Darius: Lord of Pleasures ll-1

by Grace Burrowes

  She wanted to smack him, in fact, and shout at him to stop reasoning with her.

  “You are angry with me,” William said. “I’m sorry for that, but you won’t be so angry when you hold that child, Vivian. I promise you.”

  “I know.” She agreed out of a need to shut him up. They’d never been this personal with each other in all their years of marriage, and she wasn’t about to start now. Maybe not ever, given what had passed in the last month.

  “Can I assume your lunation is late?”

  “You can.” She blotted the last of her tears and folded his handkerchief into a small, tidy square. “Just a little.”

  “That’s enough for now.” William rose off the arm of her chair. “We’ll not speak of your visit in Kent again, for it upsets you, and we must take the best care of you now, Vivian. Early days can be chancy.”

  “Yes, William.”

  “You’re tired. Shall I send Portia to you?”

  Vivian rose, though fatigue and sadness dragged at her. “Everlasting God, please, not that. I’ll see her at dinner, and we can trade veiled barbs over a decent meal.” Except Vivian had no appetite. “I think I’ll take a walk while the sun is at least shining.”

  “As you wish.” William stepped in and kissed her forehead. “You know, Vivian, I do realize what a toll this has taken on you, what a toll it will take, and I am appreciative.”

  “As I am,” she said, “of all you’ve done for me.” She withdrew, wrestling with her first-ever bout of anger at William Longstreet. Oh, she’d been exasperated with him in the past, irritated, cross, annoyed—they were married, after all—and he was two generations her senior, but she’d never felt this burning, resentful rage at him.

  So she took her walk in the cold sunshine. A long walk was an excuse to wrap Darius’s scarf around her neck, and the pretty, warm cloak he’d bought her around her body, and to be alone with his scent.

  * * *

  “I need the name of a good solicitor.” Darius put the question to his older brother, who was for once looking reasonably well put together.

  “I thought you used a firm you were happy with,” Trent replied, pouring his guest a cup of tea.

  “I do, for my commercial interests. This is personal, and requires… discretion.”

  “Anything I can do?” The question was posed with studied casualness, but the offer was sincere, and Darius knew a pang of… something. There was loneliness in it and love for his brother and despair.

  “A small matter”—Darius’s lips quirked at the private joke—“requiring a delicate hand. I won’t get my ears blown off though, so you needn’t worry.”

  “One does, you know.” Trent sipped his tea with the equanimity Darius had long associated with him. “In your absence over the past couple of months, I’ve had to do the pretty with Leah a time or two, and I’d forgotten how exhausting it is.”

  “It’s not so bad. You learn to bow and smile and twirl down the room without putting anything into it.” And you looked for the well-padded chairs, of which Trent’s modest library sported an adequate number.

  “Well, I haven’t yet acquired the knack. Your return to Town is most welcome. In terms of solicitors, I use Kettering. He’s young, but absolutely discreet and shrewd as hell.”

  “He’ll not go tattling to Wilton?”

  “I’d shoot him on sight if he did,” Trent said, no smile in evidence. “And likely miss. The man is quick in every sense.”

  Darius studied his brother, who was drinking tea for a change. “You seem to be a little more the thing. Maybe you needed to put off mourning.”

  “Having to go out with our sister on my arm required a certain reestablishing of my own routines.”

  Routines, Darius surmised, like having one’s hair trimmed, shaving regularly, putting together a proper suit of clothes, and getting them on one’s person. Making conversation, those sorts of routines. Well, bless Leah’s social calendar, if it had given Trent a toehold on regaining his balance.

  “Uncle Dare!” A little dark-haired boy shot across the library, his face wreathed in glee.

  “Nephew Ford!” Dare barely set down his teacup in time to snatch his nephew into his lap. “Is my best nephew in the whole world ready to go riding?”

  “I’ll get my boots and my coat and my hat and my gloves too!” He was off at a dead run, the library door slamming shut behind him.

  “You don’t mind?” Trent asked, setting his teacup aside. “I could go with you, but I’d have to take Michael up before me.”

