“I am happy for you, Vivvie. Profoundly, indescribably happy.” Not enough, but a truth, nonetheless. He brought her fingers to his lips, offered her a kiss, and withdrew his hand.
“I wanted you to be happy too, Darius.”
So she’d put William up to this outing, engineered a stroll on the patio, and utterly ambushed Darius’s best intentions. He loved her for it, even as he knew the rest of his life wouldn’t be adequate for him to recover from the emotions her sharing of happiness had engendered in his breast.
Vivian had composed all manner of foolish speeches once she’d decided Darius ought to know his child was thriving in the womb.
She and Darius could be friends—she was friends of a sort with some MPs who shared William’s politics.
She and Darius could be cordial—she was an earl’s daughter; he was an earl’s son. No one would remark it,
He might call on William just to be polite, and Vivian would pour. She’d poured a thousand cups of tea in aid of lesser ends, such as the good of the realm and the glory of old England.
Only to find, when Darius said not one word but merely shared a moonrise with her—the most beautiful thing he’d seen in months—that Darius had the right of it. They could be nothing cordial, friendly, or polite to each other. He might have the savoir faire and stamina for it; she did not.
William had said a little infatuation was acceptable, to be expected even, but part of Vivian’s wonder at her pregnancy had to do with becoming a person William knew not at all. For the first time, she had a privacy in her marriage to rival what William had in his memories of Muriel.
She respected his privacy now more than she had, and William extended to Vivian the same courtesy. He was all those things Vivian had tried to tell herself Darius could be—cordial, friendly, polite—which was fine. Vivian loved her husband, was grateful to him, and wished him only the best.
But for Darius Lindsey, the father of her child, her feelings were so much more complicated, inconvenient, and precious. She would accept every instance when their paths crossed and treasure the pain and delight of each meeting, for in Darius Lindsey, she’d found not just a man to respect and appreciate, but a man whom she could love.
The moon was clearing the horizon, spreading light in all directions even as its size seemed to diminish, when a woman’s laughter sounded out in the shadowed garden.
Beside her, right immediately beside her, Vivian felt Darius stiffen. Before he could make some polite comment to reestablish the picket lines, Vivian slipped her arm from his and rose.
“Shall we go in, Mr. Lindsey? The best of the moon’s display is over, and I would not want to cause my husband undue concern over my absence.”
His eyes widened, suggesting Vivian might have overstated her point. “I would never want Lord Longstreet to worry unnecessarily. A lady is always safe in my care.”
And much less.
“Shall we go in?” Darius managed to put some pugnacity into the way he offered her his arm. In no time at all, Vivian was back at William’s side, and Darius had disappeared into the smiling, bejeweled crowd.
“How fares Mr. Lindsey, Vivian?”
William’s question was kindly, his expression suggesting concern for Vivian—and even some for young Mr. Lindsey.
“He is all that is correct, William.”
William patted her hand and said nothing while the orchestra took up a gavotte. When the knot in Vivian’s chest was threatening to choke her, William said, without glancing down at her, “I’ll have the carriage brought around.”
Blanche Cowell was loose on the grounds—Darius would recognize her laughter anywhere—and all Darius could think was that he must not allow her to see him with Vivian. By the time he emerged from the safety of the card room, Vivian was nowhere to be seen, heard, or sniffed.
And neither was Leah, until he spotted her leaving the supper buffet on the arm of none other than Baron Hellerington.
The old goat must have come late and kept out of sight until he could accost his prey. As Darius made his way around the periphery of the ballroom, Hellerington parted from Leah with a bow and a damp, lingering kiss to her hand.
“Are you all right?” Darius peered down at Leah in concern. She had the indefinable stillness of a woman coping with internal tumult. “You look pale, and you’ve been thinking too hard.”
“Hellerington is going to talk to Papa.”
“God.” Darius ran a hand through his hair. “It would have to be him.”
“He’s titled, and he has some blunt, Dare.” Leah was tapping her foot, though not in time to the music. “And he’s desperate, which are the requisite qualities for any match Papa finds for me.”
“But Hellerington.” Darius spat the name. “It isn’t to be borne, Leah.”
“He and Papa will dicker,” Leah said, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself. “Something might develop while they do.”
“We live in that hope, feeble though it is. I do not like leaving you here to be preyed upon.” He scowled down at her to emphasize his point.
“I am largely ignored, Darius.” She put a touch of frost in her tone, enough for him to realize she’d like privacy to collect herself rather than more of his badgering presence. “And if you don’t ask that Windham girl to dance, the Season will be half over, and you’ll be wishing you had.”
He curbed the temptation to lecture and rant, bowed over her hand, and departed. He wasn’t about to dance twice with any woman he wasn’t closely related to—the notably single Lady Jenny Windham, for example—but he took himself off anyway, mostly to cool his temper.
The ball was well attended because the Season was officially under way, and among the crowd, Darius saw that indeed, Lord Valentine Windham’s friend, Nicholas Haddonfield, Viscount Reston, had deigned to join the fray. The man was noteworthy for his great height and the physique of a Viking blacksmith, and for his enthusiasm regarding women of a certain ilk.
Easy women, naughty women, even decent women seemed to enjoy Reston’s attentions. Now why couldn’t a fellow like that take Leah on as his wife? There was an earldom in the offing for Reston, the rumor being he’d promised his ailing father he’d marry this Season.
And when Darius handed his sister into the coach, he was quietly surprised that it was about Reston she inquired. Well, she could do worse. And if Hellerington’s coin spoke loudly enough, she
It did no good. Lucy was a snake, and she could strike from any angle, and Darius, God help him, was her prey of choice these days.
“Don’t tell me.” He seized the offensive as he strolled into her bedroom. “I’m late. My apologies, but Leah is bound to attend her entertainments until at least after supper, and I am bound to escort her.”
“Let your brother Amherst do it,” Lucy spat. “He’s the damned heir.”
She was in sufficiently rare form that he decided he’d placate her first—one last time—and take permanent leave of her thereafter.
“Trenton is only recently out of mourning, Lucy. He does his share. Then too, the matchmakers will swarm him should he show his face among decent ladies.”
