Darius

by Grace Burrowes

  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 reason 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 wi
th 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.

  Vivian straddled Darius’s hips and took his swollen shaft in her hand. “You’ve stalled long enough, my love. I must have you now.” Her eyes had a feline glitter, determination and tenderness combined.

  “Then put me where you want me, Vivian. Put me where I need to be.”

  Her control was impressive—also damnably frustrating. She braced herself over him, joining their bodies by the merest lazy increments. Darius watched himself disappearing into her heat and felt his sanity evaporating as they became more and more intimate.

  “Faster, Vivvie, please.”

  She complied, though not by much. From some reserve of female wisdom, she was going to hold back, and hold back, until—

  He did not groan, he shouted, the hoarse surrender of a man thrown headlong into pleasures of a nigh terrifying depth. While Vivian rocked and keened with him, Darius felt as if his body were becoming weightless, a pure light that merged with Vivian until they were one incandescent being, without end, without name, without limit.

  And very nearly without breath.

  As he panted in counterpoint with his lover—his lover—Darius had the satisfaction of realizing she was as wrung out as he was. And yet, they’d been tender—excruciatingly, wonderfully, miraculously tender. A whole new variety of tenderness formerly beyond his ken, one he never wanted to lose his grasp of.

  He kissed her temple. “Are you all right?”

  She swiped her tongue over his nipple—just the once. Yes. While Vivian fell asleep on his chest, Darius treated himself to another inventory of her person. Her hair was a wonder, thicker and even softer than it had been a year ago. This was supposedly a function of childbearing, though Darius hoped excellent nutrition and adequate rest had played a role too.

  Her features were a trifle sharper—he could confirm with his touch what his eyes had suggested—and her breasts were both heavier and more sensitive than they had been before she’d conceived.

  What he ought to have done was tuck her in, then leave her alone to catch up on much needed sleep before the nurse brought Will in for a middle-of-the-night feeding. What he ought to have done was blow out all the candles Vivian had left burning—the better to display her wares for him—and slip away.

  He was never going to slip away again. If he had the pleasure of sharing her bed again, he would not leave her unless it was after a proper good night. This resolution bore the clarity of a vow, one he made happily to himself and to Vivian—despite all of Ainsworthy’s schemes to the contrary.

  He eased their bodies apart, spooned himself around her, and fell asleep holding his lover, the mother of his child.

  ***

  Vivian cocked her head, regarding Darius over her teacup. “You look different to me.” He’d wanted to accompany her to the nursery for both night feedings, but grudgingly agreed to keep the bed warm for her when she pointed out that three footmen and a nursery maid would see him escorting her through the house.

  “I am without my clothes,” Darius said. “One hopes that to be a change from my usual condition.”

  He sounded—chipper. Not merely brisk and energetic, but eager for the day, which was both novel and intriguing.

  “Are you going to leave me any breakfast at all, Mr. Lindsey?”

  “I’ll have another tray sent up when I take my leave of you, but, Vivvie, I must know your position on the question of the day.”

  He passed her half a buttered scone and—just when she might have taken a bite—snatched it away and slathered it with raspberry jam.

  “Which question?” This time, she took the scone from his hand. “I seem to recall refusing your offer of lovemaking last night.”

  And the devastation in his eyes when he’d thought she was refusing him had been heart wrenching. Soldiers too long at war had eyes with that bleak look, women who grieved for their children… “You are asking for my leave to deal with Ainsworthy, aren’t you? It’s why you must repair to Town before the will is read.”

  Darius topped up her teacup—the tray was resting across his thighs—and settled back against the pillows.

  And everlasting God, did she like the look of him in her bed.

  “I will deal with Ainsworthy, with or without your permission, Vivvie. I’d rather have your permission.”

  Deal with, when uttered by Darius in those tones, with that light in his eyes, was not a pleasant prospect at all—for Ainsworthy. The day was getting off to a lovely start indeed. “Not the pistols or swords sort of ‘deal with,’ Darius. I haven’t budged on that. I cannot condone killing.”

  Nor could she condone any notion that lessened the chances she and Darius might eventually share a future with their child.

