Darius: Lord of Pleasures ll-1

by Grace Burrowes

  Hence, William had known Darius would be in Oxfordshire.

  Had William foreseen Vivian’s proximity to Darius?

  He discarded that notion as patently absurd but had to admit William had seemed blasé about Darius calling on his wife. Blasé, and tired—weary to the bone, perhaps even ill. Vivian had warned Darius it was so, but still, seeing the man was a shock. Realizing Darius would genuinely mourn the old man’s passing was a greater surprise yet.

  * * *

  “The Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey, come to call.”

  William glanced up from Muriel’s 1805 diary—and wasn’t that an exciting year?—to find young Lindsey standing in the doorway looking handsome, bashful, and determined.

  Relief at seeing that Vivian’s doting swain remained well and truly interested vied with an old schemer’s pleasure at plans coming nicely to fruition. Lindsey would do—for Vivian and for the child; Lindsey would do well.

  “Mr. Lindsey. I see you took me at my word, which is more than I can say for most of the damned Commons.” William creaked to his feet and extended a hand toward his guest. “Vivian has abandoned me to make the acquaintance of Professor Belmont’s new wife.”

  Lindsey accepted the handshake, glancing around the study William considered his retreat at Longchamps. The furniture was heavy, worn, and comfortable, and Portia knew better than to trespass in here.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d receive me in Vivian’s absence.”

  Young men were so relentlessly afflicted with bravery. William glanced at Muriel’s diary and hoped she was enjoying the little drama playing out in their home.

  “I’m the friendly sort,” he assured his guest. “Or perhaps I’m merely bored, as country life is abysmally quiet. Let’s find some shade out back. I’ve been wanting to know how your sister ended up wedded to Bellefonte’s heir.”

  He led Lindsey through the house as he spoke, wanting the fellow to see that Vivian’s surrounds were commodious and well cared for. They reached a side door, and William turned to aim a conspiratorial wink at Mr. Lindsey. “We’ll have more privacy back here.”

  To William’s delight, thirty minutes later, young Lindsey was deep in explanations of the Lindsey family’s secrets.

  “I haven’t shared this with anybody.” Lindsey looked puzzled as he took a sip of sangria—the man had lived in Italy for a time, and William had chosen their refreshment accordingly.

  “It isn’t as if I’ll be repeating it,” William replied.

  Lindsey studied him for a long moment while a lovely fresh breeze stirred the leafy branches above them. From the look in the man’s eyes, William had the sense Lindsey hadn’t had the benefit of much plain speaking regarding his family, certainly not from those whose opinions were unassailably well informed.

  When William picked up his drink, his hand shook slightly, so the ice clattered against the side of the glass. His guest ignored that indignity, for which William accorded him points.

  Muriel would have said Lindsey had possibilities, and she would have been right, though Lindsey himself might not agree. Fatigue dragged at William, and a touch of regret that he would not see all of Lindsey’s potential bear fruit.

  Lindsey rose and leaned down as if to offer William assistance.

  “None of that,” William said, waving him off and pushing out of the chair. “I can still maneuver about, though God knows for how much longer I’ll be forced to racket around in these old bones. I’ll tell Vivian you called, and she’ll be sorry to have missed you. Truly, Lindsey, you’ve brightened my morning, and you must come again.”

  “I think you mean that.” Vivian’s dashing swain looked bewildered and… humble. Humility was a precious quality in a young man—in any man. “I can’t fathom why it should be so.”

  Lindsey was a bright fellow. In another few decades, he’d understand well enough.

  “Be off with you.” William waved toward the stables, which lay at too great a distance for a tired old man to contemplate. “I’ll expect you back when you have more time to spend socializing.”

  And then, when he ought to have gone striding off toward the driveway on those young, strong legs of his, Lindsey turned, hat in hand, and speared William with a look.

  “Thank you, my lord. Thank you most sincerely.”

  At least he had the savoir faire not to lapse into specifics, because William knew damn good and well Lindsey was not thanking him for a glass of sangria and some idle talk.

