He’d taken off his gloves in anticipation of playing some whist. Her excuse for being barehanded was a mystery. He let her take his left hand in her right, but nearly shot off the bench when she settled his hand, quite firmly, low on her belly.
“I’m fat, getting fatter by the day.”
He said nothing, too stunned by the shape of her. She wasn’t fat—of course she wasn’t—but where her waist had been was a soft bulge, a change, a whisper of movement.
“Good God. The child has quickened.”
She kept her hand over his. “In the past couple of weeks. I lie down at night, and for half an hour, I simply marvel at the sensation. It’s like… a soft breeze fluttering my insides.”
The little breeze came again and again. The feeling at once unmanned him and made him want to conquer armies barehanded for the woman beside him. He wanted to go down on his knees, to bow his head, to pen sonnets and ballads and proclaim them from every street corner.
“I am happy for you, Vivvie. Profoundly, indescribably happy.” Not enough, but a truth, nonetheless. He brought her fingers to his lips, offered her a kiss, and withdrew his hand.
“I wanted you to be happy too, Darius.”
So she’d put William up to this outing, engineered a stroll on the patio, and utterly ambushed Darius’s best intentions. He loved her for it, even as he knew the rest of his life wouldn’t be adequate for him to recover from the emotions her sharing of happiness had engendered in his breast.
* * *
Vivian had composed all manner of foolish speeches once she’d decided Darius ought to know his child was thriving in the womb.
She and Darius could be friends—she was friends of a sort with some MPs who shared William’s politics.
She and Darius could be cordial—she was an earl’s daughter; he was an earl’s son. No one would remark it, much.
He might call on William just to be polite, and Vivian would pour. She’d poured a thousand cups of tea in aid of lesser ends, such as the good of the realm and the glory of old England.
Only to find, when Darius said not one word but merely shared a moonrise with her—the most beautiful thing he’d seen in months—that Darius had the right of it. They could be nothing cordial, friendly, or polite to each other. He might have the savoir faire and stamina for it; she did not.
William had said a little infatuation was acceptable, to be expected even, but part of Vivian’s wonder at her pregnancy had to do with becoming a person William knew not at all. For the first time, she had a privacy in her marriage to rival what William had in his memories of Muriel.
She respected his privacy now more than she had, and William extended to Vivian the same courtesy. He was all those things Vivian had tried to tell herself Darius could be—cordial, friendly, polite—which was fine. Vivian loved her husband, was grateful to him, and wished him only the best.
But for Darius Lindsey, the father of her child, her feelings were so much more complicated, inconvenient, and precious. She would accept every instance when their paths crossed and treasure the pain and delight of each meeting, for in Darius Lindsey, she’d found not just a man to respect and appreciate, but a man whom she could love.
The moon was clearing the horizon, spreading light in all directions even as its size seemed to diminish, when a woman’s laughter sounded out in the shadowed garden.
Beside her, right immediately beside her, Vivian felt Darius stiffen. Before he could make some polite comment to reestablish the picket lines, Vivian slipped her arm from his and rose.
“Shall we go in, Mr. Lindsey? The best of the moon’s display is over, and I would not want to cause my husband undue concern over my absence.”
His eyes widened, suggesting Vivian might have overstated her point. “I would never want Lord Longstreet to worry unnecessarily. A lady is always safe in my care.”
Safe. The slight emphasis on the word made it clear Darius would not use tonight’s shared moment to encroach in the future—which ought to be a relief rather than a cause of sorrow. The laughter came again from the garden, a raucous taunt, reminding Vivian that she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for in this rendezvous.
And much less.
“Shall we go in?” Darius managed to put some pugnacity into the way he offered her his arm. In no time at all, Vivian was back at William’s side, and Darius had disappeared into the smiling, bejeweled crowd.
“How fares Mr. Lindsey, Vivian?”
William’s question was kindly, his expression suggesting concern for Vivian—and even some for young Mr. Lindsey.
“He is all that is correct, William.”
