Darius: Lord of Pleasures ll-1

by Grace Burrowes

“You’re going to have to explain me somehow.” Darius rose and offered Vivian a hand. “I’ll show up at the christening, and thereafter, and that is at William’s request.”

  “Then William can explain you,” Vivian retorted. She let Darius pick up her book, fold the blanket over his shoulder, and offer her his arm.

  Vivian scowled—even her scowls were dear—and accepted his escort. “You can’t walk me back to the house.”

  “Let me see you across the stream.” He wrapped the reins of his courage around his wrists, and ambled along beside her. “I’d like to meet you here again on Friday.”

  “Friday? This is not wise, Darius.”

  He paused and looked down at her. “Your welfare concerns me. I know you don’t trust me, I know you’ve been disappointed in me and hurt by me. I am sorry, more sorry than you can possibly know. But if you’d allow it, I’d like to be your friend.”

  To be her friend, a man she could rely upon for kindness, honesty, and decency, was the highest aspiration he’d ever held.

  “What do friends do?”

  She hadn’t ordered him off the property for his presumption. He took heart. “They occasionally pass the time together,” Darius said, resuming their progress. “They care for each other, and keep each other’s confidences, and they acknowledge each other in social situations.”

  “Like you didn’t acknowledge me. On several notable occasions.”

  “It won’t happen again,” he said quietly. “And I am abjectly sorry.”

  “I believe you, but I don’t understand you, Darius. If you detest those women so much, why are they in your life? William has compensated you, hasn’t he?”

  “We can talk more about that on Friday,” he replied, reluctant to explain that he’d used dirty weapons on dirty opponents, and been shown a curious grace by unlikely angels. “Weather permitting. And if the weather doesn’t permit, I’ll try on Monday, and so forth.”

  “You’re determined on this, aren’t you?”

  Was she trying to hide a smile—or a frown? “Yes. I am determined to be your friend.”

  More silence as they approached a little rill babbling happily along toward the sea. “Very well, but for pity’s sake be discreet.”

  “I’ll be careful, but my attentions are not going to be of a nature you’ll need to hide,” he replied, swinging her up into his arms and carrying her over the stream bordering the trees. “You be well, Vivian, and know I’m thinking of you.” He brushed a kiss to her cheek before setting her down and kept his hands on her upper arms for a moment.

  “You can leave the blanket here,” Vivian said. “I’ll send a footman for it.”

  “Until Friday then.” He bowed and smiled at her again, a soft, remembering smile—but a determined smile too.

  Fifteen

  Darius passed a card to the dignified little person who served as the Longchamps butler.

  “The Honorable Darius Lindsey?”

  “Lady Longstreet came out with my sister, Lady Leah Lindsey, now Countess of Bellefonte.” Darius smiled the smile of a man who doesn’t owe his inferiors an explanation but might be entitled to sympathy from them in any case. “Women must keep up their gossip, and I am a dutiful brother.”

  “Very good, sir.” The man bowed himself out the door and left Darius listening to the rain on the mullioned windows. He’d ridden the length and breadth of Longchamps in recent days and had seen it was a well-run, old-fashioned estate. Whoever had been tending it for William had done a good job and had been doing a good job for some years. The house was well kept too, not a speck of dust, not a wilted flower, not a dingy window to be seen.

  The door opened, and there Vivian stood in her gravid glory, her expression conveying both reluctant pleasure at seeing him and exasperation.

  “Lady Longstreet.” Darius bowed, not even taking her hand. He had to do this by the rules or he’d lose his nerve—and Vivvie would toss him out on his ear.

  “Mr. Lindsey?” She advanced into the room, leaving the door open—of course—and extending her bare hand to him. He bowed over it, resisting the urge to lay his cheek against her knuckles, and straightened.

  “I bring felicitations from Lady Leah, now Countess of Bellefonte.” He assayed a smile, a cordial smile. “And I can pass along to her the news that you are in great good looks. Greetings as well from Lord Valentine Windham’s summer abode, where I am a guest for the season.”

