men who gave limbs and eyes in defense of King and Country?”
“You’re sounding suspiciously liberal, your lordship.” Able drew up a chair before the blazing fire, because it wasn’t often he and his father just talked.
“Not liberal, exactly. I believe the monarchy in the hands of a wise and just ruler is still government as God intended,” William said, setting aside some faded correspondence. “But the people aren’t sheep, and we’ve seen what they can do when they decide revolution is their only recourse.”
“England isn’t France.”
“Hunger is hunger,” William countered, sitting up straighter. “Bad harvests can happen anywhere, and Louis was ruling an abundantly blessed and happy nation, and then, in just a few decades, all is chaos and murder.”
“I suppose you’re in a better position to appreciate that than most. Not many have your perspective.”
William smiled thinly. “I’m too damned old, you mean. God knows I feel it.”
Able did not argue the point, for William was venerable indeed. “We should send word to Vivian that you’re ailing. I can put a note in the post tomorrow.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” William said with a touch of asperity. “She’ll be galloping down here, wielding vile concoctions, putting plasters on my feet, and clucking and fussing until a man can’t get any rest. I have a little cold, is all, and there’s no better place for me to be recovering than in the company of my family, at my ancestral home.”
Able smiled at the reference to family. It wasn’t much, but they weren’t demonstrative men. Coming from William Longstreet, it was something, to be called family—as clearly, whatever she was, Vivian wasn’t included in that designation.
Darius grinned down at Vivian. “I made it to Edward the Martyr that time.”
“I beg your pardon?” Vivian thought her tone was impressively crisp, but she spoiled the effect entirely by brushing his hair back from his forehead and slipping her fingers over the curve of his ear. She knew he liked her to touch his ears, and his hair, and his…
“You know, Alfred the Great, Edward the Elder, Athelstan, Edmund, Edred… when you tempt me to lose control, I recite them in my head.”
“And all the past kings of the realm help you withstand my charms. I’m impressed.” She was impressed that she could have this discussion—
“I’ve never even gotten as far as Canute,” he confessed, still clearly pleased with himself. “You’re a siren, Vivvie.”
And didn’t that just prompt a woman to be pleased with herself, too? “I’m a hungry siren.” She stroked his ear again.
“It’s been a taxing week. Undo us, sweetheart.”
“Why is it my job?” she groused, but she carefully extricated his waning erection from her body, because he preferred she be the one to do it. Vivian suspected Darius just wanted her to become at ease handling him, as God knew, he was at ease handling her. In a week’s time, she’d learned all manner of naughty, wonderful things from him, and she suspected he was only bringing her along slowly so as not to shock her.
“You like having your hands on me,” Darius said as he shifted off of her. “I’m humoring you.”
“Of course, you are.” She pushed him to his back and rolled off the bed to fetch a damp cloth from the basin on the washstand. “Every proper English schoolboy learns the royal succession so he can humor the ladies.” She swabbed off his cock, comfortable now moving him this way and that. He hiked his knees and spread his legs so she could make a pass at the inside of his thighs, his belly, and groin, and then the part she suspected he liked best, when she’d carefully tend to his balls.
“You are like that tomcat.” She dabbed at herself, set the cloth aside, and climbed back on the bed. “Your physical pleasures are dear to you.”
“All of God’s creatures like to feel cared for.” Darius ran a hand down the side of her face, a caress that had her nigh purring. “It’s how you show your appreciation for all the care I lavish on you.”
“Forcing me into new gowns, slippers, gloves, and bonnets isn’t care, Darius Lindsey, it’s your idea of entertainment.”
He wrapped her in his arms. “Ungrateful wench. You love it when I make you read Mrs. Radcliffe and dance with me in the library and try decadent desserts with each meal.”
“Except breakfast.”
“I just served you your breakfast dessert, unless you’d like to nibble on my parts? No? Well, perhaps another time.”
“You keep suggesting this. I can’t believe you’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious.” He slid a hand over her breast. “Though you won’t let me nibble on you. I’m attempting to get a child on a spinster, and it’s trying, to say the least.”
He teased like this mercilessly, making Vivian wonder if all couples were so free and affectionate with each other.
“You’re trying to shock me, sir, but I need a nap, so hush and rub my back.” She rolled over, because in this at least she was in complete earnest. Sharing a bed with Darius Lindsey was exhausting.
Darius smiled and did as she ordered. As Vivian dozed off, he made a bet with himself that she’d be giving him more explicit orders long before their month was out. She was or soon would be fertile, and her natural sense of curiosity was making quick inroads on her inherent shyness.
Day by day, and night by night, she was shedding one inhibition after another. She now insisted the candles be kept burning when he made love to her; she didn’t gasp and stammer when he accosted her in the study or her own bed or the broad light of day. He’d jammed a saddle rack against the feed room door just the day before, and hiked her skirts for a little ride at midday in the chilly confines of the barn. His thighs still ached pleasantly from the exertion of thrusting at just the right height.
When Gracie tapped softly on the door, Darius quietly bid her to enter. The maid took one look at Vivian, thoroughly tousled and cuddled even in sleep against Darius’s side, and shook her head.
“You wore the poor thing out,” Gracie said, passing Darius a cup of tea. “Best be careful, Master Dare.”
“Of?”
“She’ll take a piece of you with her.”
“And leave thirty pieces of silver,” Darius replied. “Which we can use around here.” Though a child would be a piece of him—maybe the best piece.
“You know, when he’d got his silver, Judas hung himself from a tree.” Gracie poked at the logs on the hearth. “And what good will you be to any of us, swinging in the breeze that way?”
“She’s leaving, Gracie.” Darius’s hand passed gently over Vivian’s head. “She’ll be gone in two weeks, and then it won’t matter what happened between us. We’ll be strangers again, and my obligation will be met.”
Gracie rose from the fireplace and turned a pitying expression on him. “As if the woman who breaks your heart can ever be a stranger to you. Have a care, sir, or you’ll be picking out your tree.”
Darius offered her a lopsided smile. “Be gone with you, Gracie. When I’ve tired this one out, I’m coming after you.”
“I’ve got one good hand, Master Dare.” Gracie swept toward the door. “That’s plenty enough to paddle your naughty backside into next week for such foolish talk. Mind you order that woman a soaking bath, or she’ll be too sore to walk.”
Gracie closed the door softly on that whispered reminder, and Darius made a mental note to do just that. Were it not for the need to consider Vivian’s inexperience, he’d be going at her twice as often as he did, and twice as hard.
Just once, he’d treated her to a hard, fast coupling, and she’d come like a house afire before he’d even found his rhythm.
And then come again when he had.
But he hadn’t used her so hard since, aware that their goal was conception, and frequent coupling was conducive to that end. This kept him gentle with her, considerate, mindful of the need to savor and conserve when he might have otherwise plundered.
As he lay back on the pillows, sipping his tea and petting Vivian’s hair, he considered that with a woman like
