Darius: Lord of Pleasures

“Safe journey to you, too, Mr. Lindsey, Master Fordham.” She nudged her mare along, still beaming as she and her groom passed out of sight around a bend in the bridle path. This told Darius two things. First, she was still safely carrying, which was a good thing. Second, she wasn’t going to exercise plain common sense and ignore him when their paths crossed, which was a bad thing. A very bad, stupid thing, which pleased him far more than it should.

* * *

“Can you keep a secret?” Vivian kept her voice down, though she and Angela were alone.

“I am the mother of three,” Angela replied, not even glancing up from her embroidery hoop. “I can keep secrets, though not from my husband.”

Vivian smiled at her sister, whose impending addition to the family was growing increasingly apparent.

“I believe I am in an interesting condition,” Vivian said softly, eyeing the closed door to the family parlor. “Though not yet very far along.”

Angela set her hoop down. “How not very far along?”

“I likely conceived around Christmas, so about six weeks.” Perhaps five, perhaps seven, possibly as much as eight. “I know that’s early, but I haven’t had any real trouble.”

“Oh, Viv…” Angela rose and hugged Vivian hard. “I am so pleased for you and for William. He must be over the moon.”

“I think he’s relieved, but pleased too, for us both. The thought of a baby has eased his grief over Algernon’s death. I’m hoping it will chase off the last of the cold he brought back from Longchamps.”

“Best watch that,” Angela said, resuming her seat. “A cold can become a lung fever, and then you’re a widow with a baby on the way.”

“You will cease that grim talk, Angela Ventnor.” Vivian poured them both more tea, though lately she had come to loathe the stuff. “I’m weepy enough as it is.”

Angela grinned. “That’s quite normal, as is casting up your accounts, weaving a little on your feet, and taking naps at the oddest times. Jared says he suspected we were carrying again when I started needing more cuddling.”

We were carrying… Angela had been married for ten years, and Vivian could not recall her sister ever previously referring to her husband and cuddling in the same sentence. Impending motherhood was indeed an interesting condition.

“Your husband notices more than I thought he did.”

“You must let William spoil you too, Viv.” Scolding came naturally to the mother of three. “For once, let him take care of you, and not just the other way ’round.”

“Yes, Mother.” Vivian smiled but tried not to consider her sister’s words too closely. William wasn’t the taking-care-of kind of husband. He was considerate, when he wasn’t out all evening arguing with his cronies, or up late reading draft bills and correspondence, or distracted because it approached the anniversary of his marriage to Muriel, or her death, or Algernon’s death, or Aldous’s…

As Vivian saw her sister out, she admitted to a sense of furtive relief that she could again seek the solitude of her bedroom. Ever since she’d run into Darius in the park with that little boy who looked like him, and like John, Vivian’s attempts to forget her winter idyll and move on had been completely unsuccessful.

She didn’t want to forget; she wanted to remember. She kept Darius’s scarf in the back of her wardrobe and took it out to sniff it at least once a day. She wore her new wardrobe, admiring the woman in the mirror far more than she had the one she’d seen last November. She visited with her mare first thing in the day, because it was a good way to start the morning, even when they couldn’t get to the park for a brisk canter.

And she missed him.

She didn’t flatter herself he missed her, but she hoped, in a small, honest, very private corner of her heart, he at least thought of her from time to time.

She climbed onto her bed, knowing a short nap was in order—another short nap. Maybe next time her path crossed with Darius’s, there wouldn’t be a curious child underfoot, and they could even exchange a few more words.

Ten

In the two weeks and three days since he’d seen Vivian in the park, Darius had become a master at the game he privately called “What I Should Have Said.” This game consisted of endless mental rehashings of his short encounter with Vivian and endless variations on the winning answer: he should have said not one damned thing; he should have cut her utterly.

He’d failed that round and admitted in hindsight that such a purely coldhearted approach was beyond him, so he’d graduated to Round Two anyway, which he thought of as “What I’ll Say Next Time.”

Knowing full well there couldn’t be a next time.

“There you are.” Lucy’s voice was low and hard. “You’re late again, and believe me, I have about had it with you, Darius.”

“I am abjectly sorry to have discommoded you,” he drawled. Her eyes widened in astonishment then narrowed in what he recognized as anticipated pleasure. “Domestic obligations called that couldn’t wait.” Then too, William’s first payment had yet to show up, and a man inured to disappointment had to accept that it might never arrive.

“Insolent.” She looked him up and down. “Get up to my room and have yourself on my bed in five minutes.”

“As my lady wishes.” His tone was even more indifferent than he’d intended, and Lucy’s eyes took on an unholy gleam. As he made his way to her room, he felt a crushing fatigue radiating out from his middle, almost as if he were wrung out from a stomach flu or a long footrace over steep terrain. He quickly shed his garments and got comfortable facedown on Lucy’s bed. He was careful to put his clothes where he could see them—he didn’t trust Lucy not to hide them or damage them, and they cost a pretty penny. He also unlatched her balcony doors before she arrived, because locking him in would seem a fine game to her in her present mood.

He knew this waiting period was intended to create anticipation in him, or anxiety. For Lucy, the two were closely related, but for him, the temptation to steal a catnap was taking precedence. He’d been out past midnight with his sister at one of the few early balls that would crop up until the Season began in earnest. It was three in the morning—a full hour later than Lucy had summoned him—and he wouldn’t see his own bed until dawn.

Lucy swished into the room and secured a silk scarf around his wrist. “So what have you to say for yourself, Darius?” She pulled it tight and knotted it to the bedpost. “You disappear and leave no word when you’ll return. You ignore my first two notes and then show up tonight an hour late?” She gave the second scarf a yank on the last word, and Darius realized she expected an answer.

“One usually spends the holidays with family, Lucy.” Darius made a show of yawning. She’d tied his hands, and he couldn’t politely cover his mouth. “You are not my family.”

“I’m not,” she agreed, disdaining to secure his feet. “Crouch up.”

He complied—Lucy had a fascination for his fundament, God help him.

“You’ve been rude.” Her hand came down hard, a stinging, loud slap of flesh on flesh that Darius found not as bracing as it usually was. “You’re inconsiderate, your manners are atrocious, and you’ll regret this lapse.” She whaled on him in a similar vein, and Darius turned his attention to the task of producing an erection for her entertainment. When she untied him and spread herself for his further attentions, she’d expect to see a nice hard cock. From her perspective, the idea that he wasn’t allowed to swive her with it made his suffering more intense, which meant his remuneration was earned.

So…

For the first time in his memory, Darius had to work at gaining an erection. He succeeded only by using the friction of the bedcovers against his skin as a stimulus, for sheer determination gained him little. He writhed convincingly against the silk sheets, relieved when his flesh eventually rose at the simple glide of the material over his groin. Fortunately, Lucy’s hand had delivered all the punishment it was capable of, though Darius was required