  Vivian’s lips quirked at his formality, but she sailed on, lady that she was. “Please have a seat. I’ll ring for tea.”

  “Tea would be lovely.” He gave the last word the barest hint of an emphasis, and added a discreet look at his hostess’s person that conveyed what or who, exactly, he thought was lovely. “Is his lordship in residence?”

  “No. He remains in London until Parliament adjourns, but I’ll pass your greetings along to him. How is your sister, and when did she wed?”

  Darius offered a brief and somewhat edited recounting of the odd courtship of Nick and Leah Haddonfield. “There is suspicion that Leah might already be in anticipation of a happy event. May I tell my sister you’re well, my lady?”

  Vivian dipped her chin, abruptly shy. “You may.”

  “Vivvie”—he dropped his voice—“we’ve had this discussion.”

  “But not”—she glanced around—“not inside, with walls and carpets and a tea tray on the way. What can you be thinking, Darius?”

  He’d been thinking that friends called on each other, a precious, prosaic thought. “If I’m not a stranger on the day of the christening, it will be easier to explain my interest in the child.” Her eyebrows rose at that, but he wasn’t done. “Besides, Leah and Emily have both asked after you. Do you know Mrs. Stoneleigh?”

  “The late colonel’s widow?”

  “She’s Axel Belmont’s wife now, and not an hour distant in the direction of Town. She’s similarly anticipating a happy event.”

  Vivian studied her hands, upon which, Darius noted, she no longer wore rings. “You know a prodigious number of expecting women.”

  He could sense the speculation in her observation—a penance he’d serve until he’d regained her trust. He rose and spoke barely above a whisper. “You’re the only one expecting my child, Vivian.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Positive.” And what a fine thing it was to be able to say that to her with absolute sincerity.

  She chewed on his assurances while the tea tray arrived, piled high with scones, butter, jam, cheese, and fruit. The look he gave the tray must have communicated easily.

  “Don’t stand on ceremony.” She passed him a cup of tea. “The kitchen cooks for Able, me, and Portia, but guests are a rarity.”

  “Because you require peace and quiet.”

  While he watched, she split him a scone, spread a thick layer of butter on one half and jam on the other, and arranged it on a plate with strawberries and cherries.

  “I can pass on the cheese,” he said, putting his hand over hers when she’d reached for a few slices. “It figures prominently in our camp fare.”

  “Camp fare, Mr. Lindsey?” She eyed him up and down, rose, and went to the door to speak with a footman. As she resumed her seat, she aimed a question at him. “What are a duke’s son and an earl’s son doing subsisting on camp fare?”

  He overstayed the requisite social call by half an hour, which a man might do when bringing news from a long-out-of-touch acquaintance, and the same man was intent on demolishing the flaky pastries and fresh fruit before him. In that time, he told Vivvie about his brother’s progress down in Surrey, and about Valentine Windham’s struggles with the Markham estate, and with the widow Markham as well.

  Vivian’s brow knitted. “I don’t know her. She’s a baroness?”

  “She keeps a very circumspect existence, for reasons known to her.” Darius surveyed the crumbs on his plate. “Valentine will get her sorted out, and she’ll sort him out too, unless I miss my guess.”

&nbs
p; “A summer idyll.” Vivian’s tone was wistful, and Darius knew he had to take his leave of her before he put his arms around her and offered the kind of comfort an acquaintance would never offer.

  Though a friend… “Walk me to my horse?”

  “Of course.”

  He could not resist putting a hand under her elbow and assisting her to her feet. It was dear, sweet, and vaguely worrisome that in her condition such assistance was genuinely appropriate.

  “I miss my feet,” Vivian said as she took his arm and progressed through the house. “I recall them, though, and trust they are still in their assigned location.”

  “Appears that’s the case.” Darius patted her hand as they approached the front door. A footman opened it, and they were in the shade of the front terrace. “I’ve missed all of you.”

  He’d kept that admission for when they had the privacy of the out of doors, and for his restraint, he was rewarded with another of Vivian’s shy smiles.

