“As my lady wishes.” Darius saluted and clattered back into the alley at a trot. He had to drop off Trent’s gelding, Arthur, then grab some rest, or he’d be asleep where he stood tonight when he’d need all his wits about him.
And he would see Vivian today, of all days.
Most nights, he saw her in his dreams, if his schedule permitted him any sleep. He’d been fortunate that Lucy Templeton’s mother had requisitioned her presence at the family seat for a few weeks, leaving him to contend with only Lady Cowell. That lady’s husband was between mistresses, and because he was a randy beggar, Blanche had not been free to impose on Darius for much of the past month either.
But tonight she’d summoned him, and tonight he’d go—to explain to her that their dealings were at an end. Lucy would be the trickier situation to extricate himself from, but she would come into line if he held firm.
He hoped.
As he returned to his rooms and fell onto his mattress, he had to wonder what drove a woman to enjoy beating on a man’s naked ass. It was difficult to comprehend that Lucy and Blanche weren’t as bored with and tired by the whole business as he was. He lay down and hoped to soon be drifting off, once again dreaming of Vivian and the nigh-unfathomable miracle that she should be bearing his child.
Blanche lay on the bed, replete and rosy, watching Darius while he got dressed as quickly as he could without giving away how desperately he wanted to be away from this place and this woman.
“Lucy won’t stand for this,” she said, twiddling a bed tassel around her finger. “She’ll be wroth you’d even think of ending our arrangement.”
“She’ll be wroth whether I end it or not.” Darius wrapped his cravat around his neck once, rather like a linen noose. “She was born unhappy, Blanche, and the less you have to do with her, the more likely you are to find some peace in this life.”
“Peace is boring.” She rolled up on her side and regarded him through slumberous eyes. “She’ll make you think twice about throwing us over.”
His temper would not be silent. He turned and glowered at her. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m warning you, Darius.” For once, Blanche looked like the tired, nearly middle-aged woman she was. “Lucy doesn’t see straight where you’re concerned. I can understand if you’re bored with the whips and bindings, and I’ll speak to Lucy, but she won’t give you up without a fight.”
“I’m not a juicy bone to be scrabbled over.” Darius yanked on his boots. “And you are exactly correct: I’ll have no more of the bindings, whips, and stupid games. I’m done with it, and done with Lucy’s airs and pouts. You may kindly tell her for me to go swive herself if she can’t accept that.”
Blanche sat up and shrugged into a dressing gown. “She’d rather be swiving you. As would I.”
“No, you only think you would. You want to believe you’re wicked, naughty, and sophisticated in your pleasures, but you’re not, and neither is Lucy. What we do is nothing short of pathetic, and I’m through with it.”
“You’re not. You’re not done until Lucy says you’re done.”
Darius barely resisted offering her a rude gesture, but instead bowed and took his leave, the long walk in the chilly night air serving to calm him only marginally.
Sleep, unfortunately, eluded him, leaving him to the torment of his thoughts. He didn’t want to think about Vivian; his mind felt too dirty for even her mental presence, but she beckoned to his thoughts like a siren.
How was she feeling?
Was William taking good care of her?
Was she anxious over the prospect of giving birth?
Did she think of Darius?
He flattered himself she did, as her obvious pleasure in their two chance encounters suggested, but this was not a good thing at all for several reasons.
Having had hours to ponder his dealings with Blanche Cowell, Darius concluded he’d tactically erred, and this could eventually devolve to Vivian’s detriment.
Lucy Templeton would be on notice now that Darius was abandoning the kennel where she’d tried to tie him. She’d have time to plan her countermoves, which meant the element of surprise was on her side. Stupid of him, but he’d been so damned tired lately…
He fell into restless slumber then, and dreamed of Vivian making snow angels with John while Wags sat on the fence, licking his paws.
“You have to rest.” Vivian crossed her arms and prepared to lay siege to William’s stubbornness. “You’re just over that cold, William, and you’ve been pushing yourself ever since you got back to Town.”
“We’ve been here weeks, Vivian. Months, in fact.” William’s smile was patient and pained. “I am resting. I do little else but rest.”
And read Muriel’s old letters and diaries. That, more than his pallor or the persistent weakness dogging him, alarmed her. She knew her husband occasionally communed with his first wife’s personal effects, but it had become a nightly ritual, and she suspected he carried one or two of Muriel’s letters around with him too.
“You work,” Vivian said, hands on hips, “and while we aren’t entertaining as much, you attend one supper meeting after another, William.”
“It’s my duty.” He met her gaze only fleetingly, twitching at the blanket over his knees. “There’s a sense of urgency, Vivian, when one feels time is running out.”
“Hush.” She poured him a finger of brandy and brought it to him. “You’re simply tired and fretting over me and the fate of an entire nation. Fret a little for yourself, William Longstreet. I’ve no wish to become your widow.”
“You fret enough for both of us.” William sipped the brandy, but Vivian sensed it was more to placate her than because he enjoyed it. “There’s something else to fret about in the mail today, Vivian.”
“Anything serious?”
“One hopes not. Portia has taken it into her head to come up to Town for the Season.”
“I’ll refuse if you insist.” William’s tone was noncommittal. He did not want to refuse—did not want Portia’s enmity, probably. “Nothing must be allowed to upset you now, Vivian. Nothing.”
“You upset me.” She softened her words by patting the back of his veined hand. “I can’t face having this child without you, William, so no more late nights, and no more tearing around the city at all hours on foot. Please.”
“If you insist, my dear.”
Vivian’s alarm notched up at his complacent tone. “Don’t humor me, William.”
“I’ll be a good boy, Viv.” He smiled at her, a sincere smile that hinted at the charm he’d traded on as a younger man. “With Portia underfoot here, it will be hard not to haunt the offices of government.”
“She can help me sew baby clothes.”
William’s smile widened. “That’s diabolical. Muriel would have approved. You’re feeling well?”
He asked often, and she replied the same as she always did. “I’m fine. A little more prone to fatigue, but even that’s passing.”
William eyed her. “What does the physician say?”
“First babies show later.” Vivian busied her hands by poking at the fire. With Darius, she had discussed bodily functions and female biology openly and often. “In all other regards, things appear to be progressing normally.”
“Shall I convey that sentiment to young Mr. Lindsey?”
Vivian set the poker back on the hearth carefully, so as not to make a racket—also to buy her an instant to hide any reaction. “William?”
“I was young once too, Vivian.” William peered at the rejuvenated fire. “In his place, I’d want to know that my firstborn child, however conceived, was being carried in good health.”
