Darius: Lord of Pleasures ll-1

by Grace Burrowes

  He propped himself on one elbow, brushed the hair back from Vivian’s brow, and kissed her cheek. “Arise, Lady Vivvie. Sweet Philomel calls us from our beds.”

  Vivian’s eyes opened, focused, then narrowed. “What, may I ask, are you still doing here?”

  Six

  Everlasting God, she had to get him out of her bedroom—out of her bed. And there he lay, scratching his chest and stretching like that worthless cat.

  “Good morning to you too.” He offered her a sleepy smile and flipped back the covers to cross the room in all his oblivious nudity. Vivian turned away, but not before she caught sight of his arousal, and she had to swallow back a howl of sheer… upset.

  William must hate her, to put her into the keeping of a man built like that. In the cold light of morning, she saw there was no way she could couple with Darius Lindsey and not be rent asunder. Women bore children, true, but they also died bearing children, probably the children of great, oversized, handsome louts like him.

  He moved behind the privacy screen, but his height meant Vivian knew exactly where he was, and her ears told her exactly what he was about.

  “So, Vivvie,” he said around a mouthful of her toothbrush. “I take it you aren’t a morning person?”

  “I am a morning person.” She hiked the covers up to her chin. “I am not a waken-to-find-your-hands-on-me person.”

  “You’re shy in the morning,” he concluded, not sounding at all disconcerted. “I used to be, but then, I am in charity with life today, and you can’t bring quite the same good cheer to the morning I can.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You’re frustrated.” He shrugged, his smile sweet as he—all of him—came into view. “While I’ve been recently sated, after a fashion. Shall I relieve your frustration?”

  She nodded firmly. “By leaving this room.”

  She thought he was going to oblige when he ambled over to the door in all his glory, but he merely stuck his head into the corridor and bellowed instructions to the house at large. When he strolled over to the bed, it was obvious his interest in the day was still… aroused.

  She spared his erection a shuddering glance. “Can’t you do something about that?”

  “I’d rather you do something about it.” He yawned again and climbed in beside her. “I suppose you being shy in the morning, that’s a little much to ask for our first time.”

  “Will you leave me in peace?” She hissed it, and some of her upset must have gotten through to him, because his smile faded.

  He tucked the covers around her shoulders. “Here’s how I see it, Vivvie: the more often we couple, the more likely you are to conceive. If we’re to achieve your goal, then you should be pestering me for my attentions every few hours for the next three weeks.”

  “Every few hours?” She huddled down into the covers on a moan of horror.

  “Sweetheart.” He scooted closer. “Talk to me. I can’t address whatever’s bothering you unless you tell me what it is.”

  Just when Vivian thought she’d die of mortification, a knock sounded on the door, followed by Gracie’s cheerful presence bearing a tray.

  “Morning, all.” Gracie beamed in the general direction of the bed. “Looks to be snowing out again, and Master John’s already up and about.”

  “I’ll take the tray, Gracie.” Darius reached out long arms. “You see to the fire.”

  “I take it milady likes to sleep in.” Gracie eyed Vivian, who had all but scooted under the covers.

  “I wore her out.”

  Vivian poked her head up enough to catch his smile, whipped a pillow from under her head, and smacked him with it.

  “Wakes up cranky,” Darius said, shielding the tray with his body. “Best be quick, Gracie, if you don’t want to be the victim of violence.”

  Gracie winked at Vivian. “Smack him again, milady. It’s the only way with the cheeky ones.” The maid was gone before Vivian could fashion a reply, and then Darius passed her a cup of tea.

  “She’ll leave us in peace until we leave your room,” he said, pouring his own cup and setting the tray on the nightstand. “Now what are these maidenly vapors about?”

  The tea was hot and strong and as much fortification as she was likely to find anywhere.

  “Every few hours?”

  “’Fraid so, love.” He sipped calmly. “I’m looking forward to it more than I thought I would.”