  “And my thanks to you, Mr. Lindsey. You must come back soon, and we’ll talk further. I never did hear back from you regarding those homing pigeons.”

  Lindsey took the hint. He bowed, tapped his hat onto his head, and promised he would call again soon.

  Muriel would have been pleased.

  Vivian would be pleased, too.

  * * *

  Darius had taken to calling at Longchamps on Mondays and Fridays, and for three consecutive visits, he’d found himself entertained exclusively by his host. Lord Longstreet’s company was oddly comfortable, and he told Darius a number of stories about Darius’s father that supported Lord Longstreet’s conclusion that Wilton was a “waste of good tailoring.”

  Longstreet also talked about commercial policies, and where the trade opportunities were likely to lie if legislation were enacted as he anticipated.

  “I’d be discussing this with my son, you know,” Longstreet said over one of their pitchers of sangria, “but the man hasn’t the head for policy matters. He’s a dab hand with the land, though.”

  Longstreet was old and frail, but he was by no means growing vague. “You speak in the present tense, my lord. I was under the impression you had no extant progeny.”

  “So Vivian didn’t get around to tattling on me?”

  “Regarding?” Darius knew his host well enough by now to suspect Lord Longstreet had told him only what he wanted Darius to know when they’d met that long-ago November evening.

  “My steward,” Longstreet said. “Able Springer is my by-blow. He can’t inherit the title, of course, hence your assistance was necessary.”

  Assistance. Perhaps Longstreet had been more diplomat than politician. “I suppose this explains his wife’s presumptuousness.”

  Longstreet gestured to the pitcher—a ceramic container Darius could lift easily, though he suspected his host could not. “Portia’s a managing baggage,” his lordship said as Darius refreshed their drinks. “Maybe a child will settle her down.”

  “I don’t think so.” And what was it about Longstreet that invited such honesty? “Women like that are bound for trouble, and they don’t outgrow the taste for it.”

  “You speak from experience, but there’s little I can do about her. She’s Able’s wife.”

  “You can keep her away from Vivian.”

  Longstreet regarded him steadily, and Darius realized it was the first overt mention between them of any interest Darius might have in Vivian’s welfare.

  “I can send Vivian back up to Town,” Longstreet suggested after a moment. “I’d as soon have her lying in where there are physicians available. I do not want to entrust the Longstreet heir’s arrival to some country midwife.”

  “It’s not my place to comment,” Darius said, though the idea that Vivian might have none save Portia to attend her was intolerable. “Her sister is in London as well, and if a lady cannot have the comfort of her mother’s support at such a time, then her sister might be the next best thing.”

  Darius withstood yet more scrutiny from faded brown eyes that likely missed nothing. “I don’t suppose you’re on your way up to Town?”

  He was—now. Darius rose, sensing the summer heat, the wine, and the time spent in conversation had tired his host. “As a matter of fact I will be soon.”

  Longstreet pushed himself out of his chair, a maneuver Darius watched with some concern. William was slowing down yet further, having to pause for balance frequently, and looking even thinner than he had a few weeks ago.

  He
accepted the cane Darius handed him and aimed a look at his guest Darius could not read. “Will you make your good-byes to Vivian?”

  “Lord Longstreet…”

  “Now is not the time to turn up prissy,” his lordship said briskly. “If Vivian thought I’d let you scamper off without taking proper leave of her, she’d skewer me where I stand. She should be back now, though she and the Belmont woman have become thick as thieves.”

  “They’re both facing impending motherhood for the first time.”

  “While I face death,” Longstreet said, “and you face, exactly what?”

  Excellent question.

  “I’ve been summoned to my brother’s estate in Surrey,” Darius said, “and I’ve my own place to check in on, as harvest approaches. Then too, my younger sister is in Town with Lady Warne, and I should likely make my bow to her.”

  “You’ll be busy, rather than fretting over Vivian,” Longstreet observed. “Staying busy helps. Staying drunk decidedly does not.”

  “One perceives this.”