  “You barely know me,” she murmured, but he noticed she wasn’t in any hurry to get him to the stables.

  “Perhaps you’ll allow me to call again. I’m without much civilized company at the Markham estate, and without civilized victuals entirely.”

  Her steps slowed as they approached the stable yard, and she did not turn loose of his arm. “Your sister would expect me to extend some hospitality to you, so you must not be a stranger.”

  “Gracious of you.” Darius kept his relief at this victory off his face. “And what’s this?”

  “Some civilized victuals.” Vivian eased away from his arm and took the bag from the footman who’d come around from the back of the house. “For sons of the nobility forced to rusticate in primitive surrounds. Is this your horse?”

  She patted Skunk with a convincing show of interest.

  “Skunk, by name.” Darius took the reins from the groom and checked the tightness of the girth.

  “Is he from America, then?” She ran a hand down the horse’s neck, a slow, gentle caress that Darius felt in low and lonely places.

  “Just his name.” He checked the length of his stirrup leathers, which the grooms would have had no reason whatsoever to fuss with. “You might consider calling on Mrs. Belmont. She’s been accepting callers since her remarriage.”

  “I know the Belmont estate. It’s very pretty.” She stroked the horse again, and Darius told himself to stop dawdling, for God’s sake. He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  “You’re very pretty.” He murmured the words in the moment his mouth was near her ear, and was rewarded with her blush.

  “Lady Leah never told me what a flirt you are.” Vivian touched her cheek. “I am going to tattle on you, sir.”

  “Vivian?” Portia’s voice caroled from the direction of the garden, from which she was marching forth, a basket of blooms in hand. “Do we have a visitor?”

  Of course they did not. The steward’s wife might have visitors, but Vivian’s visitors were not Portia’s. Darius did not remark the distinction, but rather, exerted himself to bow and smile and give a convincing impression to Portia of a younger son avoiding work on a hot summer morning.

  He made liberal mention of his sister, and batted his eyes at Portia until she was simpering. Vivian took her revenge by stroking Skunk, fiddling with his mane, and scratching gently behind the beast’s hairy damned ears.

  “I’ll take my leave of you both.” Darius swung into the saddle. “My thanks for the provisions. You may be assured a letter reporting all to the Countess of Bellefonte will be in the next post.” He touched his hat brim and trotted off before Vivian could run her hand over the horse’s flank one more time.

  Vivian, for her part, did not watch him go, because Portia was a shrewd observer.

  Portia’s eyes narrowed on Skunk’s retreating quarters. “The man no doubt has haunted Town since coming down from university. He could have called on you there. He’s a good-looking devil, if you don’t mind all that height and muscle.”

  “Wilton is tall.” Vivian picked up the basket of flowers—forget-me-nots among them, of course. “Lady Leah has the same height and was quite graceful on the dance floor.”

  “And she’s caught an earl.”

  “You’ve a good man, Portia,” Vivian chided. “We both have good men.”

  “I suppose.” Portia linked arms with Vivian. “This heat makes me peckish. Shall we have a plate to tide us over?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you. Mr. Lindsey brought with him a spectacular, if politely indulged, appetite.” She lifted the basket. “I’ll put these in water. They’re very pretty.”

  Portia’s lips thinned. “That Mr. Lindsey was pretty, too. Speaking of attractive men, have you heard anything from your dear steppapa?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Of course. He dutifully writes once a month and conveys that all is well in his household.” He also conveyed that William was rumored to be in declining health, and Vivian must resolve to join the Ainsworthy household when the inevitable occurred.

  A carriage clattering up the drive interrupted her unhappy musing, and both women stopped to regard the Longstreet traveling coach as it pulled into the stable yard. Vivian set the basket down and cocked a questioning glance at Portia, who merely shook her head.

  “William?” Vivian’s husband emerged slowly, blinking at the sunshine heating up the humid air.

  “Greetings, dear wife.” He crossed the few steps between them to kiss her forehead, and Vivian accepted his embrace easily. “I know I should have sent a note, but I bring the best news. Portia, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know as well that Mrs. Ventnor has been safely delivered of a daughter. Mother and child are thriving, as is Mr. Ventnor, truth be told.”

