Vivian, marriage might not be the trap he’d envisioned it being. With Vivian intent on a child, they were having exactly the kind of unrestrained, frequent sex newlyweds might have.
And it was… overwhelmingly sweet, a backhanded gift from fate that he, a man who never allowed women the intimacy of intercourse, never allowed them to kiss him, should have all that given to him in such unstinting abundance—from a woman to whom he’d have to become, just as he’d said, a stranger in the new year.
He set his tea aside, slipped down into the covers beside Vivian, and drew her into his embrace. She went into his arms trustingly and gave him her warmth without even waking.
The weather moderated, and Vivian found herself riding out with her… with Darius. He loved his estate fiercely, and she concluded fierceness was a part of him, part of the boy who’d grown up between battling parents, finding his purpose befriending his brother and protecting their sisters.
As they rode over his muddy acres, Darius told her his plans for this field and that pond. Trout could be raised like a crop, she learned, and it would improve Darius’s crop yields if he set up a system of irrigation and flood control for the water on his property.
“Why not raise flowers? You don’t need a hothouse for them, much of the year, but you could easily sell them in Town.”
“Townhouses all have back gardens.”
“Bachelors buying flowers for the ladies do not have gardens,” Vivian said. “No single townhouse or mansion has enough flowers on hand to decorate for balls and entertaining. There is demand, and you could specialize.”
“In?” He was bringing the same focus to this topic that he brought to every topic, including how best to bring her pleasure. The notion left a lady somewhat breathless, even as her horse merely ambled along beside his.
“Fragrant flowers?” Vivian tossed out the idea. “Exotic flowers, I don’t know. It would be easy enough to see what’s in short supply and provide it.”
“And then when fashion dictated that fragrant flowers were no longer all the rage?”
“You diversify,” Vivian said as Bernice stepped around a puddle. “Just as you have already. You excel at it, with your chickens and sachets and… other things.”
“My whoring.” He cocked an eyebrow, looking pleased to have an opportunity to shock her with bad language.
“Your enterprise. I suspect you feel sorry for those women, Darius.”
“Vivian…”
“Don’t scold.” She kept her tone mild, but this aspect of his life bothered her increasingly. “No matter what they pay you, you have to feel a little something for them, or you’d just sell more chickens.”
“Chickens produce only so much income. The ladies pay very, very well, and they cost me nothing.”
“They cost you dearly.”
“I’ll race you to that stone wall.”
He nudged Skunk with his heels, so Bernice cantered more forward as well, and Vivian knew the point he was making: sexual pleasure, or pain, mattered only like a good gallop on a crisp day, nothing more. So she let the subject drop and let the mare have her head for the next half mile, but when she woke in Darius’s bed on Christmas morning and saw a small, wrapped box on the breakfast tray, the cost of Darius’s enterprises with the ladies came to mind again.
She nodded at the box. “Why is that there?” William gave her presents, on their anniversary or her birthday. Little things—a book of old verse, a pair of ear bobs, nothing unique to her, but thoughtful gestures nonetheless.
“Happy Christmas, Vivvie.” He poured her tea and passed it over to her, the same as he had every morning for more than a week. “Open your gift.”
“I thought you told me my gift was hiding under the covers on your side of the bed?”
“You’ve already enjoyed that gift.” He sipped his tea placidly, though there was something… grave about his demeanor, or watchful, so Vivian took a fortifying gulp of tea, passed the cup back to him, and reached for her present.
“This had better not be naughty, or I’ll leave it here, and you’ll be reminded of your…”
Inside the box was a small, elegantly cut glass bottle holding about four ounces of golden liquid. She lifted the stopper and sniffed delicately.
Her nose woke up, and she sniffed again, finding something that started off a little like the scent Darius himself wore—soft, soothing, a little sweet, a little spicy—but then the fragrance took off in a more mysterious direction, carrying notes both floral and spicy in a blend that intrigued and promised and drew interest on a purely sensual level.
“It’s lovely.” She sniffed again. “What is it?”
“I had it blended for you,” he said, watching as she continued to inhale through her nose and consider, then take another little whiff. “The recipe is under the lining, as is the name of the
“You had this made for me?” She was still trying to analyze the fragrance as she frowned and whiffed. “Did it turn out as you’d planned?”
“Scents are tricky.” He set the breakfast tray on the night table. “You think you know what will go together, but then the ingredients react with one another, and with the wearer, and sometimes it turns out better than you planned, but not always.”
“This is fascinating.” She passed him the bottle, and he took a cautious, glancing sniff, held the bottle away, and repeated the move several times.
“It’s what I wanted for you,” he decided, “maybe a little richer.” He tipped the bottle against his finger, then replaced the stopper and set the bottle aside. “Hold still.”
With his wet finger, he touched the sides of her neck then drew a line from her throat to her cleavage.
“We’ll see how it takes on you, assuming you like it?”
“I love it. Thank you very much.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side, and for the moment, Vivian was content to lie against his warmth, the lovely scent subtly spreading over them as they drowsed together.
“I’ll miss you.” Vivian’s words came out without any warning, to her or him, and Vivian felt Darius stiffen beside her.
“Vivian…”
“Don’t Vivian me.” She hitched her leg over his thighs, as if he might toss back the covers to escape her. “I’ve been married five years, and never once has William given me a gift this thoughtful. This personal. I’ve known you two weeks, and you give me this… and frocks, gloves, and waltzes, and… I know, it means nothing to you, but to me…”
“To you?” His face was unreadable, but he wasn’t telling her to hush or to finish her tea, nor was he lecturing her about ices on hot days.
“I was a married spinster—you were right. Not so much in my dress and choice of reading material, but inside, where no one sees. Where no one cared to see.”
“It can’t mean anything,” he said sternly, as if he were reminding himself and hoping it was true.
“Too late, Darius.” She closed her eyes and relaxed against him. “What you think you mean, is that the sexual business means nothing. What you really mean, is you want Darius Lindsey to mean nothing to me. The two are not the same, and you won’t convince me they are.”
He kissed her into submission, gently, slowly, entrancingly, and she let him sweep her away again, because he’d at least let her have her say, and she owed him the fair hearing he was demanding with his hands and mouth and body.
But what was wrong with the man, that he’d try to convince them both such tenderness and caring meant nothing at all?
She bided her time and waited until the night before the New Year to counterattack. By tacit agreement, they now slept together in his bed, and on a few occasions, had fallen asleep without having intercourse. On those occasions, Vivian would wake up to find Darius making love to her sometime in the middle of the night. She had cuddled up with him and let sleep overcome her, because he’d exhausted her once again with final fittings, riding