  “Then you’re a brighter lad than I was. Muriel had to put her dainty foot down with me. Ah, Vivian.” Longstreet’s gaze traveled to where his wife came around the corner of the house. “You’re in time to stroll with Mr. Lindsey before he departs for points south. Don’t stay in the sun too long, my dear. It leaves one quite fatigued. Lindsey, safe journey.”

  Darius took the older man’s hand and knew a welling sadness that he might not see William Longstreet again. Nothing but good had come of Darius’s association with the man, and that surprised as it touched as it confounded.

  “You’ll listen to Vivian when she orders you to rest and eat and so forth?”

  “Hush, lad.” William drew Darius closer and settled both hands around Darius’s one. “You’ll give the woman ideas, and she’s adept enough at fussing and coddling. You’ll look after her for me? I’ll have your word on this, if you’ll humor an old man.”

  “You have my word, Vivian and the child.” Darius nodded and swallowed, and then, with Vivian looking on in broad daylight, clasped Lord Longstreet in a careful hug. The man was all bones, his scent one of bay rum and camphor, but he hugged Darius back with surprising strength.

  “Vivian, see Mr. Lindsey along, would you? I’m for a little lie down, and then perhaps you’ll send Able to me? The correspondence is piling up.”

  “Of course, William.” Vivian watched him return to the house, concern in her gaze. “What was that about?” She aimed the question at Darius, who was also watching Lord Longstreet’s retreat.

  “He’s dying, Vivvie.” Darius said it quietly but couldn’t keep the sadness from his tone. “He’s not going to last much longer.”

  She slipped her arm through his. “He talks often about when he’s gone, and what I must tell the child of him, and so forth, as if dying comes around every other week. It upsets me, but I think he’s simply trying to get me used to the idea. What were you two whispering about?”

  “Nothing consequential.” Darius patted her hand and led her toward a shady path. “You’re feeling well?”

  “I’m feeling like a hippopotamus out of water,” Vivian said, and that confiding this was so easy was a pleasure to Darius, even as he wished he could take all the ungainly, hippopotamus sentiments onto his own shoulders rather than leave Vivian to endure them alone.

  Love made a man daft—even a man who was trying only to be a good friend.

  “Angela says it gets like this, so you can’t wait to be free of your burden, and then you realize you are going to be free of your burden, and after nine long months, you want a little more time to get used to the idea.”

  “If she says that after four children, it’s likely true.”

  They strolled along in silence until Darius spoke up again. “I’m going to have to depart soon for Surrey, but I’m leaving my direction with the Belmonts, and I’ll leave it with you as well.”

  “And then?”

  “And then there’ll be a christening to attend, God willing.”

  “Or a funeral,” Vivian said softly. She turned into him, and his arms came around her.

  “He’s ready to go, Vivvie. We don’t want to let him go, but he’s ready.”

  She nodded against his chest. “He is, but why now?”

  Darius didn’t answer, just stroked her back and let her be a little weepy and hoped none of the tears were because they were parting. Again. When she was more composed, he resumed their walk, keeping his arm around her shoulders.

  “William thinks you’ll be safer delivering in Town where there are physicians at hand.”

  “I agree. And Angela is there. She’ll attend me.”

  “That’s good, then.” Darius realized they’d soon be within sight of the stables, and rather than turn loose of her, he drew her to a bench beneath an ancient oak. “I can’t write to you, and I can’t call much once you’re in Town, but know that I’ll be thinking of you and praying for your safety.”

  She nodded, looking down at where her hand lay in his against his thigh.

  “We’ve had an odd summer,” she observed. “Becoming friends.”

  “It’s what I can offer you now,” he said, wondering at his own words. They were true, so he charged forth into more truth. “I’ve enjoyed this summer. You are good company, Vivvie Longstreet, and a good wife to your husband.”

  “Hold me.”

  She pitched against him, giving him little choice, but he was more than willing to oblige. He loved the ripeness of her shape, the subtle luminance of her skin, the maternal secret lurking in all her smiles. To see her here at Longchamps had been a privilege beyond imagining.

