Darius: Lord of Pleasures

Twelve

Blanche Cowell was loose on the grounds—Darius would recognize her laughter anywhere—and all Darius could think was that he must not allow her to see him with Vivian. By the time he emerged from the safety of the card room, Vivian was nowhere to be seen, heard, or sniffed.

And neither was Leah, until he spotted her leaving the supper buffet on the arm of none other than Baron Hellerington.

The old goat must have come late and kept out of sight until he could accost his prey. As Darius made his way around the periphery of the ballroom, Hellerington parted from Leah with a bow and a damp, lingering kiss to her hand.

“Are you all right?” Darius peered down at Leah in concern. She had the indefinable stillness of a woman coping with internal tumult. “You look pale, and you’ve been thinking too hard.”

“Hellerington is going to talk to Papa.”

“God.” Darius ran a hand through his hair. “It would have to be him.”

“He’s titled, and he has some blunt, Dare.” Leah was tapping her foot, though not in time to the music. “And he’s desperate, which are the requisite qualities for any match Papa finds for me.”

“But Hellerington.” Darius spat the name. “It isn’t to be borne, Leah.”

“He and Papa will dicker,” Leah said, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself. “Something might develop while they do.”

“We live in that hope, feeble though it is. I do not like leaving you here to be preyed upon.” He scowled down at her to emphasize his point.

“I am largely ignored, Darius.” She put a touch of frost in her tone, enough for him to realize she’d like privacy to collect herself rather than more of his badgering presence. “And if you don’t ask that Windham girl to dance, the Season will be half over, and you’ll be wishing you had.”

He curbed the temptation to lecture and rant, bowed over her hand, and departed. He wasn’t about to dance twice with any woman he wasn’t closely related to—the notably single Lady Jenny Windham, for example—but he took himself off anyway, mostly to cool his temper.

The ball was well attended because the Season was officially under way, and among the crowd, Darius saw that indeed, Lord Valentine Windham’s friend, Nicholas Haddonfield, Viscount Reston, had deigned to join the fray. The man was noteworthy for his great height and the physique of a Viking blacksmith, and for his enthusiasm regarding women of a certain ilk.

Easy women, naughty women, even decent women seemed to enjoy Reston’s attentions. Now why couldn’t a fellow like that take Leah on as his wife? There was an earldom in the offing for Reston, the rumor being he’d promised his ailing father he’d marry this Season.

And when Darius handed his sister into the coach, he was quietly surprised that it was about Reston she inquired. Well, she could do worse. And if Hellerington’s coin spoke loudly enough, she would do worse. Darius dropped Leah off then walked the few blocks to his destination, hoping the crisp night air might help him marshal his wits for the coming ordeal.

It did no good. Lucy was a snake, and she could strike from any angle, and Darius, God help him, was her prey of choice these days.

“Don’t tell me.” He seized the offensive as he strolled into her bedroom. “I’m late. My apologies, but Leah is bound to attend her entertainments until at least after supper, and I am bound to escort her.”

“Let your brother Amherst do it,” Lucy spat. “He’s the damned heir.”

She was in sufficiently rare form that he decided he’d placate her first—one last time—and take permanent leave of her thereafter.

“Trenton is only recently out of mourning, Lucy. He does his share. Then too, the matchmakers will swarm him should he show his face among decent ladies.”

Lucy’s expression moderated. “While you, they leave to the likes of me. Clothes off, Darius. You’ll pay for your divided loyalties, and dawdling won’t help.”

Darius shrugged out of his coat, wondering if Lucy realized his loyalty was to her coin. “As tired as I am, any excuse to get into any bed sounds appealing. How is your husband?”

She slapped him for that, which woke him up nicely.

“Been ignoring you, has he?” He saw the next blow coming and seized her wrist in a grasp not quite intended to hurt. “Hold, Lucy. Your puppy has run off, and in his place is a man unwilling to pleasure you for coin. I’m done with your beatings, whippings, and spankings. Take your ire out on Blanche or the footmen or the damned stable boys, but attack me again, and you’ll regret it.”

“I’ll regret it?” She wrenched free and came at him, nails and teeth, fists and feet, until Darius had her pinned beneath him on the bed.

“Enough, damn you.” He bounced her wrists hard against the mattress for good measure. “Be still.”

“Fuck me,” Lucy ordered, arching up against him. “If I can’t have the fun I want, the least you can do is swive me.”

