“I didn’t know it would be like that.”
She was asking him a question. He kissed her nose and dodged, partly. “I didn’t either, love.”
“It changes things.”
“Conception could be considered a change.” He congratulated himself on the nimbleness of his feint. A little honesty went a long way under these circumstances. “We won’t know about that for a few weeks.”
“Gracious. Weeks.” She subsided, laying her cheek over his heart, and he was grateful for her silence, because the magnitude of the possibility was hitting him in a way it hadn’t earlier. This little romp—this excursion into pleasure—very well could result in a life, an innocent life, full of potential for good and ill. The notion stilled the humming pleasure in his body but ignited a different kind of warmth where Vivian lay gathered against his chest.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d let himself come in a woman’s body. He’d had the experience, of course, with… some pregnant baroness, or the Italian equivalent thereto. He wasn’t sure which, but it had been years ago, before he’d become so desperate for coin, before his sister’s safety and welfare had been thrust into his youthful and impoverished hands.
And now Vivian was in his hands, trusting him to get her a baby and not break her heart in the process.
He could do that. He’d make sure of it. The only real question was whether he’d survive when his own was broken instead.
She was going to cry, and Vivian was certain that wasn’t comme il faut. The sensations were overwhelming, the pleasure beyond description, and the emotions… She silently apologized to William, who’d no doubt shared years and years of these kinds of feelings with his Muriel. Feelings Vivian would never have been able to compete with, never have been able to match.
And what of Darius? How did he do this, hire himself out for coin when the consequences were so intimately devastating?
Or were they?
He held her tenderly, his hands on her back leaving a trail of slow, sweet pleasure where he traced her bones and muscles. He’d shown her consideration of a magnitude Vivian had never imagined—was this why Angela loved her husband? Was it the promise of that kind of care that had seen her own mother giving in to Thurgood’s smiles and caresses?
Vivian was witless to puzzle through it, but her best guess was that Darius wasn’t witless. He was used to this. He’d said as much.
Like an ice on a hot day, a good gallop on a fall morning. Nothing more. Not even when it started a precious new life, not even when it meant a woman he hardly knew would be financially secure for life.
She felt him slipping from her body, and then he was patting her backside. “Slide up, so you’re over me.”
“I’ll make a mess.”
“A small mess. On me, rather than on the sheets. Up you go.”
Another gentle pat, and she complied, mortified to feel his seed leaving her body along with him. And then he was casually holding a folded handkerchief to her sex, preventing the mess but completing her sense of embarrassment.
“You’re blushing.” He kissed her cheek and dabbed at her gently. “There’s no need for that.”
“Blushing isn’t a matter of need.” She dropped her face to his shoulder and felt him using the handkerchief low on his belly. “Shall I go back to my room?”
“Is that what you’d like?”
He tossed the handkerchief aside and passed her a glass of water. When she sat up to drink it, she realized she was still straddling him, and she was naked, and he was…
Well, of course he was looking at her, smiling up at her a little…
“I’m sleepy,” she said, “and your bed is warm.”
“Never say I sent a lady alone to a cold, dreary bed.” He stroked the mattress beside him, and she climbed off him and cuddled up.
“So is that something they pay you for too?”
“I beg your pardon?” There was amusement in his tone, also something else—bewilderment?
“The ladies who pay for your favors? Do they pay you for the pleasure of cuddling?”
“They do not,” he replied, sounding displeased. “Nor would I allow it. Now hush.” He settled his chin on her temple, and Vivian was all too willing to hush. She hurt for him. Hurt that he had nobody to cuddle with, that the only child in his life was likely his brother’s by-blow, and he must sell even his kisses to keep his household intact.
She resolved to ask William why this should be so. Most earldoms came with fat, old estates, capable of supporting younger sons to at least some modest extent. But as her body went boneless in Darius’s arms, and sleep seeped into her brain, Vivian considered she might not bring this up with William, ever, for what passed between her and Darius was somehow precious and private, business arrangement or not.
Darius knew the moment Vivian gave up and let sleep claim her. He’d been prepared for her to fire off more of her pithy observations about his lifestyle, if not his lovemaking, but she’d succumbed, and now he could wallow in the pleasure of simply holding her.
How long had it been since he’d held a woman for the uncomplicated pleasure of it? He could tell himself he wanted to swive her again in the morning—increase the chance of conception, that is—but right now, all he wanted was to hold her, to keep her and her tender, inexperienced sensibilities safe for as long as he could.
He missed Italy, where the women understood what a cicisbeo was and what he was not. He was a friend, an appreciated friend. And he missed the way Italian men were demonstrative with their ladies. They didn’t show they cared for a woman by blowing another fellow’s brains out on some foggy meadow strewn with sheep dung. They wrote poetry to women and sang to them and toasted them before open company. And the ladies blew them kisses in return.
In England, the last thing Darius could be was a friend to the likes of Lucy or Blanche. They took their power too seriously, dealt too much from weakness and need, not generosity and pleasure.
He hadn’t been willing to let himself think this way, not until the prospect of Lord Longstreet’s coin loomed closely enough at hand that Darius could consider becoming a gentleman farmer in truth.
And how nice it was going to be, to have another three weeks to toss ideas back and forth with Vivian over the breakfast table. To see her dressed appropriately to her station, and to know of all men, he—without coin to speak of, or expectations—had given her her heart’s desire.
In sleep, Vivian stirred then settled, but her hand had slipped lower, from Darius’s waist to rest over his groin. Her fingers flexed, brushing his cock—forbidden territory to all other women—and he went still then shifted slightly under her hand. She brushed her fingers over him again, patted him sleepily, then subsided.
And for that, for that simple, sleepy, affectionate little pat on his soft cock, he gave up another piece of his heart to her.
Able regarded his father, who sat in the stifling library swaddled in blankets and scarves. “I never should have put you up to riding out with me. You’ve been ailing ever since.”
“Ah, but it did me good, my boy.” William’s eyes held a twinkle. “To treat myself to a hot scone or two, a nip from the flask, a trot through the village. It reminds me what it’s all for, you know?”
“All what?”
“The scrapping about in the Lords, for one thing. You think it’s fun, to listen to the same old arguments over the Catholic question? To hear Prinny whining for yet still more money while the streets of London are littered with
