Darius: Lord of Pleasures ll-1

by Grace Burrowes

  “Vivian?” Another blink. “Whatever you say, Good. You’re decent to look out for her this way.”

  “She’s family,” Thurgood said, giving Ariadne’s nipple a tweak. “Our duty is clear, and I wouldn’t think of turning my back on her. Now, roll over, love, get that pillow under you, and spread your legs for me.”

  “My stomach, Good?” There was a hint of peevishness in her tone, just a hint.

  “Unless you want more children to spoil your lovely figure, my sweet.”

  He’d realized long ago that his wife looked a little like Vivian, though Ariadne was afflicted with neither Vivian’s independence of spirit nor much native intelligence. She could bear a prodigious grudge, though, which meant the marriage offered at least a nominal challenge to a man of broad and varied amorous interests.

  Thurgood passed her a pillow, closed his eyes, pictured his stepdaughter’s lush figure, and envisioned a pleasant and well-heeled future drawing ever closer—for him.

  Eighteen

  A tap on Vivian’s door interrupted her midpace before her fire.

  “Vivvie?” Very softly.

  She went to the door and drew Darius into her sitting room by the wrist when he would have malingered in the corridor. For the three days since William’s interment, the dratted man had lurked at Longchamps like a curate in training, barely addressing her and never lingering in the same room with her. She had stooped to desperate measures and put a note in his hand before retiring after dinner.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come, blast you and all your decorum.” Perhaps a widow ought not to speak thus, and perhaps a widow ought not to plaster herself against a man with whom she was wroth.

  His arms tightened around her with comforting speed. “Are you well, Vivvie? You barely said a word at tea. Is the baby all right?”

  She put her hand over his mouth and resumed clinging to him. “You’re leaving tomorrow. Were you simply going to bow over my hand and condole me on my loss again, Darius?”

  In her own voice, Vivian heard exasperation bordering on panic. Even lionesses were entitled to exasperation.

  He stepped back and kept his hands on her shoulders. “My condolences are sincere. You’re up and down all night with the baby, you have my sister and her husband underfoot as guests, Thurgood lurks we know not where, and I would not trespass on your bereavement.”

  She searched his gaze, but he enfolded her against him before her scrutiny revealed any new insights. “You spend a great deal of time in the nursery, Darius.”

  “Nicholas does too. He likes babies.” There was bemusement in this observation, suggesting the baby enjoyed having two grown men fuss at him.

  “Will is sleeping more, going longer without waking at night.”

  Darius turned her under his arm and walked her toward her bedroom. “He’s growing, so he can take more at a feeding, but you did not summon me here to brag about your son, Vivvie.”

  “You called him our son, not long ago.”

  Without her quite intending it, they ended up sitting on the bed. Or maybe she had intended, had wished for it—for almost a year.

  Darius laced his fingers with hers. “In my heart, he is our son. He’s William’s son too, and yours. I have not yet put Thurgood to rout, Vivvie, if that’s the point of this interview. I have plans in train, and I’m repairing to Town to see to their completion.”

  “I do not want a status report, Darius.” She was being cranky, like a teething baby, turning away every attempt at solace.

  He pushed her braid back over her shoulder, not a caress, more of a comfort. “What do you want, Vivian?”

  You.

  She didn’t apologize for the notion. William was gone, and while she had loved him, she’d never loved him the way a wife loved a husband. William—so devoted to his Muriel—was the last person who’d castigate her for her feelings.

  “I want to see something in your eyes other than concern, Darius. I don’t want you watching me carefully, as if I might lapse into strong hysterics over my tea.” And damn the catch in her voice that said his concern wasn’t misplaced. If Darius could not silence Thurgood and his threats, strong hysterics were a certainty.

  “Your room is chilly, Vivvie. Let’s get you under the covers.” He rose off the bed all too easily.

  He was attempting to cosset her. She was going to wallop him. “I’m not getting under these covers without you.”

