Darius: Lord of Pleasures

Ten

In the two weeks and three days since he’d seen Vivian in the park, Darius had become a master at the game he privately called “What I Should Have Said.” This game consisted of endless mental rehashings of his short encounter with Vivian and endless variations on the winning answer: he should have said not one damned thing; he should have cut her utterly.

He’d failed that round and admitted in hindsight that such a purely coldhearted approach was beyond him, so he’d graduated to Round Two anyway, which he thought of as “What I’ll Say Next Time.”

Knowing full well there couldn’t be a next time.

“There you are.” Lucy’s voice was low and hard. “You’re late again, and believe me, I have about had it with you, Darius.”

“I am abjectly sorry to have discommoded you,” he drawled. Her eyes widened in astonishment then narrowed in what he recognized as anticipated pleasure. “Domestic obligations called that couldn’t wait.” Then too, William’s first payment had yet to show up, and a man inured to disappointment had to accept that it might never arrive.

“Insolent.” She looked him up and down. “Get up to my room and have yourself on my bed in five minutes.”

“As my lady wishes.” His tone was even more indifferent than he’d intended, and Lucy’s eyes took on an unholy gleam. As he made his way to her room, he felt a crushing fatigue radiating out from his middle, almost as if he were wrung out from a stomach flu or a long footrace over steep terrain. He quickly shed his garments and got comfortable facedown on Lucy’s bed. He was careful to put his clothes where he could see them—he didn’t trust Lucy not to hide them or damage them, and they cost a pretty penny. He also unlatched her balcony doors before she arrived, because locking him in would seem a fine game to her in her present mood.

He knew this waiting period was intended to create anticipation in him, or anxiety. For Lucy, the two were closely related, but for him, the temptation to steal a catnap was taking precedence. He’d been out past midnight with his sister at one of the few early balls that would crop up until the Season began in earnest. It was three in the morning—a full hour later than Lucy had summoned him—and he wouldn’t see his own bed until dawn.

Lucy swished into the room and secured a silk scarf around his wrist. “So what have you to say for yourself, Darius?” She pulled it tight and knotted it to the bedpost. “You disappear and leave no word when you’ll return. You ignore my first two notes and then show up tonight an hour late?” She gave the second scarf a yank on the last word, and Darius realized she expected an answer.

“One usually spends the holidays with family, Lucy.” Darius made a show of yawning. She’d tied his hands, and he couldn’t politely cover his mouth. “You are not my family.”

“I’m not,” she agreed, disdaining to secure his feet. “Crouch up.”

He complied—Lucy had a fascination for his fundament, God help him.

“You’ve been rude.” Her hand came down hard, a stinging, loud slap of flesh on flesh that Darius found not as bracing as it usually was. “You’re inconsiderate, your manners are atrocious, and you’ll regret this lapse.” She whaled on him in a similar vein, and Darius turned his attention to the task of producing an erection for her entertainment. When she untied him and spread herself for his further attentions, she’d expect to see a nice hard cock. From her perspective, the idea that he wasn’t allowed to swive her with it made his suffering more intense, which meant his remuneration was earned.

So…

For the first time in his memory, Darius had to work at gaining an erection. He succeeded only by using the friction of the bedcovers against his skin as a stimulus, for sheer determination gained him little. He writhed convincingly against the silk sheets, relieved when his flesh eventually rose at the simple glide of the material over his groin. Fortunately, Lucy’s hand had delivered all the punishment it was capable of, though Darius was required to wear the scarves around his neck like a collar and leash. By the time he’d brought her to her first orgasm, his erection had faded to a brief memory. By her second, he realized Vivian had been right, and he truly could not do this again. By her third, he was nearly asleep on his knees.

“It’s a financial matter.” Darius watched Worth Kettering tidy up an oddly elegant French escritoire. The desk looked like it would crumble to gilded and lacquered matchsticks if Kettering simply banged a fist on it. Kettering himself was large, dark, beautifully attired in various shades of dark blue, and possessed of curiously tidy mannerisms.

“Most matters entrusted to solicitors are financial,” Kettering replied, lacing his fingers and settling his hands before him on the desk. Big hands, though clean and capable looking.

“Let me be blunt.” Darius rose and went to the window. “If my father gets word of this, he’ll use it to destroy me.”

“Your father being Wilton, whom Lord Amherst had the misfortune to be sired by as well?”

“The same.” Darius’s mouth quirked up at one side at Kettering’s honesty.

“I understand the need for discretion, Mr. Lindsey, and can assure you your brother wouldn’t have sent you here had he any reason to doubt me.”

“He told you I’d inquired?”