  “You’re looking…” She finished her tea in two gulps, feeling a sudden empathy for foxes set upon by hounds. “I cannot do this.”

  “You haven’t even tried, Vivvie.” His tone was chiding, and he was right, damn him. “Don’t you want a baby? A wee little fellow to cuddle and coo at?”

  “Yes, I want a baby.” She set her cup aside, because he was right about this too. “But I’m… scared.”

  “Ah.” He set his cup next to hers, and Vivian wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “Then we’ll put your fears behind us tonight, and you’ll see it won’t be so bad. I promised you pleasure, remember? I’ll take care of you, Vivvie. I’m good for that, if nothing else.”

  And what was that supposed to mean?

  “Come here.” He looped an arm across her shoulders and pulled her to his side. “Relax. Last night, you slept like a soldier after a forced march.”

  “You wear me out.” She sighed at the feel of his hand massaging her scalp.

  “Just distracting you from your imagined fate.” His lips grazed her temple, and Vivian had the oddest notion it had been a kiss for comfort—her comfort. “You like to cuddle, you know.”

  “I am not in a position to argue.” She was, in fact, plastered to his side, her cheek pillowed on his chest. “I can hope it’s a passing tendency.”

  “I gather William isn’t a cozy type of husband?”

  “How would I…?” She closed her eyes and turned her face into his warmth. “William is dignified.”

  “Dignity in the bedroom is almost impossible to imagine. You’re afraid I’ll hurt you?”

  She nodded, relieved he could say what she couldn’t.

  “I’ve never physically hurt a woman, Vivian.” His grip shifted to her nape, where he was squeezing the tension right out of her. “Never, nor will I.”

  “But you let them hurt you,” Vivian pointed out because it bothered her, exceedingly.

  “A few whacks with a crop is hardly worth quibbling about, and they enjoy it sufficiently to make it worth my while. It’s of no moment.”

  The teasing tone was gone from his voice, and Vivian had the sense she was now in bed with the real Darius Lindsey, not the strutting, teasing, flirting facade he’d offered her earlier.

  “Do you bring them here?”

  “We’re not going to discuss this.” He kissed her cheek this time, in apology for his words—she hoped.

  “I don’t want to be like them, Darius.” She felt him closing himself off from her, and surprised herself—him too, based on his expression—by hiking a leg across his thighs then straddling him. Her nightgown made the whole business more complicated, but when she was snuggled down onto his chest, the effort had been worth it.

  His arms came around her, and his cheek rested against her hair. “How is it you don’t want to be ‘like them’?”

  “You let them take advantage of you,” she said. “If they weren’t whacking at you, they’d just find some other man to abuse. You aren’t a person to them.”

  “Another naughty pony,” Darius said. “Perhaps.”

  “Not perhaps.” She nuzzled at his sternum, then shifted up and slipped a hand around the back of his head. “I want to beat them with a crop for treating you thus.” She clasped him to her chest and put a name to what she was feeling: protective. Protective of a great, strapping lout with no sense whatsoever.

  “Vivvie.” He wrestled her away a little. “Look at me.”

  She turned her face from him—she was straddling him, and nightgown or not, there was nowhere to hide.

 
; “Look at me.”

  He brushed her hair back with such tenderness she wanted to cry, but then he anchored his hand in her hair to turn her face back to his.

  “You have to learn, Vivian Longstreet, not to let your heart get tangled up in the physical sensations. We’re going to be repeatedly, gloriously intimate. I’ve promised you pleasure, and I can assure you I’ll be sharing in it abundantly. But you have to decide right now it’s only pleasure, like an ice on a hot day, a good gallop on a fall morning. It means nothing more than that. It can’t.”

  “You decide that,” she accused, “or those beatings would have significance you can’t allow them.”

  “Hush.” He brought her back down to his chest. “You’re disconcerted and tenderhearted, and you’ll see the sense in what I’m saying.”

  He fell silent, and Vivian lay there in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart and wanting to cry—for herself, but also, incongruously, for him.

