sat back.
“Raspberry.” She munched away. “My favorite.”
“Let me guess.” Darius put the rest of the slice on her plate. “William prefers some bitter old marmalade, and you haven’t had raspberry jam since you married him.”
“Of course I’ve had it.” She picked up her toast. “At my sister’s I have it all the time. My brother-in-law knows I like it, so he keeps it on hand.”
“Your brother-in-law knows your favorite type of jam, but your husband does not,” Darius observed, pouring her another cup of tea. “Why aren’t I surprised?”
“What’s your favorite kind of jam?” Lady that she was, Vivian wasn’t going to argue with him, but Darius found it heartening she didn’t try to defend dear Lord Longstreet.
Darius added cream and sugar to her tea. “As of this moment, it’s raspberry.”
He switched their plates, finishing the last of her eggs without her permission as she enjoyed her toast and tea. When they’d made their way to the kitchen, Darius insisted on tying the fastenings of her cloak and winding a scarf around her neck.
“Bonnets might be fetching, but they aren’t warm, and they obscure a lady’s lovely face.”
“But this is your scarf,” Vivian protested as he led her across the back gardens.
“How can you tell?”
“It has your scent,” she said, then apparently realized what she’d admitted. “And what is your scent, by the way?”
“It’s Eastern and mixed to my order and used to scent my soaps, lotions, and linens, and that is one of the first things we’re going to address, Lady Vivian.”
She slipped her arm free of his. “Address?”
“You have been languishing in your husband’s care.” Darius opened the barn door for her. “It’s time you took yourself in hand.”
“I do not follow your meaning, Mr. Lindsey.”
“Take your dress.” Darius paused to remind John, gamboling ahead of them, not to run in the barn. “Who in his right mind made a dress out of that fabric?”
“It’s very practical.” Vivian glanced down at her skirts, expression puzzled. “I got a superior bargain on the entire bolt.”
“Because it’s the exact color of the results of a young bovine having intestinal distress,” Darius countered. “You should not be allowed in public in such a color, Vivian. Trust me on this.”
Her perfectly arched brows knitted. “Why should I trust you? You’re a man.”
“Who appreciates women with particular intensity. That dress is going to the maids, and you are going into the village with me, where we have a passable seamstress who no doubt is lacking for work this time of year.”
“You’re dressing me?” Vivian stopped, clearly bewildered at such a notion.
“And we’re going to find you a scent, play with your hair, experiment with cosmetics,” he went on. “And for God’s sake, why don’t you have a personal mount?”
“What are you going on about? I have as many horses to ride as I wish.”
Darius crossed the barn aisle to a loose box. “This is my personal mount. His name is Skunk, and he’s a good fellow.”
“Peculiar coloring.” Vivian held out a gloved hand to the horse whose black and white coat was reminiscent of a milch cow. The gelding left off eating his hay long enough to sniff delicately at her fingers.
“His plebeian coat pattern is why his steady disposition, perfect conformation, and good bone were overlooked,” Darius said. “He suits me and we get along and he’s my horse. Nobody else rides him, and he’s always available for me. You need a personal mount, a fetching steed who takes your welfare seriously and isn’t just anybody’s hack.”
He wasn’t merely talking about horses, and Vivian was astute enough to know it.
She held out her hand to John. “Introduce me to Hammond. And is that a cat I see?”
Darius watched as John explained in painful detail how he groomed his pony. Vivian asked the right questions, and was graciously granted a turn with the soft brush, while Darius wondered what it was he was feeling.
She was good with John, and that solved a looming problem in itself. A month was too long to send the child off with the servants, and yet, Vivian might have resented sharing the ho
usehold with a bastard child, particularly given the point of her stay at Averett Hill. She didn’t resent John, just the opposite.
She’d be a good mother, which was part of what had Darius’s insides unsettled.
“Let me introduce you to Bernice,” Darius said, interrupting John’s chatter.
“She’s a mare,” John provided helpfully. “So you can ride her.”
Vivian gave the pony’s shaggy neck a final pat. “She’s to be my mount?”