William patted her hand and said nothing while the orchestra took up a gavotte. When the knot in Vivian’s chest was threatening to choke her, William said, without glancing down at her, “I’ll have the carriage brought around.”
Twelve
Blanche Cowell was loose on the grounds—Darius would recognize her laughter anywhere—and all Darius could think was that he must not allow her to see him with Vivian. By the time he emerged from the safety of the card room, Vivian was nowhere to be seen, heard, or sniffed.
And neither was Leah, until he spotted her leaving the supper buffet on the arm of none other than Baron Hellerington.
The old goat must have come late and kept out of sight until he could accost his prey. As Darius made his way around the periphery of the ballroom, Hellerington parted from Leah with a bow and a damp, lingering kiss to her hand.
“Are you all right?” Darius peered down at Leah in concern. She had the indefinable stillness of a woman coping with internal tumult. “You look pale, and you’ve been thinking too hard.”
“Hellerington is going to talk to Papa.”
“God.” Darius ran a hand through his hair. “It would have to be him.”
“He’s titled, and he has some blunt, Dare.” Leah was tapping her foot, though not in time to the music. “And he’s desperate, which are the requisite qualities for any match Papa finds for me.”
“But Hellerington.” Darius spat the name. “It isn’t to be borne, Leah.”
“He and Papa will dicker,” Leah said, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself. “Something might develop while they do.”
“We live in that hope, feeble though it is. I do not like leaving you here to be preyed upon.” He scowled down at her to emphasize his point.
“I am largely ignored, Darius.” She put a touch of frost in her tone, enough for him to realize she’d like privacy to collect herself rather than more of his badgering presence. “And if you don’t ask that Windham girl to dance, the Season will be half over, and you’ll be wishing you had.”
He curbed the temptation to lecture and rant, bowed over her hand, and departed. He wasn’t about to dance twice with any woman he wasn’t closely related to—the notably single Lady Jenny Windham, for example—but he took himself off anyway, mostly to cool his temper.
The ball was well attended because the Season was officially under way, and among the crowd, Darius saw that indeed, Lord Valentine Windham’s friend, Nicholas Haddonfield, Viscount Reston, had deigned to join the fray. The man was noteworthy for his great height and the physique of a Viking blacksmith, and for his enthusiasm regarding women of a certain ilk.
Easy women, naughty women, even decent women seemed to enjoy Reston’s attentions. Now why couldn’t a fellow like that take Leah on as his wife? There was an earldom in the offing for Reston, the rumor being he’d promised his ailing father he’d marry this Season.
And when Darius handed his sister into the coach, he was quietly surprised that it was about Reston she inquired. Well, she could do worse. And if Hellerington’s coin spoke loudly enough, she would do worse. Darius dropped Leah off then walked the few blocks to his destination, hoping the crisp night air might help him marshal his wits for the coming ordeal.
It did no good. Lucy was a snake, and she could strike from any angle, and Darius, God help him, was her
prey of choice these days.
“Don’t tell me.” He seized the offensive as he strolled into her bedroom. “I’m late. My apologies, but Leah is bound to attend her entertainments until at least after supper, and I am bound to escort her.”
“Let your brother Amherst do it,” Lucy spat. “He’s the damned heir.”
She was in sufficiently rare form that he decided he’d placate her first—one last time—and take permanent leave of her thereafter.
“Trenton is only recently out of mourning, Lucy. He does his share. Then too, the matchmakers will swarm him should he show his face among decent ladies.”
Lucy’s expression moderated. “While you, they leave to the likes of me. Clothes off, Darius. You’ll pay for your divided loyalties, and dawdling won’t help.”
Darius shrugged out of his coat, wondering if Lucy realized his loyalty was to her coin. “As tired as I am, any excuse to get into any bed sounds appealing. How is your husband?”
She slapped him for that, which woke him up nicely.