  “Oh, William.” Vivian hugged him in fierce joy and profound gratitude for her sister’s continued wellbeing. “You are dear to bring me this news in person, and I have missed you so.”

  William smiled down at her. “You flatter an old man. I’m a tired old man, too. Come sit with me on the terrace, and I’ll catch you up on all the gossip from Town.” He did not include Portia in the invitation, which was likely what prompted her to speak up.

  “We’ve some gossip of our own. Vivian just had a caller, an earl’s son, no less.”

  “Vivian has occasionally entertained dukes, no less.” William offered his wife his arm, his tone deceptively pleasant. “If there’s a title visiting in the area, it was simply protocol for him to look in on my dear wife.”

  “But Mr. Lindsey hasn’t a title,” Portia went on, “though I gather his sister and Vivian were acquainted in her youth.”

  “Vivian is still very much in her youth.” William’s tone cooled a trifle at Portia’s persistence. “My eyesight, thankfully being undiminished, I can attest to this. Portia, would you be good enough to relieve Vivian of these flowers?” He passed her the basket, and a look even Portia should have been able to interpret. “I’ve missed my wife and would beg a moment to enjoy her all to myself.”

  Portia took herself off, and William sighed gustily as he and Vivian made their way around to the back terrace.

  Vivian peered up at him as they made a slow progress down the walk. “You look in need of a rest and some cosseting, William. You’ve been working too hard.”

  “I’ve been getting too old,” he countered good-naturedly. “Clever of Lindsey to recall the connection with his sister.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Mind?” William took a minute to lower himself onto a cushioned wrought iron chair. “I should have thought of it, but if he’s bothering you, Vivian, I’ll wave him off. I think it’s… sweet, I suppose, that he’s doing the pretty.”

  Vivian signaled a footman for a tea tray, hoping there was still a scone or two in the larder.

  “I think it’s cheeky,” Vivian said, meeting her husband’s gaze.

  William’s expression became thoughtful. “You’re going to need allies, Vivian, and Lindsey is motivated to champion your causes, so
to speak. You’d be silly to take umbrage at a perfectly respectable social call. Now, I did not have time to write you and fill you in properly on the fate of Havisham’s little bill regarding French soap.”

  He patted her hand, and launched into a juicy recounting of the maneuvering necessary to distinguish legislatively between French soap and English soap. Vivian listened dutifully, and could probably have repeated much of what William had said verbatim, though her mind was elsewhere. First, she was concerned, for William looked like death, for all his spirits seemed sanguine, and he was actually eating a little of the food before him.

  Second, William was not the least perturbed that Darius had called on her. In fact, he’d seemed almost to have expected it.

  * * *

  Darius had nigh expired from surprise when William Longstreet signaled his coach to stop and poked his head out the window to offer a cheerful greeting.

  “Lindsey, what a unique mount you have.”

  “My lord.” Darius nodded as a sort of mounted bow. “I bid you good day, having just had the pleasure of doing likewise to your lady wife.”

  “And how is Vivian?” William’s smile became mischievous. “Did she threaten to have you forcibly ejected from the premises?”

  “She was all that is gracious.” Darius straightened a lock of Skunk’s mane that had fallen to the off side. “Mostly. You don’t mind?”

  “My dear young man, you think I’d mind a social call after what has transpired previously—and at my request? Call all you like. It will be a nice change from all that parliamentary whining, and make your occasional presence at Longchamps in future less of an oddity. You’re summering with Moreland’s youngest, aren’t you? You must come calling when bivouacking with the primitives palls.”

  He’d thumped his cane on the coach roof and departed with a wave of his hand, leaving Darius to stare at the retreating coach in puzzlement.

  He tried to put a name to the expression on Lord Longstreet’s face: mischievous, yes, but also amused and even pleased. And of course, Valentine Windham’s father, His Grace the Duke of Moreland, would be rubbing shoulders with Lord Longstreet and passing along the occasional piece of family gossip.