  He slathered butter on yet another scone—one had to wonder if the kitchen weren’t already privy to the number of the bedroom’s occupants—and looked thoughtful. “I can promise you I will not kill him. He has a wife and a stepson, and they are innocent of his schemes.”

  Vivian thought back to Darius’s words from the night before, his eyes closed, his hands clasping hers tightly, “…because it’s my first time.”

  Her lover was courageous to a fault, dear, and determined—also the father of their child—and he was asking for Vivian’s blessing. He could all too easily have sneaked away and proceeded without consulting her.

  “You can’t trust him, Darius, but I trust you.” Simple, simple words, but so very well deserved.

  The scone was receiving not a dollop of butter—it would hold no more—but some careful, artistic arrangement of the entire pat with flourishes of the knife edge. “And you can accept the means I propose to bring him to heel? This is not honorable, and the people who have supplied me with the necessary information are not highly regarded. I wouldn’t want you to be any more ashamed of me than necessary.”

  Vivian forgot to chew. He hadn’t undertaken this scheme, which had required rubbing elbows with all manner of unfortunates and scoundrels, lightly, and he hadn’t shared it with her lightly.

  When Darius Lindsey trusted, though, he trusted as fiercely as he cared.

  “Darius, you haunt yourself with doubts for no reason. You are the most honorable man I know.” At his startled expression, she went on. “I am not ashamed of you, Darius, I am proud of you. You found a way to cut those leech-women loose when another man would have turned to violence. You’re doing the same with Thurgood, and when dealing with such as these, you have to fashion weapons they understand. I am proud of you, do you hear me?”

  He studied her for a moment, then his lips turned up. “I think half the house might have heard you.”

  She had, indeed, become emphatic in expressing her sentiments. “Let them. To answer your question, I do trust you, Darius. I trust Ainsworthy to be cunning, determined, and self-interested. You will best him, because while you are cunning and determined, your motivation is—continues to be—the regard you have for your loved ones.”

  His smile became a shimmering, glowing embodiment of happiness, and then he surged over her like a slow tide, and once again, very tenderly, made love with her. Before it was over, there was raspberry jam in unlikely locations, much laughter, crumbs between the sheets, butter on the tip of Vivian’s nose—Darius licked it away—and a thoroughly agreed-upon plan for dealing with Ainsworthy.

  Nineteen

  “You might consider warning a man before you have mail delivered to his office.” Worth Kettering passe
d Darius several letters as he spoke.

  “I might.” Darius took an elegant Louis XIV chair and sorted through the missives. “Except I’m a bit at sixes and sevens these days. My thanks, though. I think this one is the one we’ve been waiting for.” He opened the single folded piece of paper and scanned the contents.

  “Game, set, and match.” He passed it to Kettering, who took the second seat. “She identifies Ainsworthy right down to the scar on his left earlobe where he tried to pierce himself at the age of sixteen. She says there’s another scar on the tip of his…”

  Kettering’s smile was not nice. “I can read it. The lady has a memory for detail.”

  “‘Hell hath no fury,’” Darius quoted, feeling the first sense of relief he’d known in days. “That’s two of them, and I’m ready to confront the man.”

  “And if he calls you out?” Kettering’s tone could not have been more casual. He crossed his feet at the ankles, making the little chair creak. “One doesn’t like to brag on such a thing, but I make a fine second.”

  “I’ve promised Vivvie I won’t meet him over pistols or swords, but if he challenges me, my choice of weapons would be these trusty appendages, and the timing as immediate as I can arrange.” Darius held up two clenched fists and met Kettering’s gaze.

  “You would have made a fine barrister, Lindsey.”

  “And you mean that as a compliment.” Darius abandoned his seat—it had precious little padding for all its elegance—and helped himself to a drop of Kettering’s brandy. “This is an interesting letter from Able Springer—it arrived to my address this morning and explains some forged marriage lines he found reposing in his wife’s workbasket.” He passed the epistle over to Kettering and sipped his drink, finding it very fine potation, indeed.

  When he finished reading, Kettering looked up. “Are you ready to take on Longchamps as well as Averett Hill if the man emigrates to America?”