  He paused in the act of lifting her covers. Paused and swallowed, then swung his gaze back to her face, carefully, as if not sure what he’d find there. “You’re bereaved, Vivian. I would not want to take advantage.”

  His gaze moved over her, a blink-and-she’d-miss-it inventory that for just two consecutive instants revealed banked longing.

  “You’re grieving, too.” That longing—so stark and sincere—had been a balm to Vivian’s soul and restored to her heaps of patience and understanding she hadn’t been able to locate a minute earlier. “All I’m asking is that you hold me, Darius.”

  She had the sense that was all she could ask, that if she begged him to take off his clothes, to bring the candles closer to the bed, to make passionate love to her, she would exceed the fragile limits of his self-imposed standards of… something.

  Decency? For he was decent.

  Or perhaps they were the standards of martyrdom—which thought made her ill on his behalf.

  He moved around the room, dousing candles, banking the fire, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher and setting it on the night table while Vivian watched him.

  Darius Lindsey was a man like any other, one whom exigencies had forced into indecent bargains, but underneath it all, a highly decent man, a painfully decent man. Maybe that was why she’d given her heart, her happiness, and the well-being of her child into his keeping.

  “Come to bed, Darius. I will think you have taken me into dislike now that I am no longer married to another.” The jest fell utterly flat, an occasion when bald truth arrived uninvited to the middle of a conversation.

  He paused, two buttons away from removing his waistcoat. “Is that what you think? You think because I attempt to demonstrate my respect for your loss that my regard has changed?”

  The idea intrigued him, clearly.

  “I think I have lost William, and he was ready to go and deserving of a peaceful end, but I do not want—”

  Oh, damn. Damn, and damn, and if she’d known any worse words, she would have thought them too. Bad enough when truth appeared uninvited in a conversation, how much worse when it popped up in the middle of a very sentence.

  “Vivvie?” He was there next to her, that fear-of-strong-hysterics look replaced by simple, tender concern. “You can tell me, Vivvie. You can tell me anything.”

  She could. She could bear his child; she could put herself under his protection; she could give him her truths. “I do not want to lose you too. Not for anything, and yet Thurgood will ruin Will’s life unless I give you up—unless we give each other up.”

  His reply was gratifyingly swift and certain. “You won’t lose me.” He lifted his waistcoat over his head, tossed it toward the clothespress, and started on his shirt buttons. “You will never, ever lose me. Even if you tried, you could not lose me. You shall not lose me.”

  Vows. He was spouting vows and tossing his clothing in all directions, both of which reassured Vivian mightily. “You should have a care for your clothing, Darius.”

  His stockings went sailing. One caught on a chair; the other landed on her vanity. “Hang the bloody clothing, Vivvie. I can afford new now. That dressing gown can go. Shall I help you with it?”

  Would he also remove his breeches? “No, thank you.”

  She was out of her dressing gown and sitting on the bed by the time he stood before her, naked, beautiful, and smiling at her. “It’s up to you, Vivvie. The nightgown can go or it can stay, but be assured, what’s under it now is far more dear to me than what lay beneath it last December.”

  She lo
oked away, deprived herself of all that masculine pulchritude in the interests of preserving a smidgen of dignity. “You are entirely too knowing, Mr. Lindsey. I have borne a child and am not—”

  He stepped closer, close enough that the unique, soothing, spicy scent of him came to her, and close enough that his groin appeared in her line of sight. He was becoming aroused. This reassured too, but it intimidated a trifle as well.

  “You’re not,” he said, tipping her chin up. “You’re not that young woman, and I’m not that man. Did you find me attractive all those months ago, Vivian?”

  “Yes.” Intimidatingly so.

  “Am I more attractive now? You know exactly the manner of person with whom I consorted, you know exactly how I allowed them to use me, you know what I took coin for, though it was arguably criminal of me to do so and certainly stupid. Am I attractive to you now?”

