tentatively put her own hand over his. He brought her knuckles to his lips, planted a kiss there, then drew her to her feet.
“We’ve put off the more delicate subjects,” he said as he led her over to the fire. There was a tea service waiting there, a kettle on a swing over the hearth, and two cozy chairs catching some of the fire’s heat.
She took a seat, all grace and composure, though his observation had made her eyes widen. “Isn’t a month long enough to sort through those?”
He considered what he wanted to ask her—regarding her intimate preferences, toys, games, fantasies—and then realized her elderly husband was likely asleep on the next floor up, and really, the discussion could wait.
“We can talk more later. If there is a later. You need to know I won’t hold you to this bargain.”
“What does that mean?” She motioned him into a seat and prepared the tea, her grace as soothing as the warmth of the hearth. “I’m to be your guest in Kent for a few weeks, but you’d take William’s coin and deceive the man?” She wrinkled her nose. “I won’t lie to my husband just for your gain, Mr. Lindsey. If I’m that unappealing, you need only…”
He leaned forward, placed a single finger to her lips, and shook his head.
“You appeal.” He could say that sincerely, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “You’d appeal to any man with red blood in his veins, but I’m suggesting a lady can change her mind.”
“Change her… Oh.” She looked intrigued then resigned. “Not this lady.” She added cream and sugar to his tea and passed it to him. “I’ve given my word, and if you change your mind, I’ll simply have William contact the next possibility on the list.”
“Who might that be?”
The name had him raising his eyebrows, because the man was a fortune-hunting bounder with no decorum when in his cups, which was nightly. “And if he won’t serve?”
“Is this necessary?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re prepared to ask another, and another, because William is intent on his plans, and there is no force of nature equal to William Longstreet when he is determined on his goals.”
Or Lady Longstreet, her tone implied, when she was determined on William’s goals.
“Then I will see you in Kent around the tenth of December.” Which was soon. Very soon. “I’m not sure if you should be insulted or reassured, but at least part of me will be looking forward to it.”
She sipped her tea delicately. “Part of you?”
“A man doesn’t seek to earn his coin in such a fashion, Lady Longstreet.” Darius rose rather than belabor what ought to be obvious. “Were I to say all of me looked forward to seeing you at my farm in Kent, then I’d be admitting I’ve not even a scintilla of gentlemanly honor left, wouldn’t I?”
She kept her seat, for which he accorded her tactical points. “Perhaps you would, but we weren’t going to be overly serious about this, were we? And in that regard, don’t you think you could call me Vivian?”
He reached down and traced his finger over the curve of her jaw, a slow, lingering touch he’d been imagining since he’d taken her hand in his at the table. Her skin was as soft as it looked, as smooth and pleasing to the touch as her soft daffodil scent was to the nose or her perfectly configured features were to the eye. And her hair would be…
“Vivian suits you,” he said. “Vivid, alive, vital. I will see you in a few weeks, but you have my direction should you change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind,” she said, setting her tea aside and getting to her feet. “I will lose my nerve and fret and dread and argue with William, but I won’t change my mind.”
“Taking it seriously already, Vivian?”
She went still at the sound of her name, and he could see in her expression genuine misgiving threatened her calm.
“A kiss for luck,” he suggested, bending his head to brush his lips across hers. He’d surprised her—and himself—when their entire evening had been politely correct, without flirtation or overtures of any kind. And he hadn’t meant this as an overture but rather as a reassurance. He was just a man, she was just a woman, and it would be… just sex.
Except it wasn’t just a kiss. She went up on her toes and slipped a hand through his hair, around the back of his head. She wasn’t as tall as she seemed, he realized when she tucked herself closer and brought her mouth back to his. She used the same slow, brushing approach he’d just shown her, but she lingered as their mouths joined, then sighed a little into his mouth.
Her body sighed too, sinking against him enough that he could feel her curves and planes and softness. He resisted the urge to hold her, to do more than let her press her mouth to his as if she couldn’t puzzle out what came next.
When she stayed just there, poised between ending the kiss and seeking more from it, he took the initiative from her and turned his face slightly away, so he could inhale the fragrance of her hair even as his arms came around her.
“It’s so odd,” she said, leaning into him. “I’m cheating on William, you’re poaching on another man’s preserves, but we’re… not.”
He tried to focus on her words, not on the soft, trusting abundance of her resting in his embrace. She sounded as bewildered as he felt, for her words were true.
He was crassly bought and paid for, a stud to service a highbred filly, a cicisbeo in the most vulgar, unflattering sense. A dancing bear of a sort, exploiting his own lusty nature for the simple expedient of coin.
But that kiss… it had been neither expedient nor crass nor vulgar.
He withdrew from her embrace, bowed punctiliously, and met her eyes, putting as much distance into his gaze as he could.
“Until I see you in Kent.” He left her standing there in her cozy little dining parlor, her index finger brushing at her lips, her eyes troubled.
She clearly sensed possibilities too, and in his gut, Darius knew he should bow out of the agreement. What should have been tawdry, or at best flirtatious, had been lovely, and no amount of sophisticated humor, good luck, or pragmatism was going to get them through this without somebody getting badly hurt.
Vivian let her guest see himself out—a rudeness she sensed he’d forgive—and retrieved her half-finished glass of wine from the table.
The meal had gone as well as it might have, right up until she’d given in to a building curiosity about what intimacies with Mr. Lindsey would feel like.
Oh, she knew the mechanics. Her older sister, Angela, had made sure of that before Vivian was even of an age to marry, for it was imperative a girl keep the blunt realities in mind when choosing a husband.
But of the actual getting through the business… Angela had said her wedding night with Jared had been sweet and comfortable. Vivian had seen Mr. Darius Lindsey several times in the park in recent weeks and watched him closely on each occasion—spied on him, really.
Tall, intense, dark, lean, even striking, was how she’d describe him, but he was in need of coin, and he’d be discreet. For those reasons, he’d been her choice for this scheme of William’s. The other candidates…
There had been only two others, men raised as spares—William’s requirement—who resembled the youthful William in some particulars, who could be counted on for discretion and honorable behavior toward the child, if any resulted. For her conscience, Vivian had wanted plain, unremarkable candidates. For his vanity, William had insisted on good-looking young men. He claimed no child of his name was going to be burdened with merely average looks, and Vivian—as she usually did—acceded to her husband’s wishes.
Mr. Lindsey would keep his handsome mouth shut; of that, Vivian was as certain as she could be, and he’d put William’s coin to good use. But having seen Darius Lindsey across ballrooms and parks and streets, having assessed him at some length, she was now concerned she’d just bid too high on a horse she might like watching in the auction pen but never be able to control confidently under saddle.
