“Peculiar coloring.” Vivian held out a gloved hand to the horse whose black and white coat was reminiscent of a milch cow. The gelding left off eating his hay long enough to sniff delicately at her fingers.
“His plebeian coat pattern is why his steady disposition, perfect conformation, and good bone were overlooked,” Darius said. “He suits me and we get along and he’s
He wasn’t merely talking about horses, and Vivian was astute enough to know it.
She held out her hand to John. “Introduce me to Hammond. And is that a cat I see?”
Darius watched as John explained in painful detail how he groomed his pony. Vivian asked the right questions, and was graciously granted a turn with the soft brush, while Darius wondered what it was he was feeling.
She was good with John, and that solved a looming problem in itself. A month was too long to send the child off with the servants, and yet, Vivian might have resented sharing the household with a bastard child, particularly given the point of her stay at Averett Hill. She didn’t resent John, just the opposite.
She’d be a good mother, which was part of what had Darius’s insides unsettled.
“Let me introduce you to Bernice,” Darius said, interrupting John’s chatter.
“She’s a mare,” John provided helpfully. “So you can ride her.”
Vivian gave the pony’s shaggy neck a final pat. “She’s to be my mount?”
“If you’d like,” Darius said. “She’s very gentle, but she’ll take care of you. She’s not… passive, like some horses are. She’ll think of your welfare.”
“You’ve ridden her?” Bernice was a good-sized dapple gray with big eyes and an inelegant pink nose.
“I have,” Darius said. “I wouldn’t put a guest, much less a lady, on a horse I couldn’t speak for personally.”
Vivian frowned at him then turned to the mare, stepping into the horse’s stall for a closer introduction. “She’s larger than the horses I usually ride.”
“You’re taller than many women,” Darius replied, fishing a piece of carrot out of his pocket and passing it to Vivian. “You need a horse in proportion to your seat and leg. I thought Bernice would fit you.”
“She has a kind eye.” Vivian fed the horse the carrot. “Wonderful manners.”
“Consider her your personal mount for the duration,” Darius said. “John will offer to walk her out for you, and if you don’t mind, I’d allow it.”
“She’s that docile?”
“He’s that comfortable with horses, and Bernice is a lady, or I wouldn’t have paired her up with you.”
“You’re flirting somehow.”
“Stating a fact,” he said, leading Vivian from the stall. “John, if you groom that pony any longer, he’s going to fall asleep. Get you back up to the house, and I’ll expect to hear at least three perfect Latin verbs at teatime.”
“Will Lady Vivian hear my Latin?”
“I will,” Vivian said, “and I will be on my extra good manners at tea if I know there are to be two gentlemen present.” She shot an arch look at Darius. “We can all be on probation together.”
“Capital!”
Vivian missed her husband. Missed the steady, dependable, boring routine of their life together. Missed knowing the answers before the questions were asked. She’d fallen asleep the night before, secure in the conviction that the next day she could explain to Mr. Lindsey that she’d choose Option B. William had said she could limit her dealings with the man to fifteen minutes at the end of the day, and Mr. Lindsey himself had acknowledged as much.
That way would be safer for everybody. Simpler.
But then… that child had joined them at breakfast, and Vivian’s heart had started beating harder in her chest.
Darius Lindsey loved that boy. He’d die for a child who had clearly been cast off by his parents as an embarrassment. And Vivian wanted to see more of the man who’d taken in the boy and raised him to be such a charming little gentleman. The difficulty was, the man who noticed that a child’s manners needed praising was also a man who’d noticed Vivian’s husband didn’t know her favorite jam.
Vivian herself had nearly forgotten.
She glanced down at her dress, running her hand over the nappy, plain fabric. It was warm, sensible, durable, economical…
And
A metaphor for her life, maybe.
She wished her sister were on hand to talk with, wished she had anybody to parse with her the dilemma she faced. Darius Lindsey was dangerous, and not just because he loved the child in his care. Vivian glanced out her window to see it was already dark, nigh teatime, when a knock on the door interrupted her musings.
“Are you cavorting with Byron again?” Darius asked as he eyed her sitting on the bed.
“We’re through, Lord Byron and I. He’s fine for a passing amusement, but the man lacks depth.”
“Thus speaketh Polite Society about one of its own,” Darius replied as he lowered himself beside her. “Do you shrink away from me out of habit, or are you afraid I’ll end up sitting in your lap by accident?”
“I don’t…” She stopped and tried for honesty. “You’re very informal. I’m not used to it.”
“Doesn’t William touch you? I thought that was one of the blessings of marriage, that one had permission to touch and be touched, not just in bed.”
“I touch William. I’m forever tucking in his lap robes, holding his jackets for him, tugging off his boots.”
His smile became knowing. “I’ll bet he still has the same valet he had when his first wife was alive.”
“He does. William is frequently required to wear formal attire, and a valet… what?”
“My brother is heir to an earldom, and he sacked his valet as soon as he married. Many men do upon marriage, unless they’re exceedingly toplofty.”
“Muriel was too ill…” Vivian fell silent.
“Even when she was still cutting a dash,” Darius guessed, “her husband had his valet.”
“What is the point of this digression?”
“You are a married spinster,” he accused quietly. “For this, I cannot forgive your dear William, and neither should you.”
“I am not a married…” She closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. “What do you mean?” Though she could guess. She could guess all too easily.
“Come here.” He rose and tugged her to her feet, then slipped his hand around her wrist to pull her over to the full-length mirror. “You’re a beautiful woman, Vivian Longstreet, but look there and tell me what you see.”
She shrugged, unwilling to look in the mirror. “So the dress is unprepossessing.”
“Look.” He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders trapping her before him. “Look, Vivvie, and see.”
Purely to make him hush, she regarded her reflection. “An ugly dress. A serviceable, plain, ugly dress.”
“An atrocious dress,” he rejoined, “an abomination in calf scours yellow that obscures a luscious feminine figure. You’re also sporting a bun my granny would disdain to wear in public, lips pinched with disapproval that should be rosy with kisses and laughter, and eyes dull with boredom that should sparkle with mischief.”
“You’re to give me a child, Mr. Lindsey, not a lecture.”
She’d turned her face, but because he still held her, that only put her cheek against his fingers where they’d settled on her shoulders.
“I will do my damnedest to give you that child, Vivvie.” He turned her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “Consider allowing me to give you a little more than that. Let me give you a few weapons to use when William isn’t there to protect you.”
“What manner of weapons?” And why would she much rather stare at him than her ugly dress?
“The weapons every female needs to know how to use if she’s to move in polite circles safely. You need to see yourself as you could be, as you need to be.”
His thumbs made little circles on her shoulders as he spoke. Impossible-to-ignore little circles. “Need for whom?”