“Been ignoring you, has he?” He saw the next blow coming and seized her wrist in a grasp not quite intended to hurt. “Hold, Lucy. Your puppy has run off, and in his place is a man unwilling to pleasure you for coin. I’m done with your beatings, whippings, and spankings. Take your ire out on Blanche or the footmen or the damned stable boys, but attack me again, and you’ll regret it.”
“I’ll regret it?” She wrenched free and came at him, nails and teeth, fists and feet, until Darius had her pinned beneath him on the bed.
“Enough, damn you.” He bounced her wrists hard against the mattress for good measure. “Be still.”
“Fuck me,” Lucy ordered, arching up against him. “If I can’t have the fun I want, the least you can do is swive me.”
“You know the rules, Lucy.” He did not make the mistake of letting her go. “No one runs the risk of pregnancy, and I don’t have to worry about a glove across my face.”
“As if Templeton would bother.” She tried to wrest free again, but Darius was too big, too strong, and too damned sick of her nonsense. The singed scent of her crimped hair alone was threatening his digestive control.
“I can hold you here all night,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I could offer you the gratification you pay me for. Rather than do either, I will, for once, do exactly as I please and walk out of here, not to return.”
And, God in heaven, the words felt wonderful.
“Damn you!” She made another futile attempt to regain her freedom, and Darius waited it out as patiently as he could. He perceived a new difficulty all too easily: though she tried to hide it, Lucy enjoyed being overpowered, probably even more than she enjoyed hurting him with her silly games.
“Do I have to bind you, Lucy?” He gritted out the question with a sinking feeling in his gut. He’d thought there was nothing worse than being her plaything, hers to tie up, beat, humiliate, and toy with, but pretending she was his plaything had to rank far beneath that.
“Yes,” she panted. “Bind me hand and foot, and then, by God, you’d better exert yourself, Lindsey, or I’ll ruin that sister of yours, see if I don’t.”
“Ruin her?” Darius whipped off his cravat and used it to secure her right wrist. “And how will you manage that, without being ruined yourself?”
“Oh, no.” Lucy shook her head, and her smile was a thing of evil. “You won’t tell a soul, Darius, not about these little trysts of ours. Do that, and your whole family suffers. Blanche is well informed regarding your sister’s little contretemps five years ago, and we can remind all and sundry of the details.”
Temper and seething frustration turned the edges of his vision red. Leah had been through enough, and yet Lucy would derive savage glee in destroying the remains of Leah’s marital prospects.
He used the sash of Lucy’s night robe to tie her other wrist, and made it a point not to tie her tightly or to yank her wrists uncomfortably as he did. It was petty revenge against a renewed sentence of misery at Lucy’s hands, but all he could manage.
“As if anyone in this town ever forgets a scandal.” He sat back and eyed her, realizing his clothes were on, and his complete lack of sexual interest in this woman was at least his to privately savor.
“Get busy, Darius.”
“No.” He moved off the bed and considered pleasuring himself while she was bound and helpless to do anything but watch. She’d hate that.
He’d hate it more. He tugged off his boots, rolled up his sleeves, and poured himself a drink of fine old brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, knowing Lucy was watching his every move.
Another swallow, while he rolled the alcohol around on his tongue and eyed her on the bed. God above, he needed to be drunk for this.
“I want it to hurt,” Lucy said. “Blood would be good. On the sheets.”
“You’re sick.” Darius set his glass down and approached the bed. “I should pity you.”
“You should fuck me.”
“No.” Never had a single word held so much pleasure for him.
“Shut up.” Lucy closed her eyes and lifted her hips. “Just shut up and get your mouth on me.”
He reversed direction and brought his glass of brandy to the night table.
“You want it to hurt, Lucy?”
She glared at him. “I want it to start.”
“I can make it burn,” he said, taking another swallow of brandy and climbing onto the bed.
She spread her legs and became docile as Darius did, indeed, make her burn, while his own torment involved flames of conscience rather than desire.
* * *
How had his life come to this?