  Darius smiled. “Droit du Uncle, to fuss over one child at a time. Michael and I can plot an outing on some fine spring day when it won’t send his nurses into the vapors to think of him in the nasty cold air.”

  Ford came charging back into the room, once again banging the door in his wake. “Ready, Uncle Dare!”

  Darius scooped his nephew into a piggyback perch, and soon had him up on the pommel of Skunk’s saddle. The day was cold but sunny, and there was little wind, so a short ride through the park was a pleasant outing for uncle and nephew.

  “Papa’s not mourning anymore,” Ford reported.

  “How do you know this?”

  “His breath doesn’t always smell like brandy when he kisses us good night. Are the ducks cold?”

  “They waddle about with featherbeds on, so no, I don’t think they’re cold. They even go swimming, for pity’s sake.”

  “Maybe they have to, to eat.”

  “We all do things we’d rather not when it comes to the necessity of eating.”

  “Why, Mr. Lindsey!” A soft female voice cut through Darius’s musings. “Won’t you introduce me to your handsome companion?”

  And there she was, just like that, as if sprung from Darius’s constant, unhappy thoughts. Except Vivian looked… wonderful. She was wearing one of the fur-lined cloaks he’d bought her, and her face was lit with a soft, eager smile. She sat Bernice like a princess, and beamed a sense of joy at all she surveyed.

  “Madam?” Darius was relieved his tone was civil—merely civil—when his heart was thumping in his chest like a kettledrum. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Lady Vivian Longstreet,” she supplied, though around her eyes, her smile faltered, and Darius’s thumping heart skipped several miserable beats. “My husband introduced us last fall.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Lord William Longstreet,” Vivian countered gamely, and Darius knew the meaning of self-hatred in a whole new way. “We’re back in Town for the opening of Parliament.”

  “You’ll give him my regards, then. Good day.” Darius tipped his hat just as Ford spoke up.

  “I like your horse. Good bone and a kind eye.”

  He sounded just like John, and Darius saw the hurt that did Vivian.

  “I am remiss,” Darius said, knowing it was a Bad Idea. “My lady, may I make known to you my nephew, Fordham Lindsey.”

  “Good day, Master Fordham.” Vivian’s smile expanded to include the boy. “You sit that big horse quite well. I’m sure your uncle is very proud to be seen with you before him.”

  Ford sat up straighter. “I’m the oldest. Skunk likes me.”

  “I can see that, but it’s chilly out.” She shifted her gaze to Darius. “I mustn’t keep you, or your mama will fret.”

  “She’s dead.” Ford didn’t seem the least concerned about this. “We’re not mourning anymore.”

  Vivian’s brow puckered. “My condolences.”

  “My sister-in-law did not enjoy good health,” Darius said, and then, because his chest hurt ferociously to think he’d nearly snubbed her, he added, “But you do?”

  “I do, Mr. Lindsey. The very best of health.” Her smile became radiant, and Darius realized he’d trumped his Bad Idea royally, for that smile would haunt him into his dotage.

  “Well, good day, then, my lady. Safe journey home.”

  “Safe journey to you, too, Mr. Lindsey, Master Fordham.” She nudged her mare along,
still beaming as she and her groom passed out of sight around a bend in the bridle path. This told Darius two things. First, she was still safely carrying, which was a good thing. Second, she wasn’t going to exercise plain common sense and ignore him when their paths crossed, which was a bad thing. A very bad, stupid thing, which pleased him far more than it should.

  * * *

  “Can you keep a secret?” Vivian kept her voice down, though she and Angela were alone.

  “I am the mother of three,” Angela replied, not even glancing up from her embroidery hoop. “I can keep secrets, though not from my husband.”

  Vivian smiled at her sister, whose impending addition to the family was growing increasingly apparent.

  “I believe I am in an interesting condition,” Vivian said softly, eyeing the closed door to the family parlor. “Though not yet very far along.”

  Angela set her hoop down. “How not very far along?”

