Darius: Lord of Pleasures (3 page)

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.

Darius Lindsey wouldn’t merely behave honorably toward a child, he’d be fiercely protective. Vivian knew his sister Leah, knew the lengths Lindsey had gone to in his sister’s interests, and knew what a hash of scandal and misery Lindsey had dealt with—still dealt with—on behalf of a mere sister.

For a child, he’d fight to the death, and for that reason—for that reason only—he’d been Vivian’s choice.

She had chosen him as a father to her child, and if that meant she had to endure him briefly as an intimate partner—the word
lover
seemed too sentimental by half—then endure him she would. But it wouldn’t be sweet or comfortable. Not with him.

***

“You’ve seen our guest out?” William looked up from his reading to see Vivian standing in the doorway. She’d dressed modestly for the evening, which he’d expect of her. Vivian Longstreet was that rara avis, a good girl. Muriel had been right about that. Muriel had asked William to look after Vivian, but as his second marriage had matured, William suspected Muriel had put Vivian up to looking after him, too.

How he missed his Muriel, and how she’d delight in the way matters were unwinding at the close of William’s useful years. He’d often told Muriel she should have been a man, and Muriel had thought it a fine compliment.

“Mr. Lindsey was a charming if somewhat reserved dinner companion.” Vivian closed the door to William’s sitting room. “How are you feeling?”

“I am all curiosity.” William patted the place beside him on the sofa, but Vivian pulled up a hassock and angled it around to face him. “You have that look about you, Vivian, as if you’ve been thinking something to death.”

“How ill are you, William? Should I be worried?”

The question was insightful, and he should have anticipated it. “I’m not ill in the sense you mean. I am sick to death of Hubert Dantry’s stupid parliamentary bills, and weary of life, but I’m not contagious. What does it mean, that Mr. Lindsey was reserved? If he offered you any unpleasantness whatsoever, Vivian, I’ll have a talk with him he won’t forget.”

“He was as pleasant as a serious man can be.” Vivian looked preoccupied rather than offended. “And you’ve talked with him quite enough, thank you.”

“Now he’s serious and reserved both.” William grimaced, thinking of the tedium of schemes that came unraveled. “Did he offend, Vivian? Make you doubt your choice?”

“Doubt my choice, yes. I’ll be doubting my choice when your son takes his own bride, William Longstreet. I know if I let you, you’ll list any number of cronies and familiars who raised children conceived by similar schemes, but I can’t like it.”

William set his letters aside. “I know you don’t like it, and it isn’t my preferred choice either, but you’ve met the man. Is his person offensive?”

“He’s taller than I thought. Bigger.”

“Believe it or not, child, back in the day, I was an impressive specimen, though perhaps not quite as tall as Lindsey. He tends to his toilette adequately?”

“He’s clean, and he uses some exotic scent.”

“Oil of fragrant cananga,” Lord Longstreet said. “I find it pleasant, incongruously so, given his saturnine personality. You know, Vivian, you needn’t spend much time with him when you’re down in Kent. Bring your books and journals, have the
Gazette
sent down, ride out when the weather allows. You can limit your dealings with him to fifteen minutes at the end of the day.”

“William…” Her tone was as repressive as it got with him, so he paused to consider her. Young people today were both overtaken with sentiment and constrained by propriety. It was an odd world, and William, for one, was glad he wouldn’t be spending much more time in it.

“Vivian.” His tone suggested marshaled patience, as he’d intended it to. “You are young. He’s comely and willing. For God’s sake, enjoy him.”

“It doesn’t seem right. You’re asking a lot of me, William, but do you realize what you’re asking of him?”

She
would
raise this. “I’m asking him to have his pleasures of my pretty wife for several weeks and be paid handsomely for it,” William said a trifle impatiently. “This isn’t a grand tragedy, Vivian, it’s a little holiday in the country that will solve many problems for people who are neither better nor worse than most of St. Peter’s clientele, provided you catch.”

“There is that detail.” She rose, pausing to tuck his lap robe more snugly around him. “And that much, at least, we can leave in the hands of the Almighty, in whom we are regularly exhorted to trust. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Sweet dreams, my dear.” William smiled absently as she left and returned his attention to the letters Muriel had written him when he’d first gone off to Vienna without her. Within minutes, he had mentally turned back the clock thirty years, when the world was a less complicated, more exciting place, and wives understood that loyalty was a far more meaningful asset in a spouse than simple-minded fidelity.

***

“Join me in a nightcap?” Trent Lindsey held up the decanter so the brandy caught the firelight.

Darius nodded, shrugging out of his greatcoat. “I’m surprised you’re still awake.”

“Laney’s cutting a new tooth.” Trent yawned then poured them each two fingers.

“I thought she already did that.” Darius accepted his drink and sank onto the sofa facing the fire. Everybody, it seemed, could afford adequate heat except him.

Trent settled in beside him. “She has been doing that since just before we buried her mother. I’m told she’s particularly good at it.”

“It has been a year since Paula died, hasn’t it?” Darius lifted his glass an inch in a personal salute to a long, hard year all around.

“Just this week. Suppose we can take down the black, though I’m dreading it.”

“You
dread
putting off mourning?”

“I do.” Trent thunked the stockinged version of two large male feet onto the low table. “I do not want to remarry, Dare. Not ever, but these children need a mother.”

“You’re managing,” Darius said, but in truth, Trent looked like hell. He was as tall as Darius and even more robust, typically, but since his wife’s death, Trent had been slowly wearing away, losing muscle and life, and, Darius feared, the will to go on.

