woman after his own heart, if he had one.
The note made no sense.
The little bottle of scent sat on Vivian’s dressing table, silent and mocking. Darius had been so… loving in the bookstore, and now this. Whatever game he was playing, Vivian wanted no part of it. Maybe he enjoyed the torment, maneuvering, and manipulation he indulged in with those other women, but it left Vivian feeling sick, sad, and heartsore.
The baby shifted, no longer the little fluttering sensation of months ago but a noticeable movement that applied a passing pressure to her innards.
Darius Lindsey was the father of her child, he’d brought her more pleasure and more joy than any other man, and he was hurting her in equal proportions. For the sake of their child, Vivian resolved to forget Darius Lindsey, to put him from her life, her mind, her hopes.
That kiss… and now this.
If he liked playing hot and cold, come here and go away, he could play it with his other women. Vivian had seen him a handful of times in the past five months, and he’d been cool to her on all but two occasions, and now this.
Enough. She had a child to think of, a husband in ailing health, and better things to do than hope she caught Darius Lindsey in an approachable mood.
Darius had felt a moment’s panic when Lucy had accosted him outside the bookshop.
“Portia Springer,” he’d said, thanking a gift for recalling details. “She isn’t up from the country often. Her husband is steward to a large estate.”
“She looks like your type.” Lucy’s frown was thoughtful. “A little used but holding up, and intent on getting what she wants. Can a steward’s wife afford to pay you well?”
“Why go there now?”
“Because London in the summer is pestilentially hot. Because I need to tend what few acres I have, and it’s almost time for haying. Because I damned well please to go.”
She attached herself to his arm and minced along beside him. “I forbid you to go.”
“Too damned bad,” he muttered, feeling her stiffen with outrage beside him. “Lucy, you do not own me, and my sister is safely married to Bellefonte, so sheathe your claws.”
“You have another sister,” Lucy snarled. “She can be tarred with the same brush.”
He resisted a flood of curses, because this vulnerability had not occurred to him. “Emily is as pure as the driven snow, and Wilton would call you out, did you offer her insult.”
“Wilton is an ass. Maybe Hellerington can be persuaded to take an interest in Emily. He likes little girls.”
He left her there, glaring daggers at his back in broad daylight, but then he’d gone home and written the most difficult note he’d ever penned, and it hadn’t even taken a single rough draft to get it right.
The confrontation solidified a resolve Darius had felt growing ever since he’d tucked Vivian into his traveling coach bound for London. She’d seen clearly what Darius himself only now grasped: The price of disporting with Lucy and Blanche was not his honor, but rather, his soul. Every single person Darius cared for—John, Leah, Trent, Vivian, and even the child she carried—was imperiled by Darius’s association with two women who regarded him as nothing more than an animated toy.
He had the determination; he had the courage; he had the desperation. He lacked only one final resource to see his plan set into motion, and he knew exactly where to find it. The time had come to ransom his soul back from hell.
So vast and varied were London’s commercial offerings that one no longer needed to make with one’s own hands each and every item a baby required. Vivian had embroidered receiving blankets and caps, knitted booties and shawls, and sewn dresses upon dresses for the unborn child, but there were a few things she had yet to procure.
A rattle. Every child needed a rattle, or several rattles.
A baby spoon, something in silver, not too ornate, but sized for a tiny mouth.
A little baby cup, also in silver, so it could be engraved upon the occasion of the child’s birth.
These purchases were of sufficient import to justify delaying a remove to Longchamps—these purchases, a growing concern for William’s health, and a reluctance to share a household again so soon with Portia.
That Darius Lindsey might yet be in Town was of no moment—unless Vivian were alone in her room late at night, sharing her bed with a particular brown scarf.
Vivian’s gaze traveled across a shop she’d patronized frequently to where a gentleman and a clerk were in conversation near a handsome bay hobbyhorse. The hairs on her nape prickled before her mind identified the speaker.
“The boy has been riding since I took him up before me as a babe. He needs…”
Vivian spoke up, though clearly Darius hadn’t spotted her yet. “He needs books, full of excellent stories about dragons and witches and trolls. He needs things to draw with, and a basket with a great fluffy pillow for his cat.”
Darius turned to her, expression inscrutable. “Madam?”
Today he was cool-Darius, though not cold-Darius. For an instant, she considered trying to be cold- Vivian.
Then discarded the notion. He looked thin to her, and tired, but not… she didn’t know what, but he was different. “Mr. Lindsey, isn’t it?”
“At your service, Lady Longstreet.” He bowed, and Vivian was very much aware of the shopkeeper watching their exchange.
“How old is the child you’re shopping for, Mr. Lindsey?”
He relaxed at her civil tone, and why not? His harpies were unlikely to accost him in a shop for children. Vivian would skewer them where they stood if they tried to.
Another queer start attributable to her delicate condition.
Darius took a step closer to her then checked himself. “John is rising seven and a curious fellow. I think you’d like him very much. He tries to exhibit the best manners possible under all circumstances.”
Oh, not this. Not veiled innuendos backed up by dark, pleading eyes.
“And does he succeed often enough to merit a lady’s praise?”
“I pray he does, and I’m sure his lapses are all well intended.”
She had no riposte sufficiently clever to convey that the lady’s feelings were slighted regardless of the well- mannered fellow’s intentions. When she might have signaled to her maid to gather up her purchases and complete her transactions, Darius took another step closer, and this was her undoing.
Carrying a child caused all manner of havoc with a lady’s sensibilities. She might be queasy, light-headed, fatigued, or unduly energized, wear a path to the necessary, and wake up at all hours with odd cravings.
In Vivian’s case, she had also acquired an astonishingly acute sense of smell. Darius’s unique scent came to her, promising pleasure, comfort, and passion in the middle of a children’s shop.