  She did as she had once before, sat on the bed and wrapped her arms around his waist so she could press her face to the place beneath his heart. “If I knew more bad words, Darius Lindsey, I would be saying them to make you hush. You are not a criminal. You are not stupid. Yes, you are more attractive to me than ever. I look at you and lose my wits. I look at you and thank God you indulged in all those things you said—with me.”

  Confession enough, apparently. His hand landed on her nape. “Then, you ridiculous, lovely woman, do you think my desire for you could ever be less than consuming? You risked your life to bring my child into the world, Vivian. You are beautiful to me, and you always will be.”

  He was holding something back, though Vivian was too muddled to parse it out exactly. She let it go, lest he make an inspection tour of her lactating breasts, the slight belly she still sported, the circles of fatigue more prone to show up under her eyes. His argument could be made in the general case rather than example by example.

  It was a convincing argument, she realized. He was dear to her in all his imperfections, and he was honest. The erection rising against the slope of her breast was convincing as well.

  “Our son will be hounding you for sustenance soon enough, Vivian. Get under the covers.”

  “I like it when you talk like that,” she said, doing as he’d bid. “You haven’t acquired much shyness since last we shared a bed.”

  He climbed in after her, the feel of him spooned around her comforting, comfortable, and dear. “I have acquired one son, a far better addition to my treasures. Now tell me how long you can stand to have Leah and Nick underfoot.”

  He rubbed her back, he petted her hair, he let her talk and talk, and all the while, Vivian was aware of his arousal pressing against her from behind, warm, smooth, and wonderfully, undeniably hard.

  * * *

  Darius told himself he was taking advantage, desperate, reckless advantage by being intimate with Vivian now, and yet, the dear, exasperating woman would not oblige him by falling asleep. She deserved comfort, and by God, he would comfort her.

  She’d had time to heal physically from the birth—Darius had consulted both a physician and a midwife on those particulars—but she had dealt with so much.

  The mill wheel of anxiety, hope, and gratitude that was his mind of late came to a halt when Vivian’s fingers found his cock.

  He could spend, just from having her touch him, he could spend.

  God save him. “You need not trouble yourself with that, Vivian. If you aren’t recovered from your lying in, you have only to say so, and I would not want you to think—” Not think he’d desired her every minute he’d been with her and every minute he hadn’t? “I’m sorry, Vivvie, but William is dead, and we are not, and I just—”

  He brushed his mouth over her nape. “Please, Vivvie—for the love of God, say something.” He was glad she couldn’t see his face, though he desperately wanted to see hers, so he rearranged them on the mattress, facing each other.

  “Darius Lindsey, I will not allow you to make love to me.”

  She sounded damnably determined on that point. Woe unto him who seeks to turn a lady into a lioness, and yet, he could not quite turn loose of her. She had invited him into bed, after all.

  “Of course, you won’t.” He managed not to sound as emotionally strangled as he felt. She wanted him in her bed, but she did not want him intimately. This was what he deserved, for getting into so many beds where all that was wanted of him was a casual romp.

  While he tried reciting the royal succession in the interests of his composure, Vivian wrested herself from his embrace, pushed him to his back, and straddled him.

  God in heaven, she was magnificent. Mother, goddess, lady—and something more than all three rolled into one, and now—now—she was refusing his overtures.

  Comfort for her, torment for him. A fair enough bargain.

  Her lips grazed over his mouth. “You may not make love to me now, but I should be very pleased to make love to you, Mr. Lindsey.”

  The sense of her soft words, emphasized by that sweet kiss, sank in, and joy flooded his being despite the looming difficulties, despite all that remained unsettled.

  I should be very pleased to make love to you, Mr. Lindsey.

  Very pleased.

  For the first time in his life, Darius was going to be intimate with a woman he loved, a woman he adored, and could come to as a whole man, offering himself to her without conditions, reservations, or hesitation.

