Darius: Lord of Pleasures

“My lady, are you well?” He took the last step to her side and slipped an arm around where her waist used to be. “When did you last eat, Lady Longstreet?”

Darius as a paramour was a force of nature, an overwhelmingly skilled and astute bed partner who could swamp a woman’s sense completely by conjuring pleasure upon pleasure. Darius as the worried father of her child had Vivian wishing she could manufacture a convincing swoon just to keep the potent concern simmering in his dark eyes.

“I had a proper breakfast.” A light breakfast, the most prudent way to start her day when the very scent of William’s bacon still made her queasy.

“You nibbled dry toast hours ago and washed it down with weak tea. You.” Darius waved a hand at the maid. “Her ladyship and I are going for an ice. Take her purchases back to Longstreet House and meet us at Gunter’s.” He passed the girl enough coin for hackney fare halfway to Paris, and paused to inspect Vivian.

“You’re not arguing with me, Lady Longstreet. One is encouraged to think impending motherhood might have turned you up biddable.”

He did not sound as if he were entirely teasing, but an ice… she’d been longing for a nice tart barberry ice, craving one, and she hadn’t even known it. “An ice would be acceptable.”

He escorted her from the shop, the picture of a young man performing a friendly courtesy, while Vivian tried to put a label on what she was feeling.

“Cheated.”

“Viv—I beg your pardon, Lady Longstreet?”

As they sauntered toward Berkeley Square, the street was not particularly busy, and for some reason Darius appeared willing to stroll along, arm in arm, despite any harpies who might pop out of doorways or passing coaches.

“I feel cheated.”

No immediate reply, though Vivian could feel Darius thinking. Then, very softly, “By me, Vivvie?”

He would leap to that conclusion. “Not by you, by the circumstances. I should have gone to that shop with you, to choose something for John, to find a baby spoon, rattle, and a silver cup. I should be complaining to you about not being able to see my feet, and I should be wrinkling my nose at your bacon every morning.”

He gave her an odd smile as they walked along, suggesting this was not a queer start, it was something else, something dear to him.

“Don’t stop there,” he said, patting her knuckles. “I should be rubbing your feet and your aching back at the end of the day. You should curse me roundly for costing you your figure and then ask me if you’re still beautiful—you are, you know. More beautiful than ever, which shouldn’t be possible.”

They got the entire way to Berkeley Square, cataloging her inconveniences and insecurities, and the listing of them—to him, only to him—eased something in Vivian’s soul even as the entire conversation made her ache terribly for what would never be.

“I positively loathe the scent of William’s bacon, but he’s gotten so thin I can hardly deny him what sustenance he takes.”

“Take a tray in your room before you come down to breakfast, Vivvie. Join him for tea, and he probably won’t notice you’re not eating.”

Good advice. Over two ices served under the maples—one barberry and one vanilla for her, from which Darius poached not a single bite, and one raspberry for him—Vivian learned to put her feet up as much as possible, to use pillows creatively to assist her to more comfortable sleep, and to walk as much as possible to prepare for the birth.

“How do you know these things, Darius? Did you learn them with John’s mother?”

His expression shifted, becoming sad.

Why had it never occurred to Vivian that Darius might have been in love with the boy’s mother? And yet… something he’d said about Vivian’s child being the only child he’d sire came back to her.

“The Continent is a more enlightened place regarding childbirth.” He held up a forkful of his raspberry ice. “One bite, Vivvie, to bring the color back to your cheeks.”

She obliged, knowing he was distracting her. By the look in his eyes, he knew she knew. For a few minutes, he pushed raspberry ice around with his fork.

“John has gone to spend the summer with Leah and Bellefonte.”

The way he said it, softly, as if the words hurt to even speak, broke Vivian’s heart.

“Darius, I am so sorry. To send your own—”

He shook his head and set the little bowl of ice from him. “He’s not my son, which is what you were about to say, and he’s not Leah’s or Trent’s either.” He glanced around, maybe taking inventory of the other customers, maybe looking for courage. “John is a half brother. Wilton mustn’t know that, not ever, and Reston—or rather, Bellefonte, now that his father has died—can keep him safer than I can. I did what I thought was best for the boy, at least for now.”

He’d no doubt repeated that litany to himself endlessly. The only person he’d allowed close, the person he seemed to love most in the whole world, and now this.

“I need your handkerchief, Mr. Lindsey.”

He smiled a sweet smile and waved a little square of linen at her. “You are the dearest woman. John is very happy. Trent is sending his children out to Belle Maison for a summer outing too. I’m promised regular letters.”

“But you’re alone,” she said, blotting at her eyes even as the scent on the handkerchief ripped at her composure further. “I hate being in this condition. I have no dignity, I have no airs and graces, I have—”

Cold and sweetness bumped against her lips. “Your ice is melting, Lady Longstreet. It will taste sweeter for thawing a little.”

Damn him. Bless him. She took the bite he offered and took courage from the simple affection with which Darius regarded her. “Do not lecture me about queer starts, Darius Lindsey. I will not have it.”

“When do you repair to Longchamps?”

The change of subject was intended as a kindness. Vivian wasn’t having any of that either. “Are those women still plaguing you, sir?”

The look he sent her was chilly indeed. “I have every confidence my path will depart from theirs very, very soon, though at present I’m told they’re each rusticating.”

It wasn’t what she had expected to hear and wasn’t at all what she’d wanted to hear, either. The entire encounter palled, because very soon was no comfort at all, and had those women not been rusticating, Vivian would not now be enjoying Darius’s company.

He sent John away but did not put from him the women who tormented him, and to all appearances, he avoided Vivian except for chance encounters.

She should have him summon a cab immediately and hope they didn’t run into each other again for a good long while.

“I’d like another ice. Chocolate, I think, and you’re not to steal even a bite of my treat.”

His gaze dropped to her belly, and his smile was not sweet in the least. Nor was it cool. “Bit late for that, isn’t it, Vivvie?”

He crossed the street to order her a third ice without further comment, only to stop in his tracks as he reemerged from the shop and a stylish lady with reddish hair came swanning up to his side.

“Why, Mr. Lindsey! What a lovely surprise.”

He did not even glance at Vivian, seemed determined not to glance at her, in fact. Vivian balled his handkerchief up and stuffed it into her reticule, signaled for her maid, and quitted the square without sparing him a glance either.

The prudent course was obvious: there could be no more meetings with Darius Lindsey, not by chance, not by design, and not by anything in between. Vivian vowed she’d leave for Longchamps in the morning—and stay there.