  “We’re going to get through this, aren’t we, Mr. Lindsey?” She offered him one of those smiles now, a little sad, a little pained, but genuine.

  “Yes, my lady.” He kissed her cheek and drew her to her feet. “We’ll get through this too.”

  When she waved him on his way at the mounting block, Vivian was the picture of serene grace. She patted his horse good-bye and took his hand one final time.

  “Leah has enjoyed your letters,” Darius said quietly, mindful of the grooms. Vivian’s brows rose, and Darius saw she’d taken his point.

  “And I enjoy hers,” Vivian said, her smile not at all maternal. “Safe journeys, Mr. Lindsey, and my regards to your sister.”

  He touched the brim of his hat with his crop and nudged Skunk into a canter, knowing if he lingered one more moment, he’d be off the horse, arms wrapped around William’s wife, unable to let her go.

  Sixteen

  “It’s a belated lying-in gift.” Angela set the little package on the table by Vivian’s sofa. “From William, who looks positively beamish these days.”

  Vivian smiled at the bundle in her arms. “A man his age should look beamish when he has a newborn son. Will you hold the baby?”

  “Come here, wee baron.” Angela scooped the child up. “I swear he’s smiling already, Viv, and growing like a weed.”

  “I’ve the sore parts to show for it.” Vivian frowned briefly, only to find her sister regarding her with a pragmatic intensity.

  “Has the bleeding slowed down?”

  “It has stopped,” Vivian reported, used to Angela’s blunt speech about female functions. “And I’m eating my steak and kidney pies, and drinking a great deal of chamomile tea.” She tore at the wrapping on the package and found two books, slim little volumes in Muriel Longstreet’s hand.

  Angela shifted to sit on the couch next to her sister. “He said they were from Muriel’s confinements and her years of early motherhood.”

  “Oh, Angela…” Vivian traced the leather binding and peered at a random page. “William treasures these, and I can’t…”

  Angela met her sister’s gaze and smiled in sympathy.

  “You can,” she said. “Our mama is not here to offer her support, but William can give you this much from a woman who took your interests very much to heart. He’s still down in the breakfas
t parlor, if you’re thinking to thank him.”

  “I’ll take the baby and give my husband a scold he won’t soon forget.”

  Angela bit her lower lip. “You might consider thanking him instead. William wants you and this child to be happy, and he can’t stop what’s coming any more than you can.”

  “He can fight it.” Vivian set the books aside and slipped on a pair of house mules. “He can at least pretend having this child gives him a reason to live, not an excuse to die.” She stopped and looked away, only to find Angela passing her the handkerchief from her bodice.

  “It’s like this,” Angela said in sympathy. “You think the child is safely born, and all will be well, and it will be, but nothing is the same, and that takes getting used to.”

  “I’m all right.” Vivian dabbed at her eyes then passed the handkerchief back. “How do you manage as if you’ve five hands, Angela? I’d have dropped the baby by now.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Angela said with peculiar gravity. “You’re his mother, and that means, on some level, you’ll never let him go. Now, let William dandle his son, and then I must be back to my own brood.”

  “You’re good to keep checking on me.” Vivian leaned over to kiss her sister’s cheek and accepted the baby back from Angela.

  “That reminds me: Is Ainsworthy keeping his distance, or does he presume to check on you too?”

  Vivian glanced up from the baby. “He presumes. He was here less than a week after the baron was born, carping at me regarding my future, as if my husband weren’t alive and breathing under the same roof as my son.”

  Angela’s normally serene features creased with distaste. “Thurgood Ainsworthy is a snake. Another benefit of being married to a publisher is that Jared doesn’t mince words, and I probably fell in love with my husband the day he forbid Ainsworthy from calling on me.”

  Vivian gave a little shudder and hugged the child closer, because Ainsworthy had been regarding her lately with an all-too-satisfied proprietary air, and yet he’d shown the baby no regard whatsoever.