“If you’d like,” Darius said. “She’s very gentle, but she’ll take care of you. She’s not… passive, like some horses are. She’ll think of your welfare.”
“You’ve ridden her?” Bernice was a good-sized dapple gray with big eyes and an inelegant pink nose.
“I have,” Darius said. “I wouldn’t put a guest, much less a lady, on a horse I couldn’t speak for personally.”
Vivian frowned at him then turned to the mare, stepping into the horse’s stall for a closer introduction. “She’s larger than the horses I usually ride.”
“You’re taller than many women,” Darius replied, fishing a piece of carrot out of his pocket and passing it to Vivian. “You need a horse in proportion to your seat and leg. I thought Bernice would fit you.”
“She has a kind eye.” Vivian fed the horse the carrot. “Wonderful manners.”
“Consider her your personal mount for the duration,” Darius said. “John will offer to walk her out for you, and if you don’t mind, I’d allow it.”
“She’s that docile?”
“He’s that comfortable with horses, and Bernice is a lady, or I wouldn’t have paired her up with you.”
“You’re flirting somehow.”
“Stating a fact,” he said, leading Vivian from the stall. “John, if you groom that pony any longer, he’s going to fall asleep. Get you back up to the house, and I’ll expect to hear at least three perfect Latin verbs at teatime.”
“Will Lady Vivian hear my Latin?”
“I will,” Vivian said, “and I will be on my extra good manners at tea if I know there are to be two gentlemen present.” She shot an arch look at Darius. “We can all be on probation together.”
“Capital!”
* * *
Vivian missed her husband. Missed the steady, dependable, boring routine of their life together. Missed knowing the answers before the questions were asked. She’d fallen asleep the night before, secure in the conviction that the next day she could explain to Mr. Lindsey that she’d choose Option B. William had said she could limit her dealings with the man to fifteen minutes at the end of the day, and Mr. Lindsey himself had acknowledged as much.
That way would be safer for everybody. Simpler.
But then… that child had joined them at breakfast, and Vivian’s heart had started beating harder in her chest.
Darius Lindsey loved that boy. He’d die for a child who had clearly been cast off by his parents as an embarrassment. And Vivian wanted to see more of the man who’d taken in the boy and raised him to be such a charming little gentleman. The difficulty was, the man who noticed that a child’s manners needed praising was also a man who’d noticed Vivian’s husband didn’t know her favorite jam.
Vivian herself had nearly forgotten.
She glanced down at her dress, running her hand over the nappy, plain fabric. It was warm, sensible, durable, economical…
And ugly. The same color as calf… diarrhea, he’d said.
A metaphor for her life, maybe.
She wished her sister were on hand to talk with, wished she had anybody to parse with her the dilemma she faced. Darius Lindsey was dangerous, and not just because he loved the child in his care. Vivian glanced out her window to see it was already dark, nigh teatime, when a knock on the door interrupted her musings.
“Are you cavorting with Byron again?” Darius asked as he eyed her sitting on the bed.
“We’re through, Lord Byron and I. He’s fine for a passing amusement, but the man lacks depth.”
“Thus speaketh Polite Society about one of its own,” Darius replied as he lowered himself beside her. “Do you shrink away from me out of habit, or are you afraid I’ll end up sitting in your lap by accident?”
“I don’t…” She stopped and tried for honesty. “You’re very informal. I’m not used to it.”
“Doesn’t William touch you? I thought that was one of the blessings of marriage, that one had permission to touch and be touched, not just in bed.”
“I touch William. I’m forever tucking in his lap robes, holding his jackets for him, tugging off his boots.”
His smile became knowing. “I’ll bet he still has the same valet he had when his first wife was alive.”
“He does. William is frequently required to wear formal attire, and a valet… what?”
“My brother is heir to an earldom, and he sacked his valet as soon as he married. Many men do upon marriage, unless they’re exceedingly toplofty.”
“Muriel was too ill…” Vivian fell silent.
“Even when she was still cutting a dash,” Darius guessed, “her husband had his valet.”
“What is the point of this digression?”
“You are a married spinster,” he accused quietly. “For this, I cannot forgive your dear William, and neither should you.”