“Mentioned you might be around, and warned me to attend to your situation personally, without clerks, juniors, or other intermediaries.”

“Older brothers meddle.”

“Younger brothers prevaricate.”

A short, considering silence all around, and then, “I want to set up a trust for a child.” Darius turned his back to the other man, as if watching a beer wagon snarl up traffic in both directions was of great moment. “The child has yet to be born.”

“A conditional trust, then.” Kettering’s voice gave nothing away. “What will the contents of the trust be?”

On the street below, the swearing and insults began in earnest, complete with raised fists. “Coin provided by the lady’s husband. Substantial coin.” The first installment of which had arrived by unliveried private messenger, to Darius’s shamefully intense relief.

“I see.” A pause. Darius heard papers being shuffled. “I don’t see. You’re setting up a trust for another man’s child?”

“Legally, yes.” Darius turned from the farce below and watched as Kettering parsed the realities.

“Is the child’s legal father to know?”

“I don’t care if he knows. I care only that Wilton doesn’t and Polite Society doesn’t. My sisters need spouses, and this is the kind of juicy little aside that could queer their chances.”

Kettering took up a quill pen and began stroking his fingers over the white plume. “How much coin are we discussing?”

Darius named a figure, and Kettering’s brow shot up. “Not such a little aside after all. I’ll need details.”

“Here are the most pertinent details: you will not have the trust document copied by a clerk, will not leave the file where the clerks can find it, will not tell them I’m a client of yours.”

“My staff is trustworthy, but yes, if those are your conditions, I agree to them.”

“Those are some of my conditions.” Darius went back to his window, hating the necessity of discussing Vivian’s personal life with anyone, even Kettering, who was rumored to rival the tomb for his ability to keep confidences. “Another is that I pay you in cash, not bank draft, and I deposit the contents of the trust in your hands, also in cash.”

“That is a deuced lot of cash. Why not use bearer bonds?”

“I’m being paid in cash.” Darius felt the silence behind him grow and intensify as Kettering no doubt put the puzzle pieces together.

“Why didn’t you just have the husband put funds into a trust?” Kettering spoke from Darius’s elbow. For a big man, he’d moved without a sound, sneaking being perhaps a required talent for his kind.

“Because the funds had to leave the man’s estate.” Darius rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “A man’s life can end at any moment, so the funds had to be legally transferred into other hands, lest they become tied up in his affairs and subject to scrutiny upon his death.”

Kettering snorted. “Scrutiny? You mean controversy, and likely hung up to dry in Chancery for all the world to see for years on end as a result.”

“It’s your profession, not mine.”

Mr. Kettering refrained from commenting on what Darius’s profession must be, and began asking the questions Darius knew he had to answer. Names, dates, exact amounts, and conditions. The document would be straightforward enough, leaving a tidy sum in Vivian’s hands, or in Kettering’s hands for the benefit of Vivian and her firstborn child, should Vivian remarry. The trust was revocable only by the creator, that worthy soul being Darius, and the principle invested, some in the five percents, some in ventures of Kettering’s choosing.

Hashing through all the what-ifs and in-the-event-ofs took two hours, but Darius left satisfied he’d done what honor demanded.

He couldn’t claim he’d behaved without self-interest—not that he’d expect that of himself. Some of William’s first installment had gone to liquidation of immediate debts, and some of the second would go to enhancements at Averett Hill. If there were a third installment, a portion of that sum would go to a trust for John, because Trent’s money was largely tied up in trusts for his children, and Darius never wanted John scrabbling for necessities, as Darius had been for his entire adult life.

Vivian wasn’t lying in wait for Darius, exactly, but she did make it her business to quietly learn where his quarters were, and to frequent the shops closest to his neighborhood. She also went riding as often as the weather permitted, which was hit and miss, at least for most of February. She listened rather more carefully than she had previously to idle gossip when she made calls on the wives of William’s various associates.

She heard no mention of the Earl of Wilton’s younger son, though she did hear the older was out of mourning, and perhaps once again in search of a bride.

By the time March rolled around and Vivian’s menses were absent for the third time, she’d all but given up hope of seeing Darius again by chance. Still, she’d gotten in the habit of taking Bernice out for a hack in the park, and in another few weeks her riding habits wouldn’t fit. So when the weather moderated a trifle, Vivian was again hacking along the Ladies’ Mile when she spotted a pair of riders ahead, moving along at the walk.

She knew that piebald gelding—or thought she did.

The rider was female, petite, blond, and unfamiliar to her, though there on the big chestnut sat none other than Darius Lindsey.