  “I likely conceived around Christmas, so about six weeks.” Perhaps five, perhaps seven, possibly as much as eight. “I know that’s early, but I haven’t had any real trouble.”

  “Oh, Viv…” Angela rose and hugged Vivian hard. “I am so pleased for you and for William. He must be over the moon.”

  “I think he’s relieved, but pleased too, for us both. The thought of a baby has eased his grief over Algernon’s death. I’m hoping it will chase off the last of the cold he brought back from Longchamps.”

  “Best watch that,” Angela said, resuming her seat. “A cold can become a lung fever, and then you’re a widow with a baby on the way.”

  “You will cease that grim talk, Angela Ventnor.” Vivian poured them both more tea, though lately she had come to loathe the stuff. “I’m weepy enough as it is.”

  Angela grinned. “That’s quite normal, as is casting up your accounts, weaving a little on your feet, and taking naps at the oddest times. Jared says he suspected we were carrying again when I started needing more cuddling.”

  We were carrying… Angela had been married for ten years, and Vivian could not recall her sister ever previously referring to her husband and cuddling in the same sentence. Impending motherhood was indeed an interesting condition.

  “Your husband notices more than I thought he did.”

  “You must let William spoil you too, Viv.” Scolding came naturally to the mother of three. “For once, let him take care of you, and not just the other way ’round.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Vivian smiled but tried not to consider her sister’s words too closely. William wasn’t the taking-care-of kind of husband. He was considerate, when he wasn’t out all evening arguing with his cronies, or up late reading draft bills and correspondence, or distracted because it approached the anniversary of his marriage to Muriel, or her death, or Algernon’s death, or Aldous’s…

  As Vivian saw her sister out, she admitted to a sense of furtive relief that she could again seek the solitude of her bedroom. Ever since she’d run into Darius in the park with that little boy who looked like him, and like John, Vivian’s attempts to forget her winter idyll and move on had been completely unsuccessful.

  She didn’t want to forget; she wanted to remember. She kept Darius’s scarf in the back of her wardrobe and took it out to sniff it at least once a day. She wore her new wardrobe, admiring the woman in the mirror far more than she had the one she’d seen last November. She visited with her mare first thing in the day, because it was a good way to start the morning, even when they couldn’t get to the park for a brisk canter.

  And she missed him.

  She didn’t flatter herself he missed her, but she hoped, in a small, honest, very private corner of her heart, he at least thought of her from time to time.

  She climbed onto her bed, knowing a short nap was in order—another short nap. Maybe next time her path crossed with Darius’s, there wouldn’t be a curious child underfoot, and they could even exchange a few more words.

  Ten

  In the two weeks and three days since he’d seen Vivian in the park, Darius had become a master at the game he privately called “What I Should Have Said.” This game consisted of endless mental rehashings of his short encounter with Vivian and endless variations on the winning answer: he should have said not one damned thing; he should have cut her utterly.

  He’d failed that round and admitted in hindsight that such a purely coldhearted approach was beyond him, so he’d graduated to Round Two anyway, which he thought of as “What I’ll Say Next Time.”

  Knowing full well there couldn’t be a next time.

  “There you are.” Lucy’s voice was low and hard. “You’re late again, and believe me, I have about had it with you, Darius.”

  “I am abjectly sorry to have discommoded you,” he drawled. Her eyes widened in astonishment then narrowed in what he recognized as anticipated pleasure. “Domestic obligations called that couldn’t wait.” Then too, William’s first payment had yet to show up, and a man inured to disappointment had to accept that it might never arrive.

  “Insolent.” She looked him up and down. “Get up to my room and have yourself on my bed in five minutes.”

  “As my lady wishes.” His tone was even more indifferent than he’d intended, and Lucy’s eyes took on an unholy gleam. As he made his way to her room, he felt a crushing fatigue radiating out from his middle, almost as if he were wrung out from a stomach flu or a long footrace over steep terrain. He quickly shed his garments and got comfortable facedown on Lucy’s bed. He was careful to put his clothes where he could see them—he didn’t trust Lucy not to hide them or damage them, and they cost a pretty penny. He also unlatched her balcony doors before she arrived, because locking him in would seem a fine game to her in her present mood.