  * * *

  “For pity’s sake, Able, you have to ask him.” Portia Springer set her teacup down with the sharp bang of fine porcelain used roughly.

  “You’re ghoulish, Portia.” Able rose from the kitchen table. “I can’t ask my own father what’s in his will.”

  “Whyever not?” She rose too, and paced behind him across the kitchen. “You’ve managed this estate for him for years, Able, and shown one handsome profit after another, and the land is entailed. Entailed. You’re his only living child, and it would be the work of a moment to legitimate you. Truly legitimate you.”

  “Not the work of a moment.” Able rinsed his cup off then went back to the table for hers. “The work of several moments, felonious, expensive moments, and I am not in the habit of forging marriage lines. The person providing that service would be in a position to blackmail me and all my children, Portia—your children.”

  Which they were unlikely to have, the silence around them declared, as long as she was so parsimonious with her marital favors.

  “I’m twenty-eight,” she spat. “There’s plenty of time for that.”

  “I’ll not see thirty-eight again,” he countered, using a thumbnail to scrub at the sugar stuck to the bottom of her cup. “I’d like to be on hand to raise my children, Portia. I’ve no doubt William has left his current viscountess in peace, in part because he understands the need for a father to raise his own children.”

  “You’d raise his children,” Portia muttered, though Able knew by her tone she was regrouping.

  “He hasn’t any other children left. This is a moot discussion, and I cannot relish the task of raising half siblings four decades my junior. Leave it, Portia, please.”

  “If the land goes back to the Crown,” she started up again, fists propped on ample hips, “you have nothing. Twenty years of slaving for that man, and nothing to show for it.”

  “If the land goes back to the Crown, somebody still has to manage it, and we’ve money set aside, Portia. I’m a good steward, and there’s work to be had for such as me, and for thirty-eight years, my father has provided either directly or by means of furnishing me a livelihood.”

  “Like hell.” She shifted to block his exit, and Able knew for the thousandth time some sympathy for men who beat their wives. “Stewards are invariably poor relations, and that old man is the only person you’re related to, and he’s looking worse each year, Able Springer. Each season.”

  Able couldn’t argue that, not when his father was indeed showing his considerable age. “He has been generous with us, Portia, and you’ll not be pestering him now regarding his will. His lordship has had enough of death and grief these past few years.”

  “Not so much he couldn’t remarry well before his mourning was up,” Portia snapped. “You must get all that strutting and pawing in the bedroom from him.”

  He was torn between the urge to lay hands on her and the urge to emigrate to the Antipodes—alone. “Portia, dearest wife, if I could recall the last time you permitted me the pleasure of strutting and pawing in the bedroom, I might comprehend your remark, but for a woman who’s intent on inheriting a title and wealth, you’re doing precious little to secure the succession.”

  He departed on that volley, not sure he’d know what to do if she did allow him intimacies. Eight years ago, she’d seemed like such a catch—practical, knowledgeable about the running of an estate, and comely enough for a man of his station. He’d hoped they could be friends.

  His father hadn’t commented on his choice of wife, and a few years later, Lady Muriel had succumbed to the illness plaguing her. He’d liked Lady Muriel, and thought Portia might share a few of her more interesting qualities. More fool him.

  He found his father in the breakfast parlor, noting again the older man’s gauntness, and felt a sweeping sense of loneliness. They didn’t know each other well, but, by God, they were the last of their line.

  “Good morning, your lordship.” Able took a seat at the table. “I trust you slept well?”

  “I slept.” Lord Longstreet’s smile was fleeting. “As one ages, that becomes a practice of dozing between trips to the chamber pot.”

  “You miss your wife,” Able said. “Perhaps you’d sleep better in her company.”

  “Vivian?” Lord Longstreet’s eyebrows rose. “One can hardly imagine such a thing. When are you and Portia to present me with some grandchildren, Able? It’s been what, six, seven years?”

  “About that.” Able topped up Lord Longstreet’s teacup. “The Lord hasn’t seen fit to bless us.”

