Darius: Lord of Pleasures

“You’re the Viscountess Longstreet,” Darius said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “If you bear this child, who will be his or her guardian in the event of William’s death?”

“I’m not sure. William will make provision, I know, and he’s in good health, so that day can’t be near at hand.”

“Vivvie.” Darius peered down at her. “You need to have a frank talk with your spouse, but whoever the guardian is, you’re going to have to handle him to your own satisfaction.”

“What do you mean, handle him?” She put the question to him with equal parts dread and curiosity.

“What if he wants to send your son off to public school at age seven?”

Vivian’s brows shot up. “Seven? I thought I’d just get tutors and governors and so forth. Seven?”

“Seven. Little boys go into men’s hands at seven, and for many, that means boarding at public school. What if this guardian wants your son to spend summers and holidays with him, rather than with you?”

“Surely William wouldn’t allow that?” Vivian’s fingers touched her lips. “He could make stipulations, couldn’t he, in his will?”

“Not that anybody would enforce. Unless William lives to be a hundred, you’re going to be the only parent this child has, and between the guardian, the solicitors, and the tutors, your say will count little, unless you make it count.”

Foreboding took up residence in Vivian’s middle. Why hadn’t anybody pointed this out to her? Why hadn’t William told her what the provisions of his will were? Why was she trying to have a child without having thought these considerations through?

“So what would you have me do?” She turned back to the mirror. “Who would you have me be?”

“The mother of my only child,” he said softly. “A lioness no man would tangle with willingly. A lady who isn’t afraid to fight for what she believes in and knows to be right for her child. I can’t be there in any noticeable way. William can’t be there. You’re the child’s only champion, Vivvie, and you need to start now to step into that role.”

She met his gaze in the mirror. “The dress goes.”

“For starters.”

“For starters,” she agreed, standing taller on the strength of the words alone.

* * *

Within three days, Vivian knew what it was to hate a man. Oh, she despised her stepfather, but Ainsworthy was simply venal, his schemes and ambitions predictable and mundane. He was evil, but in a sense, he couldn’t help himself.

Darius Lindsey, by comparison, was ruthless, cunning, and relentless. He’d put her through one tribulation after another.

At the modiste’s, he’d dressed her from the inside out, choosing nightgowns, chemises, stockings, everything, from laces and trims to dress fabrics and patterns. He suggested alterations, sketching creations Vivian never would have dreamed of.

“You need to accentuate your height,” he insisted on their way back to the manor, “not try to hide it. William is tall. You’re not going to embarrass him if you dress well at his side. Stop fidgeting.”

“Stop touching me. You handled me in that shop like I was some… prize hound, my conformation and coloring shown off for company.” And thank God the modiste had been French and not the least dismayed by his behavior.

“You’re not a hound, though you’re definitely a prize. A treasure, a gem of surpassing beauty. And I’ve about had it with your bun.”

“My bun? You’ve had it with my bun?” She drew herself up on the seat of the phaeton, prepared to reel with righteous exasperation, when a rut in the road pitched her against him. “Bother.”

Darius smiled over at her. “Did you even think of lingering there, leaning against my side before you pokered right up again?”

“Why would I lean against you when I can sit perfectly well unassisted?”

“Lean against me, Vivvie, just a little.”

She gave him a look intended to put him in his place—several counties distant.

“Come here, Viv-vie,” he singsonged. “Just a little lean on a deserted lane, as if you’re a touch cold or tired or in want of a cuddle.”

“You are ridiculous,” she spat, except she was cold and tired and maybe that other thing he’d said.

He slipped the reins into one hand and tucked an arm around her waist, drawing her closer to his side.

“Were you truly ambitious,” he murmured, “you’d allow me a hint of the side of your breast against my arm, just in passing.”

“Whyever would I do that?” But she stayed leaning against him, strictly because he was warm and solid.

He smiled at her, a charming, naughty smile. “To scramble my wits, sweetheart. Then you could slip in a little observation about how the green velvet walking dress might look just as fetching in a dark brown with green trim, and next thing you know, I’d be offering to order it for you in both green and brown. Given what William is paying me, I can afford to indulge you in one more frock.”

“You want me to… wheedle?”

“I want you to have what you want, however you have to exert yourself to get it,” he said, turning them up the lane to the manor. “You’re willing to disport with me to get a baby, Vivian. Why not a little wheedling to get something simpler?”

His version of reasoning would scramble her wits in short order. “I know nothing of this wheedling. It sounds tedious and demeaning.”

“What’s demeaning is having to depend on others to meet your every need, because you can’t use the strengths you have to do it yourself.”

Vivian kept her voice low by sheer self-discipline. “What strengths? I’m a married female. I have no rights, no property, no wealth. I can’t hire or fire my own staff, I can’t enter into business ventures unless I inherit them from family once I’m widowed. I can’t even name my own child, does my husband forbid it. What damned strengths?”

“That’s a start,” he said slowly, smiling over at her.

“You have me using foul language. Cursing is not an indication of strength, but just the opposite. And that reminds me, Mr. Lindsey, when am I to conceive this baby you’re always going on about? I’ve been here four days, and you’ve run me ragged to milliners and cobblers and modistes and had me reading all manner of scandalous tripe and riding the countryside in this weather, and none of that is in aid of conceiving a child.”

Let him argue that.

“Are you inviting me to your room tonight, Vivvie?”

He drew the vehicle to a halt in silence, jumped down, then came around to lift her off the seat. As the groom led the horse away, they stood in the stable yard, Darius’s hands on her waist.

His expression was no longer teasing, nor was it even flirtatious. He stood there, regarding her almost solemnly.

She bit her lip. “Maybe not tonight.”

He studied her expression for a moment then turned her under his arm and led her toward the house. “Still untidy?”

“Some.” She was blushing, drat it all to perdition. Drat him. “Not much longer.”

“I’ll come to you,” he said, holding the back door for her.

“But I thought…”

“Trust me.” He dipped his head to kiss her cheek as he untied the frogs of her cloak. “I won’t do anything you don’t agree to, and as much trouble as I’ve had convincing you to try a few fripperies on, we won’t get very far in a