  He knew this waiting period was intended to create anticipation in him, or anxiety. For Lucy, the two were closely related, but for him, the temptation to steal a catnap was taking precedence. He’d been out past midnight with his sister at one of the few early balls that would crop up until the Season began in earnest. It was three in the morning—a full hour later than Lucy had summoned him—and he wouldn’t see his own bed until dawn.

  Lucy swished into the room and secured a silk scarf around his wrist. “So what have you to say for yourself, Darius?” She pulled it tight and knotted it to the bedpost. “You disappear and leave no word when you’ll return. You ignore my first two notes and then show up tonight an hour late?” She gave the second scarf a yank on the last word, and Darius realized she expected an answer.

  “One usually spends the holidays with family, Lucy.” Darius made a show of yawning. She’d tied his hands, and he couldn’t politely cover his mouth. “You are not my family.”

  “I’m not,” she agreed, disdaining to secure his feet. “Crouch up.”

  He complied—Lucy had a fascination for his fundament, God help him.

  “You’ve been rude.” Her hand came down hard, a stinging, loud slap of flesh on flesh that Darius found not as bracing as it usually was. “You’re inconsiderate, your manners are atrocious, and you’ll regret this lapse.” She whaled on him in a similar vein, and Darius turned his attention to the task of producing an erection for her entertainment. When she untied him and spread herself for his further attentions, she’d expect to see a nice hard cock. From her perspective, the idea that he wasn’t allowed to swive her with it made his suffering more intense, which meant his remuneration was earned.

  So…

  For the first time in his memory, Darius had to work at gaining an erection. He succeeded only by using the friction of the bedcovers against his skin as a stimulus, for sheer determination gained him little. He writhed convincingly against the silk sheets, relieved when his flesh eventually rose at the simple glide of the material over his groin. Fortunately, Lucy’s hand had delivered all the punishment it was capable of, though Darius was required to wear the scarves around his neck like a collar and leash. By the time he’d brought her to her first orgasm, his erection had faded to a
brief memory. By her second, he realized Vivian had been right, and he truly could not do this again. By her third, he was nearly asleep on his knees.

  * * *

  “It’s a financial matter.” Darius watched Worth Kettering tidy up an oddly elegant French escritoire. The desk looked like it would crumble to gilded and lacquered matchsticks if Kettering simply banged a fist on it. Kettering himself was large, dark, beautifully attired in various shades of dark blue, and possessed of curiously tidy mannerisms.

  “Most matters entrusted to solicitors are financial,” Kettering replied, lacing his fingers and settling his hands before him on the desk. Big hands, though clean and capable looking.

  “Let me be blunt.” Darius rose and went to the window. “If my father gets word of this, he’ll use it to destroy me.”

  “Your father being Wilton, whom Lord Amherst had the misfortune to be sired by as well?”

  “The same.” Darius’s mouth quirked up at one side at Kettering’s honesty.

  “I understand the need for discretion, Mr. Lindsey, and can assure you your brother wouldn’t have sent you here had he any reason to doubt me.”

  “He told you I’d inquired?”

  “Mentioned you might be around, and warned me to attend to your situation personally, without clerks, juniors, or other intermediaries.”

  “Older brothers meddle.”

  “Younger brothers prevaricate.”

  A short, considering silence all around, and then, “I want to set up a trust for a child.” Darius turned his back to the other man, as if watching a beer wagon snarl up traffic in both directions was of great moment. “The child has yet to be born.”

  “A conditional trust, then.” Kettering’s voice gave nothing away. “What will the contents of the trust be?”

  On the street below, the swearing and insults began in earnest, complete with raised fists. “Coin provided by the lady’s husband. Substantial coin.” The first installment of which had arrived by unliveried private messenger, to Darius’s shamefully intense relief.