  For a succession of moments, he was content to hold her, and she—wise lady—allowed it. She wore the scent he’d had blended for her. The realization was very pleasing to him, even as the subtle, spicy fragrance wafted into his awareness. Other impressions came to him, impressions he treasured because they marked a moment he wanted always to remember: her body under his caressing hand was different, of course, rounder, softer, and more lovely.

  The room had grown cozy, which was good when two people were likely to toss back the covers and make passionate love in the next moments. The hour was well past dark but not late, and that was good too, because the baby—their son, Will—would give them time to pursue their passions at length and at leisure.

  Desire for her flared up as she kissed him again. “Will you allow me to make love to you, Darius?”

  “You must do with me as you wish, Vivvie. I am your willing slave.”

  To be able to say those words, to let them occupy a place of uncomplicated flirtation between him and a woman who was intent on having her way with his person took a weight off his heart, and yet, Vivian shook her head.

  “Not slave, Darius. Neither of us should be enslaved to the other, not ever. You are my love, and I am yours.”

  “Your love.” The term was ardent, simple, and accurate. The last part of his heart, the part that had been trying to maintain some hold on sense and perspective, to think not of the night’s passion but the cold possibilities of the coming dawn, tumbled into Vivian’s keeping for all time.

  She caressed his cock with her damp sex.

  “Vivvie, I won’t survive—”

  Her smile as she used the end of her braid to tease his nipples was pure female mischief. “We’ll get through this, Mr. Lindsey. You have my promise on that.”

  Her promise in exchange for his hands on her breasts. The bargains were improving.

  Her breasts, lovely before, were fuller now. Her figure had gone from perfect to the proportions of a goddess, and most spectacular of all, she was allowing him to gaze his fill, to note each change and all that was so wonderfully familiar.

  “I have never, not ever, beheld so much beauty at once, Vivian. You are—”

  Words failed. He was new at this, at making love as opposed to having relations. Oh, he’d made love to her before—from the first he’d been making love to her—but now she was to make love to him.

  She leaned close enough to kiss his cheek. He used her braid to bring her down onto his chest, where he could hold her for a moment and catch his emotional breath.

  He was nervous, as anxious as he was aroused, and yet, there was no reas
on for it. Vivian wanted only to give to him, and he to her. This was not a realization; rather, it bore the luminosity of revelation.

  “You mustn’t be too fierce with me, Vivvie. Be careful and tender. There’s time for unbridled passion later.” He prayed there would be, but a man didn’t presume, not when his name was Darius Lindsey, and Thurgood Ainsworthy was lurking like the bad fairy in a child’s storybook tale.

  She levered up to eye him curiously. “Because it’s the first time after the birth?”

  He answered a question with a question. “I was your first, wasn’t I, Vivvie? Your very first?”

  He dreaded her reply—hadn’t ever wanted to ask her for this truth because either answer was fraught with emotional peril.

  “You were, and I’m glad you were. Very glad.”

  He loved her, he trusted her, and he’d asked for her trust in return. He shifted to lay his hands on the pillow on either side of his head, to be vulnerable. When she laced her fingers with his, he had to close his eyes. “I’m glad too, because this is my first time. Right now, with you. My very first.”

  He did not dare open his eyes for fear she was laughing at him. The notion was ridiculous, that he could be unsullied by his past, but she didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease or mock. Darius felt her hand smoothing over his heart like a benediction. “You have the right of it, Darius. We will be tender with each other.”

  As many different ways as he’d made love with her the previous year—every way he’d known how to, and a few he’d stumbled upon only with her—this time was different. Vivian kept him on his back, the position in which he had the least to do, except to use his hands, and mouth, and body as he pleased.

  He mapped her treasures with his fingers and palms, then again with his mouth. He gave her all the soft words and silly promises; he teased and even tickled, though that came to a halt when she tickled him back.

  They were unhurried, and while shadows lurked in the room, they weren’t the shadows of a permanent parting, or of guilt, remorse, or self-loathing. They were shadows many couples faced: the unknown, the challenges lying between them and a happily ever after, the worry any parents would feel for their child.