Lucy had paid him with a choker, of all things, of topaz and emeralds. The piece was pretty, and as he’d taken it to the little shop on Ludgate he discreetly patronized, it occurred to him the jewels would go well with Vivian’s coloring.
Where in the hell had that ludicrous notion come from?
Now, more than ever, he needed to put thoughts of Vivian from his mind, and now, more than ever, his imagination returned to her like a lodestone. She was a beacon of pure goodness in his otherwise sordid existence, and as spring advanced to its full glory, Vivian kept invading his mind and pushing darker thoughts aside.
So he squired Leah about, and took Emily for the occasional quiet hack, and popped down to Kent to check on John, and dreaded the next summons from Lucy or Blanche. They’d backed off, and Lucy at least seemed content to be cast in the role of victim, but it wore on Darius like being her abused pet never had.
As if he could enjoy hurting any woman, even her, even for her pleasure.
“Looking for me?” Blanche appeared at his elbow and wrapped her arm around his, pressing her breast to his bicep. He nearly gagged in response.
“Lady Cowell.” He eased back and sensed this was to be his punishment. Lucy and Blanche might allow him to recast his part in their games, but they’d have their revenge for his attempted escape, and accosting him in public was a good place to start.
“I have a few dances free.” Blanche reattached herself to his side. “I’m told you’re grace itself on the dance floor.”
Darius turned to pick up his drink and managed to dislodge her again. “For that, you need to dance with Lord Val Windham.”
“The pianist?”
“The same.” Darius kept his drink in his hand, for Blanche wasn’t about to risk spilling something on that gown of hers. Ye gods, it was barely decent.
“I’d rather dance with you.” She eyed him as if he were a hanging ham and she a starving bitch. “Later tonight, as a matter of fact. On my sheets.”
Vivian. The thought of her circled in his mind like a tired old prayer, a child’s futile wish, a forlorn hope. He opened his mouth to put Blanche off when rescue came from an unlikely quarter. His sister approached, the tallest man in the room at her side. Leah began on introductions, but her escort cut her off.
“We’ve met.” Nick Haddonfield sm
iled blandly, while his piercing blue eyes assessed Darius closely. “Lindsey, a pleasure to see you in Town. And Lady Cowell, a pleasure as well.”
“Nicky,” the woman clinging to Darius purred, “always a pleasure to see you, but I don’t know as I’ve met your young lady.” She added a particular female emphasis to the word “young,” the slightest, nasty little inflection, so in the way of unkind women, it implied its opposite.
“My sister.” Darius spoke up and shifted to shake Blanche off his arm once and for all. “Lady Leah Lindsey. Leah, Lady Blanche Cowell.” Darius was amused to see Leah did not curtsy but merely inclined her head.
Reston winged out an arm thick with muscles no amount of finery could disguise. “Blanche, perhaps you’d favor me with a few minutes of your time. It has been at least since the holidays since our paths crossed. Lindsey, Lady Leah.” He offered Leah a slow, deep bow, one unmistakably intended to convey respect, and took his leave, Lady Cowell on his arm.
Darius nodded at Reston’s retreating back. “So where did you meet that?”
“I met him in the park with Emily,” Leah said. “Where did you meet her?”
Swimming in the Channel with a school of sharks who will cheerfully destroy you.
“She’s frequently at the same functions you are,” Darius lied, oh, so easily to his dear sister. “She travels in a slightly less genteel circle.”
“Lord Reston apparently frequents the same set.”
“You needn’t sound so offended.” And to anybody but her brother—any of the hundred or so people milling around the ballroom with them, she probably wouldn’t have. “I doubt either of them will be joining us for supper.” He’d run screaming into the night if Blanche presumed that far.
“I think we might see more of Lord Reston. He seems to have taken an interest in Emily.”
The topic was now familial, so Darius took his sister’s arm and steered her toward the corner of the room reserved for chaperones, companions, and other wallflowers. “And Wilton will probably allow it. The man’s heir to an earldom, though birthing his get will likely kill little Em.”
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