“I am not a married…” She closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. “What do you mean?” Though she could guess. She could guess all too easily.
“Come here.” He rose and tugged her to her feet, then slipped his hand around her wrist to pull her over to the full-length mirror. “You’re a beautiful woman, Vivian Longstreet, but look there and tell me what you see.”
She shrugged, unwilling to look in the mirror. “So the dress is unprepossessing.”
“Look.” He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders trapping her before him. “Look, Vivvie, and see.”
Purely to make him hush, she regarded her reflection. “An ugly dress. A serviceable, plain, ugly dress.”
“An atrocious dress,” he rejoined, “an abomination in calf scours yellow that obscures a luscious feminine figure. You’re also sporting a bun my granny would disdain to wear in public, lips pinched with disapproval that should be rosy with kisses and laughter, and eyes dull with boredom that should sparkle with mischief.”
“You’re to give me a child, Mr. Lindsey, not a lecture.”
She’d turned her face, but because he still held her, that only put her cheek against his fingers where they’d settled on her shoulders.
“I will do my damnedest to give you that child, Vivvie.” He turned her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “Consider allowing me to give you a little more than that. Let me give you a few weapons to use when William isn’t there to protect you.”
“What manner of weapons?” And why would she much rather stare at him than her ugly dress?
“The weapons every female needs to know how to use if she’s to move in polite circles safely. You need to see yourself as you could be, as you need to be.”
His thumbs made little circles on her shoulders as he spoke. Impossible-to-ignore little circles. “Need for whom?”
“You’re the Viscountess Longstreet,” Darius said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “If you bear this child, who will be his or her guardian in the event of William’s death?”
“I’m not sure. William will make provision, I know, and he’s in good health, so that day can’t be near at hand.”
“Vivvie.” Darius peered down at her. “You need to have a frank talk with your spouse, but whoever the guardian is, you’re going to have to handle him to your own satisfaction.”
“What do you mean, handle him?” She put the question to him with equal parts dread and curiosity.
“What if he wants to send your son off to public school at age seven?”
Vivian’s brows shot up. “Seven? I thought I’d just get tutors and governors and so forth. Seven?”
“Seven. Little
boys go into men’s hands at seven, and for many, that means boarding at public school. What if this guardian wants your son to spend summers and holidays with him, rather than with you?”
“Surely William wouldn’t allow that?” Vivian’s fingers touched her lips. “He could make stipulations, couldn’t he, in his will?”
“Not that anybody would enforce. Unless William lives to be a hundred, you’re going to be the only parent this child has, and between the guardian, the solicitors, and the tutors, your say will count little, unless you make it count.”
Foreboding took up residence in Vivian’s middle. Why hadn’t anybody pointed this out to her? Why hadn’t William told her what the provisions of his will were? Why was she trying to have a child without having thought these considerations through?
“So what would you have me do?” She turned back to the mirror. “Who would you have me be?”
“The mother of my only child,” he said softly. “A lioness no man would tangle with willingly. A lady who isn’t afraid to fight for what she believes in and knows to be right for her child. I can’t be there in any noticeable way. William can’t be there. You’re the child’s only champion, Vivvie, and you need to start now to step into that role.”
She met his gaze in the mirror. “The dress goes.”
“For starters.”
“For starters,” she agreed, standing taller on the strength of the words alone.
* * *
Within three days, Vivian knew what it was to hate a man. Oh, she despised her stepfather, but Ainsworthy was simply venal, his schemes and ambitions predictable and mundane. He was evil, but in a sense, he couldn’t help himself.
Darius Lindsey, by comparison, was ruthless, cunning, and relentless. He’d put her through one tribulation after another.
At the modiste’s, he’d dressed her from the inside out, choosing nightgowns, chemises, stockings, everything, from laces and trims to dress fabrics and patterns. He suggested alterations, sketching creations Vivian never would have dreamed of.
“You need to accentuate your height,” he insisted on their way back to the manor, “not try to hide it. William is tall. You’re not going to embarrass him if you dress well at his side. Stop fidgeting.”
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