This hurt, physically and emotionally, to see him with a young lady—a very young lady—smiling and enjoying a day that whispered of spring. Whoever she was, she was on Darius’s personal mount, the one reserved for him, always available to him.

Now Vivian understood why Darius hadn’t wanted them to run across each other: not because he wanted shut of her, necessarily, but because even though he was shut of her, he sought to spare her sensibilities.

Vivian drew Bernice down to the walk and made as if to pass the pair, when the mare decided to turn up friendly. She whickered at Skunk, who stopped, planted his hooves, and turned a curious eye on the mare.

The blonde offered a cheerful smile. “Good morning. You will excuse my mount, but he has a mind of his own, much like his owner.”

“Good morning.” Vivian would have edged Bernice forward, but the way the horses were positioned, that would have meant brushing stirrup to stirrup past Darius.

“That’s a lovely mare,” the blonde said. “I told my brother I’d get along better with a mare.”

“Tell your father,” Darius said. “It’s his stables that lack a suitable lady’s mount and require that you borrow my horse if you’re to go for a safe hack.”

“A generous brother.” Vivian addressed her words to the blonde, lest Darius see the relief in her smile. “You must be Lady Emily.”

Emily turned a questioning glance on her brother. “Darius? Where are your manners?”

“Lady Longstreet, I believe?” Darius’s expression was bored, as if he’d rather be home reading The Times than indulging the ladies in their socializing. Vivian nodded rather than address him, and Darius continued with the introductions.

“Dare, you and Arthur lead on, and I’m sure Skunk will follow along.” Lady Emily ordered her brother around with apparent confidence in his compliance, and he maneuvered the chestnut back onto the path ahead of the ladies.

“How do you know my brother, Lady Longstreet?” Emily’s expression betrayed simple curiosity and maybe even some friendliness.

“In truth, I’ve known your sister longer,” Vivian said. “We came out the same year. I trust she’s keeping well?”

Emily’s lips thinned. “Leah will be setting her cap for a husband this Season, or my father will know the reason why, but as wonderful as she is, the men ought to be lining up to offer for her.”

“A loyal sentiment, and one that takes the perspicacity of men as a given.” Vivian’s mouth kept making words, despite the dictates of prudence. “That, I’m sad to say, is likely a mistake.”

“I heard that.” Darius drew rein until his horse was even with the others. “Though where Leah is concerned, I’m afraid I have to agree. It will take a special man for each of my sisters.”

“Spoken like an overprotective older brother.” Emily was not offering a compliment.

“Spoken like a wiser older brother,” Darius said. “Watch your whip, Em. You don’t want it bouncing along on Skunk’s quarters like that. But tell me, Lady Longstreet, how are you faring?”

“I’m in good health.” Vivian fiddled the reins to hide her smile. “William caught a cold while at Longchamps, and he’s not quite shaken it yet.”

Darius considered her, and she felt his gaze travel over her in a quick—perhaps reluctant?—perusal. “Spring will likely take care of that. You will give my regards to your husband?”

“Of course.” Vivian glanced up to see him watching her. There was a guarded tenderness in his eyes that pierced her to the bone with its veiled warmth. Her lips turned up, and without willing it, she was smiling at him, a smile full of longing and remembrance and hope.

“Emily.” Darius called to his sister more sharply. “If we take this turnoff, we can be back on the street and heading home. Lady Longstreet, good day, and… take care.”

“Lady Emily, Mr. Lindsey.” Vivian nodded her farewell, and just like that, he was gone, muttering something to his sister about keeping her hands closer to the horse’s withers and looking where she was going.

Vivian hardly knew where she was going, but Bernice must have, for they were soon towing their groom back to Longstreet House. How wonderful to have seen Darius, though to Vivian’s eyes, he’d looked tired and a trifle drawn.

And how… hard, to see him and not be able to touch him and truly talk to him. This time, Vivian had been lucky—he’d been with his sister. But if there was a next time, and she came upon him in the company of one of his fast women? She’d had the impression he didn’t openly socialize with them, but what if she were wrong?

She handed the reins to the stable boy and was trying to sort through her jumbled feelings, when Dilquin appeared at the porte cochere.

“My lady, his lordship is home early from Westminster, and he’s asking for you.”

“She seemed very amiable to me,” Emily said, and though her tone was casual, her eyes held the overly discerning curiosity of a sister whose instincts have been piqued by an older sibling.

“I hardly know her, Em.” Darius let his considerable fatigue show in his tone. “Leah could probably tell you more about her. Her husband is quite a bit older.”

Emily grimaced. “A May-December wedding. Meaning no disrespect to my father, but I can’t see the appeal.”

