disposed to indulge. She knew Darius had purchased the vehicle for a song, and probably kept it for himself because it was as luxuriously appointed on the inside as it was carefully unremarkable on the outside. She wasn’t a weeper by nature, but gracious, almighty, merciful, everlasting God…
She buried her nose in his scarf and missed him and hated him for his effortless savoir faire, and loved him for the excruciating tenderness with which he’d made love to her just two hours earlier. He hadn’t said a word; he’d just started in with the kissing and touching and loving, and she’d been… lost.
What was
The trip into Town took longer than she’d liked, in part because she’d needed time to use the facilities at various inns along the way, but also because snow had started to fall—too late to do her any good, of course. When the coach gained the Longstreet townhouse, midday had come and gone and Vivian decided to allow herself a short nap while her trunks were being unloaded.
The idea of going back into William’s house, the one he’d shared with Muriel for several decades, was daunting. In just a few weeks, Vivian had become terribly attached to a man she’d met only once previously. How much closer must William and Muriel have become, making love, raising children, sharing his career…
Things she would never have. Not with Darius, not with anybody. A fresh wave of grief rose up to clog her throat, and Vivian went inside and accepted Dilquin’s solicitous greetings. She kept her new velvet cloak though, claiming the house was chilly, which it was. An hour later, her personal maid found her asleep in her own bed— without a stitch on, God have mercy—and with the velvet cloak spread over the counterpane for extra warmth, and a brown scarf jammed halfway under her pillow.
As Vivian slept away her afternoon, the unloading of Darius’s coach proceeded without incident, except that it was observed by one of the coach’s former owners. Thurgood Ainsworthy had had the thing built to order in one of his wealthier marriages, and it was a traveling coach fit for a man whose social life required a good deal of both discretion and mobility.
Thurgood had loved that coach and loved owning it. He’d seduced more than one lady in its cushy confines, and had only bet the thing because he’d been in his cups and unfamiliar with his gambling opponent. It had been years ago when he’d made the mistake of thinking some cocky younger son was acting as if his hand were poor, when in fact the bastard had been holding a full house, queens over knaves.
Rotten luck.
Apparently the younger son had come upon rotten luck now too, because Longstreet must have purchased the thing for his darling Vivian.
But as Ainsworthy watched, the coachy wheeled the empty vehicle not around to the alley that lead to the Longstreet carriage house, but rather back out into the street and off toward the nearest coaching inn.
Darius heard his traveling coach clatter back up the lane and realized he’d failed to drink himself into oblivion. Well, it was only just past dark. There was time for that.
“I miss her.” He passed that admission along to his great and good friend, the brandy decanter, which sat loyally guarding his right elbow where he sprawled before the fire in his study.
“I miss her in bed,” he began, finding his usual tolerance for pain serving him well. “I miss her over the dinner plates. I miss her out riding. I miss her arguing with me over stupid political questions nobody cares about except the bloody Lords. I miss her teasing John—I miss that a pissing damned lot. John misses her, God help us.”
He took another contemplative sip and regarded his companion.
“I miss having somebody, anybody, to talk about John with, and she was so kind.” He mentally relaxed before he could wind up for the next blow. “She was
He veered off that perilous ditch and took off in a more familiar direction.
“She deserves so much better.” He was mumbling now, mumbling around the ache that had been in his throat for hours. “She says I deserve better, silly wench. And she smelled lovely, always. How did she do that?”
That question brought to mind the scent of stale powder and singed hair he associated with Blanche and Lucy. He was going to have to do something about those two. Vivian was carrying—carrying
“And then what will I do?” He scowled at the decanter. “Raise bloody pigeons to bill and coo their way across England while I grow old selling pigeon shit?”
Such a question signaled inebriation, even Darius knew that, as unaccustomed as he was to overindulging. He rose unsteadily, saluted the decanter, and went up to his room. He spent the night fully clothed in a chair by the fire, alternately missing Vivian and cursing his stupid, useless, pointless life.
Vivian took an extra day in London to regain her energy, though her energy wasn’t very cooperative. Her clothes were repacked, the townhouse closed up, the baggage loaded, Dilquin and her lady’s maid loaded with it, and off they went.
And with each mile, Vivian’s emotions grew more confusing and unhappy.
William greeted her with a smile and a kiss to her cheek, then took her hands and stepped back to study her.
“You’re well?”
“I am in good health,” she said, not wanting to remove her cloak. Reluctantly, she undid the frogs herself— thank goodness William would not be so presumptuous—and passed the garment to the waiting footman. “And yourself?”
“Getting over a little cold, my dear.” William’s eyes skimmed over her new dress and the way she’d styled her hair with a part down the middle, not pulled straight back into a governess’s bun. “Will you join me in a cup of tea?”
She didn’t want to, but she kept her expression pleasant.
“Of course, William.” She took his proffered arm as she had a thousand times before, but missed, badly, the strength of Darius’s escort as she did. William’s arm was a prop. In truth, she supported him more than he supported her.
They sat down to tea in the library and began the ritual conversation that signaled each of their various reunions over five years of marriage. William was polite, Vivian was polite, and it was all… wrong.
“Shall we speak of your time in Kent, Vivian?” William had waited until the tea tray was removed and they were guaranteed privacy. “Or would you rather we pretend you were merely visiting your sister while I passed the holidays down here?”
His old eyes held nothing but a banked, patient kindness when Vivian finally met them. “I wouldn’t know what to say, William.”
“The trip did you good. You might not see it yet, but it did.”
“If you say so.” Vivian wished the tea tray were still there, so she could at least occupy her hands. William missed little, and his scrutiny weighed on her.
William patted her knuckles. “It’s all right to be infatuated with the man, probably better, in fact.”
She looked away, feeling her throat closing. “William, hush.”
She’d never told him to hush once in five years, but he was apparently able to weather the shock. He passed her his handkerchief.
“Vivian, you’re young, and he will be the father of your child,” William said. “We didn’t choose him because he was the Scourge of the High Toby. Lindsey is comely, he has a certain dash, and he no doubt charmed you. Some feelings for him were inevitable.”
“I said hush.” She let the tears come, not realizing William had shifted until the familiar scent of bay rum grew stronger and she felt his arm around her shoulders. He said nothing, but for the first time in her marriage, she merely tolerated his embrace, finding no comfort in it at all.
