forcing herself to truly see the hideous, calf-scours dress. “I will be from home, I will not let him accost me, and I will give you some time, Darius, to deal with him. I will give you whatever time William can spare us.”
The coach bumped around the turn into the alley that led to the Longstreet mews, while Darius tried to content himself with a partial victory. Vivian did not want to put herself in Thurgood’s hands, clearly. She wanted Darius to send the bounder packing, but she had to be a lioness in her decisions. Darius had only as long as William lived to find a way to rescue the lady and the child from the grasp of unrelenting evil.
As it happened, this meant he had no time at all.
Muriel’s death had been different, or maybe each death was different. When Muriel had died, Vivian’s grief had been absorbed in concern for William and his sons. Vivian had been the one fretting over the surviving spouse, the one trying to tend to logistics so Muriel’s family could manage their bereavement.
Now Vivian was stumbling through the day, seeing all the places William wasn’t, hearing the silences that should have been filled with his voice or the sound of his shuffling gait. Letters of condolence poured in, and Vivian would have sat staring at them except that Darius’s sister had shown up and taken Vivian in hand.
Leah, Countess of Bellefonte, embraced Vivian with the sturdy snugness Vivian had associated exclusively with Darius, whom she’d seen only fleetingly in the week since the christening. They’d arrived at Longstreet house to find Dilquin quietly distrait, William having slipped away during the christening itself.
Darius had managed the immediate, unthinkable logistics, instructed the servants to find the black armbands and air the crepe, ordered the death notice delayed by a day so as not to overshadow the christening, and arranged for Angela to come to Vivian’s side.
And then he had disappeared, though Leah assured her he would attend the final services out in Oxfordshire.
This was some comfort, but not enough. Not when twice Vivian had remained above stairs while Dilquin had turned Thurgood away. The strictures applicable to early mourning meant she wouldn’t be venturing onto the street such that he could waylay her in public, but even those strictures expected a woman to attend services.
Thurgood had already accosted her in a house of worship once, putting Vivian in mind of all the times the women Darius so loathed had come upon him without warning.
How had he borne it? How had he borne it without doing them bodily harm?
Vivian missed Darius terribly with a low, ferocious ache that included fear for his welfare and abject terror regarding the future. She missed William, too, even as she admitted relief that his suffering was at an end, and greater relief that Darius had sent Lady Leah and her exceptionally robust husband to stand watch over Vivian—and over the baby. From a woman, there was a different kind of comfort, and Vivian treasured the generosity of it.
Lady Leah made lists: There were notes to write, flowers to order, notices to send out, and crepe to arrange about the house on mirrors, portraits, and windows. Leah also oversaw the transformation of Vivian’s wardrobe, and prevented the entire lot from being dyed an ugly, flat black.
She gave the servants orders Vivian could only guess at, and had Vivian’s trunks packed for the journey to Longchamps, where William would be buried with his wife and sons.
“This is perfect.”
Thurgood Ainsworthy looked over the letter supposedly sent by Mr. Able Springer, though the hand was Portia’s.
“Did you say something, Good?” His wife rolled over and blinked innocent blue eyes at him, but at thirty- three, Ariadne was showing some wear. Fine lines radiated out from her eyes when the morning sun hit her face, and a softness would soon creep in under her chin.
Ah, well, another year or two and Thurgood could be looking for a bride elsewhere, his pockets full of the settlements Vivian would bring him when he sold her to her next spouse. A cit this time, or a nabob. Some grasping fellow who needed the cachet of a pretty, fertile, titled wife.
Thurgood set the letter aside and settled back among the pillows of a truly enormous bed. On more than one occasion—Ariadne occasionally visited her sister in Hampshire—Thurgood had been joined in that bed by no less than three other women at the same time. A man needed ingenuity to keep them all occupied, and Thurgood prided himself on an abundance of ingenuity.
He ran a hand over Ariadne’s plump breast. “Would you mind if Vivian came to stay with us for a bit once William’s will has been read? She’s a new widow, and all the Longstreet properties hold sad memories for her. The boy will likely be in Able Springer’s keeping, and Vivian will be at loose ends.”
“Vivian?” Another blink. “Whatever you say, Good. You’re decent to look out for her this way.”
“She’s family,” Thurgood said, giving Ariadne’s nipple a tweak. “Our duty is clear, and I wouldn’t think of turning my back on her. Now, roll over, love, get that pillow under you, and spread your legs for me.”
“My stomach, Good?” There was a hint of peevishness in her tone, just a hint.
“Unless you want more children to spoil your lovely figure, my sweet.”
He’d realized long ago that his wife looked a little like Vivian, though Ariadne was afflicted with neither Vivian’s independence of spirit nor much native intelligence. She could bear a prodigious grudge, though, which meant the marriage offered at least a nominal challenge to a man of broad and varied amorous interests.
Thurgood passed her a pillow, closed his eyes, pictured his stepdaughter’s lush figure, and envisioned a pleasant and well-heeled future drawing ever closer—for him.
A tap on Vivian’s door interrupted her midpace before her fire.
“Vivvie?” Very softly.
She went to the door and drew Darius into her sitting room by the wrist when he would have malingered in the corridor. For the three days since William’s interment, the dratted man had lurked at Longchamps like a curate in training, barely addressing her and never lingering in the same room with her. She had stooped to desperate measures and put a note in his hand before retiring after dinner.
“I wasn’t sure you would come, blast you and all your decorum.” Perhaps a widow ought not to speak thus, and perhaps a widow ought not to plaster herself against a man with whom she was wroth.
His arms tightened around her with comforting speed. “Are you well, Vivvie? You barely said a word at tea. Is the baby all right?”
She put her hand over his mouth and resumed clinging to him. “You’re leaving tomorrow. Were you simply going to bow over my hand and condole me on my loss again, Darius?”
In her own voice, Vivian heard exasperation bordering on panic. Even lionesses were entitled to exasperation.
He stepped back and kept his hands on her shoulders. “My condolences are sincere. You’re up and down all night with the baby, you have my sister and her husband underfoot as guests, Thurgood lurks we know not where, and I would not trespass on your bereavement.”
She searched his gaze, but he enfolded her against him before her scrutiny revealed any new insights. “You spend a great deal of time in the nursery, Darius.”
“Nicholas does too. He likes babies.” There was bemusement in this observation, suggesting the baby enjoyed having two grown men fuss at him.
“Will is sleeping more, going longer without waking at night.”
Darius turned her under his arm and walked her toward her bedroom. “He’s growing, so he can take more at a feeding, but you did not summon me here to brag about your son, Vivvie.”
“You called him our son, not long ago.”
Without her quite intending it, they ended up sitting on the bed. Or maybe she had intended, had wished for it—for almost a year.
Darius laced his fingers with hers. “In my heart, he is our son. He’s William’s son too, and yours. I have not yet put Thurgood to rout, Vivvie, if that’s the point of this interview. I have plans in train, and I’m repairing to Town to see to their completion.”