“I’m managing.” Trent yawned again. “You must be deranged to be out sporting around on a night like this.”

“I had a dinner engagement.” Darius sipped his drink, finding it inferior to what he himself stocked, which was puzzling. “How much do you know of Lord William Longstreet?”

“Viscount Longstreet is one of the senior members of the Lords.” Trent crossed his feet, getting comfortable with the recitation. “He has at least ten years on our sire, maybe closer to twenty, and he’s universally respected.”

“What about the wife?”

“Second wife,” Trent said, suggesting the heir to the Wilton earldom still bothered to keep himself informed of these things. “He married his first wife’s companion, but rather than be considered a pathetic old billy goat, he was regarded as a white knight. The girl’s family was unable to provide much of a send-off for her, and the daughters of earls marry where they must.”

“Daughters of earls?” Vivian was a lady then, had been from the moment of her birth. The notion… rankled.

“The title was…” Trent frowned, sipped his drink, then shook his head. “I can’t recall, but the fellow died, the title and means went to some cousin, and the countess remarried one of those grasping younger sons who enjoys flaunting his titled wife. He had plans for the daughters, and actually matched the first one up with some… a printer, I think, or publisher. I forget which.”

Darius set his drink aside rather than consume inferior spirits simply for their ability to dull his senses. “Teething makes a man forgetful. And the other daughter?”

“She upped and went into service when she was eighteen.” Trent closed his eyes. “That’s how Lord Longstreet met her. Damned lot of work, if you ask me, taking on a wife young enough to be one’s granddaughter.”

“She’d be done teething.”

“Not if she were my granddaughter.” Trent settled a little more heavily against Darius’s side. “So why were you keeping such august company, Dare? You thinking of running for a seat?”

“Assuredly not. It’s all I can do to manage my one little farm and keep up with Leah’s social schedule. I have no coin to campaign on.”

“I’m out of mourning now,” Trent said sleepily. “I can help with squiring Leah about and so forth.”

“You’ll need new evening finery. You must have lost two stone, Trent.”

“Teething.” Trent nodded, not opening his eyes. “What are you doing for the holidays, little brother? Will you join us here?”

A pang lanced Darius’s chest. He adored Trent’s children, though he ought not to be permitted around them.

“I’ll bide in Kent. I can use the peace and quiet, and you’ve reminded me you’ll be free to escort Leah about, should she need it, for a few weeks.”

Trent opened his eyes and frowned. “Why doesn’t Wilton take his own daughter about?”

“You’d wish him on Leah? The only time she gets out from under his eye is when she has an invitation to some ball or musicale.”

“She’s received, then?”

“She’s received. Not exactly welcomed.”

“Society has a damned long memory,” Trent groused. “The poor thing has been back from Italy for several years now.”

“But a duel was allegedly fought in her honor, and the only thing that allows her admittance at all is our father’s title. She’s also too old and too self-effacing to threaten anybody’s darling daughter.”

“Makes one want to fight a duel in truth and blow the ears off Polite Society.”

“You’re teething,” Darius said charitably. “We’ll make allowance for that remark.”

“See that you do.” Trent was soon snoring gently on Darius’s shoulder, a comforting, warm weight on a cold, confusing night. Darius rose without disturbing his brother, covered him up with an afghan, and departed for his final stop of the night. This one would take some time, unfortunately, but it provided the coin he needed to go on. So… despite the cold, the dark, and the bitter resistance in his soul, he let himself into the back gate of Blanche Cowell’s townhouse, used his key, and silently slipped up to her room. As he divested himself of his coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, he heard her stirring behind her bed curtains.

“You are late.”

“Be glad I fit you into my schedule, Blanche.” He sat to remove his boots and stockings, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and went on with the routine of undressing in a woman’s bedroom while she watched.

“Stop.” Blanche emerged from the bed, a flannel night robe belted tightly around her waist, her red hair cascading about her in disarray. “Light more candles first.”

He obeyed. He was paid to obey—up to a point. Blanche delighted in defining that point as unpleasantly as she could.

“Shirt next.” Blanche walked around him, considering the merchandise as she did. “Breeches last.”

Her bedroom wasn’t cold, thank God, because Blanche Cowell—
Lady
Blanche Cowell—wasn’t about to be uncomfortable while seeking her pleasures. Darius stood naked while she perused her human toy; then her eyes landed on his semierect cock.

“You pretend indifference, Darius, but I can see you’re only half succeeding.” She smiled a little while she said it, and Darius’s heart sank. He hated it when she smiled, but to show anything besides indifference would violate both common sense and the rules of their game.

“I am not at all indifferent to your coin.” He scratched his chest and yawned—his niece was teething; he was entitled to some fatigue. “If you intend I earn it tonight by simply letting you gawk, then gawk away.”

“You are so arrogant.” Blanche advanced on him, and only as she came into the light did he see she had a riding crop in her right hand. It was a short, heavy-handled jumping bat, and the sight of it gave him relief. Blanche’s dithering over their choice of activities was more tedium than he could bear at this hour.

In his mind, he had names for her various diversions. Tonight they would play Naughty Pony, one of her less demanding inventions.

“On your hands and knees, Darius.” She caressed his thighs with the crop then flicked the lash over his most vulnerable parts. He permitted it long enough to make the point that she was not intimidating him, then dropped to his knees before the fire.