“Even if it’s a Duke of December or Marquis of Early November?” Darius asked, but good God, Emily was sixteen, a child, and here she was considering marriage. It made him feel old, and… lonely. Trent and Leah had both dipped their toes in matrimonial waters. If Emily soon followed suit, Darius would be the only one of the siblings not to do so, and yet, how could he?

And why would he?

“I want to marry for love,” Emily said, giving Darius a start. “Mama and Papa were an arranged match, and look what a farce that turned out to be.”

“You’re too young to be so cynical, Em.” She made a lovely picture on his gelding, a lovely adult picture if a man weren’t her older brother. “Hands lower and eyes up.”

“I’m not cynical.” Emily corrected her riding while she spoke. “I don’t want to become cynical, and a love match seems better suited to that end.”

“Or perhaps, a love match gone sour creates more cynicism than a more practical union that’s allowed to grow into a cordial alliance.”

Emily rolled her eyes, looking a great deal younger. “Bother that. You sound like Trent, and you can’t tell me he and Paula had a cordial anything.”

“They cared for each other.”

“They secured the succession,” Emily retorted. “I don’t want to be cared for, Darius. I want to be loved, and I want that for Leah, and you and Trent, too.”

So young, and so convinced of her position. “Dreamer. Don’t let your father hear you talking that way.”

“I don’t.” Emily’s expression sobered while the horses clip-clopped along the street. “He’s your father too.”

“An unfortunate circumstance, in his opinion,” Darius said, “and in mine, but for the siblings it’s brought me. Heel down.”

“How can you tell? It’s on the other side of the horse from you.”

“Your seat is less secure, and you’re tipping forward,” Darius said as they turned into the alley that led to the Wilton House stables. “You’ll make my excuses to Leah?”

“Of course, but she’ll miss you.”

“She’ll see me tomorrow night at some damned ball or other.”

“It’s starting up, isn’t it?” Emily patted the horse, who’d been a perfect gentleman for her—the traitor. “The Season has begun and so has Leah’s hunt for a husband. Lord Hellerington was closeted with Papa yesterday for more than an hour.”

“Hellerington?” Darius couldn’t hide his reaction. “We can only hope he isn’t feeling the need for a bride—again.”

“Leah didn’t say anything, though I know she’s worried.”

Darius dismounted and came around to assist his sister. “You see entirely too much. I liked you better in pigtails and pinafores.”

“I liked you better when you smiled more, Dare.” Emily kept her hands on his biceps even when she’d gained her feet. “You’re too somber these days, and you always look tired and preoccupied to me.”

“It’s all the late hours.” He hugged her briefly and kissed her cheek. “Escorting a sister around is taxing work.”

“It’s only going to get worse,” Emily cautioned. “Papa has said Leah must accept every invitation.”

God in heaven. Though maybe if he were sufficiently exhausted, Darius might forget Vivian Longstreet, or at least stop fretting for her. “Nobody expects Leah to be at every entertainment.”

“Tell that to Papa,” Emily said quietly, for the grooms were at hand.

“You can leave the horses,” Darius said, swinging up on Arthur and taking Skunk by the reins. “Shall we do this again, Emily?”

“Yes, but can we at least trot next time?”

“Ladies riding sidesaddle primarily walk and canter,” Darius informed her. “But yes, we can trot. You’d best have a soaking bath this evening and another tomorrow.”

“How one suffers for the cause. Send a note around when you’ve another afternoon free, and Trent can lend us his gelding.”

“As my lady wishes.” Darius saluted and clattered back into the alley at a trot. He had to drop off Trent’s gelding, Arthur, then grab some rest, or he’d be asleep where he stood tonight when he’d need all his wits about him.

And he would see Vivian today, of all days.

Most nights, he saw her in his dreams, if his schedule permitted him any sleep. He’d been fortunate that Lucy Templeton’s mother had requisitioned her presence at the family seat for a few weeks, leaving him to contend with only Lady Cowell. That lady’s husband was between mistresses, and because he was a randy beggar, Blanche had not been free to impose on Darius for much of the past month either.

But tonight she’d summoned him, and tonight he’d go—to explain to her that their dealings were at an end. Lucy would be the trickier situation to extricate himself from, but she would come into line if he held firm.

He hoped.

As he returned to his rooms and fell onto his mattress, he had to wonder what drove a woman to enjoy beating on a man’s naked ass. It was difficult to comprehend that Lucy and Blanche weren’t as bored with and tired by the whole business as he was. He lay down and hoped to soon be drifting off, once again dreaming of Vivian and the nigh-unfathomable miracle that she should be bearing his child.