Surely she could keep up with the standard set by a fat, lazy tomcat?
“Here’s my dilemma.” She folded the edge of the counterpane into a precise one inch hem. “I don’t want you to laugh.”
“To laugh?” She could tell he was laughing already. “I just confessed to kissing a cat, and you think I’ll laugh at you? I thought we weren’t going to take any of this business too seriously.”
“
“Vivian, all I’m proposing is a kiss,” he began, but she stopped him with an upraised hand, needing to get this part of the conversation behind them.
“William isn’t a… demanding husband.”
“I see.” The smile spreading across his face was at once beatific and diabolical.
“What do you think you see, Mr. Lindsey?”
“I’m sitting on your bed after dark sharing a drink with you. Don’t you think you could call me Darius?”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’re not torn up with conflicted loyalty,” he accused, pleased as punch. “You’re afraid of yourself, afraid you’ll enjoy yourself just as old William so generously intended you to.”
“Afraid…” She narrowed her eyes at his hubris. “You’re likely afraid I won’t, and then where will your swaggering, pawing image of yourself be?”
“Good shot, Vivian.” He nodded, still grinning. “But best pucker up, as I’m still here.”
In contrast to the great good humor of his words, his kiss was serious. He just leaned in and laid his lips over hers, giving her a moment to startle and breathe and then settle in. When she’d managed all that, he moved his mouth softly over hers, pulling her lower lip between his teeth and sucking gently, then turning his head an inch and tracing his tongue along her lips.
She startled again and thought she heard him chuckle, so she retaliated by using her tongue the way he’d used his to… taste his lips. That earned her his sigh into her mouth, fruity and sweet from their nightcap. And then she felt herself being pressed back against the pillows, until she was lying on her back and Darius Lindsey was balanced over her, braced on his hands.
And it was her turn to sigh, more slowly, more of a bodily sigh or relaxation of her defenses, because in this kiss, he would take care of her.
“Better,” he murmured, shifting to cruise his lips over her features. He nuzzled and nibbled and grazed and tasted, her jaw, her forehead, her chin, and then back to her mouth, until she was happily melting into the bedclothes, ready to concede that duty and pleasure could disguise each other thoroughly.
And then the real kissing began, as his tongue stole past her lips, into her mouth, and began to insinuate beautiful, naughty, wonderful, previously unimaginable notions. She tried to follow his lead, until she realized her hands were tangled in his thick, dark hair, pulling him down to her, and her body was…
“Merciful heavens.” She turned away by force of will but kept her hand wrapped around the back of his head, inviting him to rest his forehead on her collarbone.
“That is a little taste of option A,” Darius said, sitting up.
Why was any effort at all involved in letting him go? “And option B?”
He leaned in again, and when she’d inhaled in anticipation of another rousing, lingering, soul-stealing kiss, he put a brotherly peck on her forehead.
“Good night, Vivian.” He rose, took her glass from the night table, and turned to leave.
“That’s it?” She struggled up to her elbows. “Good night, Vivian?”
“Good night, Lady Longstreet?”
“Get out.” She tossed her book at him. “Just go, and I hope you sleep miserably.”
He stopped at the door to blow her a kiss, still smirking, and Vivian realized she was smiling too. Awful man—how was she supposed to sleep after that?
Which, she reflected, had likely been the point of his experiment.
Darius took himself to his bedroom, resisting the urge to stand outside the door and listen for the sounds of Vivian Longstreet going to bed. She’d be methodical: banking the coals, replacing the fireplace screen, snuffing each candle, and in all likelihood, locking her door. Her place in her book would be carefully marked with a bookmark—no dog-eared pages for her naughty Lord Byron—and she’d kneel beside the bed to say her prayers, no matter how drafty the floor, no matter how her knees might ache.
William Longstreet had taken a perfectly lovely young woman to wife and made her elderly, as well as deaf, dumb, and blind to her own appeal.
Darius had been more honest than she’d known, when he’d said she deserved pleasure. She deserved heaps and hoards of it, years of it, but instead she’d gotten duty. As he readied himself for bed, he had to wrestle with a question: Vivian deserved a romp, a frolic, a few weeks decadently rife with flirtation and sexual gratification. He was in a position to give her that, but as she’d said, then what? A virtual spinster, she’d be ill equipped to deal with the attachments that formed when two people were physically intimate.
Except, he could teach her that too. He could teach her to flirt and carry on and enjoy herself, and part with a sigh and wave before moving on to the next enjoyment. Clearly, Lord Longstreet had urged her in that direction, but Vivian had been too timid to dip her toe in the waters of dalliance.
Or maybe, she had been too wise.
By habit, he checked on John before turning in, finding the child fast asleep in his bed, the tomcat blinking slowly as Darius closed the door to the boy’s room.
He could fathom pleasuring Vivian, could imagine it all too easily, but far more difficult was the idea that she was eager to bear his child. He’d seen it in her eyes—she wanted a child, and to his surprise, he wanted that for her as well.
And this, he reasoned as he climbed between cold sheets, was why he didn’t allow other women the intimacy of coitus with him. It made a simple situation complicated and had him wishing all manner of impossible things, when he really should be too tired to give a damn.
Vivian Longstreet should be a means to put a new roof on his stable, a duty, a convenient source of revenue, and here he was, offering to escort her past reason into the land of sexual pleasure and harmless dalliance. Offering her a choice had been rash, and upon reflection, he wished he could recall his words and sneak into her bed of a night, pretending by day her body had been shared with some other man. That would be smarter—better, at least for him.
But by breakfast, Darius had come to a decision: if she allowed it, he was going to pleasure Vivian Longstreet out of her clever, nimble, ladylike mind.
The dress made up Darius’s mind, a shapeless, no doubt warm atrocity in a color that put him in mind of calf scours.
“Good morning, Mr. Lindsey.” Vivian smiled at him shyly when Darius seated her at the breakfast table.
“Good morning.” He let himself lean in for a little whiff of her, catching the scent of daffodils. Lemon verbena might have been more retiring, but only just. “I trust you and Lord Byron slept well?”
Her smile widened. “I wouldn’t presume to speak for him. I slept like the proverbial baby.”
“I’ve wondered where that phrase came from.” Darius poured her tea. “My experience with babies suggests they are better at waking entire households than sleeping. May I fix you a plate?”
“Thank you.” She accepted the tea. “You’ve had the raising of your… relation since infancy?”
“I’ve had exclusive responsibility for him since shortly after his birth.”
“How old is he now?”
“He’ll join us shortly.” Darius focused on sorting through the ham slices to find one he deemed thick enough for her. “You can ask him yourself, but be warned, he can talk nonstop for days.”
“Not a typical male.” Vivian frowned at the plate he set before her. “I can’t possibly eat all of this.”
“Especially”—Darius took a slice of bacon off her plate—“if you stare at it until it gets cold. You start, and