  Lord Longstreet stirred his tea. “Is it the Lord being stingy, or your lady wife?”

  The morning was to be a series of interrogations. “Is there a reason for such blunt inquiry?”

  “An old man’s nosiness. A father’s nosiness. The male line in our family is not known for its fecundity. You might have to work at it, do you want children, if you’re like I was.”

  “You had three sons. Many families make do with less than that.”

  Lord Longstreet took a sip of his well-stirred tea. “Is she hounding you?”

  “My lord?”

  “Portia, is she hounding you regarding the estate?”

  Able studied his tea—into which he had not put even a dash of sugar.

  “You never call me father, Able.”

  “You’ve never invited such familiarity,” Able said, wondering if everybody in the household had gone daft. “And you do not call me son.”

  Lord Longstreet considered him from across the table. “You are certainly acknowledged. You always have been.”

  “I’m not your heir, and I never can be.” Able addressed his teacup. “I understand that.”

  “Though Portia would have it otherwise,” Lord Longstreet concluded. “She has the ambition I found in Muriel but not the integrity.”

  Able bristled, because indirectly, it was a harsh judgment of him—and accurate in all its implications. “That’s an unflattering conclusion about a woman you barely know.”

  “I’ve thrived in the Lords for half a century, Able, because I am an astute judge of character. Not as astute as Muriel, but she taught me to see what most men miss, and Portia is becoming bitter. She likes being lady of the manor, pretending to be the viscountess, but she’s the steward’s wife. That’s all she’ll ever be, and it tears at her.”

  “The bastard’s wife,” Able said. “I was the bastard when she married me, and not even the regent can change that. I do comprehend my station, my lord.”

  “And I comprehend your worth, Able.” Lord Longstreet rose slowly, mostly by bracing his knuckles on the table and pushing. “You may assure your wife of this fact and refer her to me should she doubt it. It looks like we’re in for more snow.”

  “Snow means it can’t be all that cold,” Able said, rising out of respect. “Would you like to ride out with me today?”

  “Ride out? I haven’t ridden the land here for what, three years? Suppose we could bundle up, take a flask or two?”

  “O
f course.” Able smiled as much at the prospect of escaping the house as at the twinkle in his father’s eye. “And maybe drop in at the Hot Cross Bun for a scone.”

  “Haven’t had one of their scones for years.” William smiled in remembrance, and Able knew, he just knew, the last time William had dropped by the local bakery for a treat, Lady Muriel had been the one to jolly him into it.

  “Let’s be off, then,” Able said. “Before we’re caught and forced to spend the day with the ledgers—or worse.”

  * * *

  Vivian Longstreet was proving problematic—interesting, but problematic. A month wasn’t going to be long enough to unravel the blend of shyness and determination Darius sensed in her, and a month was going to be too long to have her underfoot.

  He glanced at the note from Blanche Cowell complaining of his month-long absence from Town. Because her husband would require her at the family seat for at least two weeks of that month, Darius hardly spared her a thought.

  Lucy Templeton was similarly discommoded by Darius’s absence, and her missive promised predictable retribution for his not coming when she snapped her fingers at him.

  Darius set her note aside as well, anticipating a game of Spoiled Puppy when he returned to Town. She’d spank him until her hand hurt, and “let” him put his nose in her lap for his reward when he was sufficiently contrite. It was beyond tedious. If Lord Longstreet provided the remuneration he’d promised, Lucy Templeton, Blanche Cowell, and all of their ilk might soon be nothing more than bad—very bad—memories.

  “So this is where you hide?”

  He glanced up from his desk to see Vivian standing in the door of his study. She was attired in the closest thing he’d seen on her to an attractive dress—a soft brown velvet creation with a raised waistline, suggesting it was years out of date, though it looked comfortable.

  “This is where I shovel my way through the reams of correspondence that must occupy a man involved in commerce.”

  “Commerce?” She advanced into the room, glancing around. “I thought you were a gentleman farmer.”