“You know the rules, Lucy.” He did not make the mistake of letting her go. “No one runs the risk of pregnancy, and I don’t have to worry about a glove across my face.”

“As if Templeton would bother.” She tried to wrest free again, but Darius was too big, too strong, and too damned sick of her nonsense. The singed scent of her crimped hair alone was threatening his digestive control.

“I can hold you here all night,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I could offer you the gratification you pay me for. Rather than do either, I will, for once, do exactly as I please and walk out of here, not to return.”

And, God in heaven, the words felt wonderful.

“Damn you!” She made another futile attempt to regain her freedom, and Darius waited it out as patiently as he could. He perceived a new difficulty all too easily: though she tried to hide it, Lucy enjoyed being overpowered, probably even more than she enjoyed hurting him with her silly games.

“Do I have to bind you, Lucy?” He gritted out the question with a sinking feeling in his gut. He’d thought there was nothing worse than being her plaything, hers to tie up, beat, humiliate, and toy with, but pretending she was his plaything had to rank far beneath that.

“Yes,” she panted. “Bind me hand and foot, and then, by God, you’d better exert yourself, Lindsey, or I’ll ruin that sister of yours, see if I don’t.”

“Ruin her?” Darius whipped off his cravat and used it to secure her right wrist. “And how will you manage that, without being ruined yourself?”

“Oh, no.” Lucy shook her head, and her smile was a thing of evil. “You won’t tell a soul, Darius, not about these little trysts of ours. Do that, and your whole family suffers. Blanche is well informed regarding your sister’s little contretemps five years ago, and we can remind all and sundry of the details.”

Temper and seething frustration turned the edges of his vision red. Leah had been through enough, and yet Lucy would derive savage glee in destroying the remains of Leah’s marital prospects.

He used the sash of Lucy’s night robe to tie her other wrist, and made it a point not to tie her tightly or to yank her wrists uncomfortably as he did. It was petty revenge against a renewed sentence of misery at Lucy’s hands, but all he could manage.

“As if anyone in this town ever forgets a scandal.” He sat back and eyed her, realizing his clothes were on, and his complete lack of sexual interest in this woman was at least his to privately savor.

“Get busy, Darius.”

“No.” He moved off the bed and considered pleasuring himself while she was bound and helpless to do anything but watch. She’d hate that.

He’d hate it more. He tugged off his boots, rolled up his sleeves, and poured himself a drink of fine old brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, knowing Lucy was watching his every move.

Another swallow, while he rolled the alcohol around on his tongue and eyed her on the bed. God above, he needed to be drunk for this.

“I want it to hurt,” Lucy said. “Blood would be good. On the sheets.”

“You’re sick.” Darius set his glass down and approached the bed. “I should pity you.”

“You should fuck me.”

“No.” Never had a single word held so much pleasure for him.

“Shut up.” Lucy closed her eyes and lifted her hips. “Just shut up and get your mouth on me.”

He reversed direction and brought his glass of brandy to the night table.

“You want it to hurt, Lucy?”

She glared at him. “I want it to start.”

“I can make it burn,” he said, taking another swallow of brandy and climbing onto the bed.

She spread her legs and became docile as Darius did, indeed, make her burn, while his own torment involved flames of conscience rather than desire.

How had his life come to this?

Lucy had paid him with a choker, of all things, of topaz and emeralds. The piece was pretty, and as he’d taken it to the little shop on Ludgate he discreetly patronized, it occurred to him the jewels would go well with Vivian’s coloring.

Where in the hell had that ludicrous notion come from?

Now, more than ever, he needed to put thoughts of Vivian from his mind, and now, more than ever, his imagination returned to her like a lodestone. She was a beacon of pure goodness in his otherwise sordid existence, and as spring advanced to its full glory, Vivian kept invading his mind and pushing darker thoughts aside.

So he squired Leah about, and took Emily for the occasional quiet hack, and popped down to Kent to check on John, and dreaded the next summons from Lucy or Blanche. They’d backed off, and Lucy at least seemed content to be cast in the role of victim, but it wore on Darius like being her abused pet never had.

As if he could enjoy hurting any woman, even her, even for her pleasure.

“Looking for me?” Blanche appeared at his elbow and wrapped her arm around his, pressing her breast to his bicep. He nearly gagged in response.

“Lady Cowell.” He eased back and sensed this was to be his punishment. Lucy and Blanche might allow him to recast his part in their games, but they’d have their revenge for his attempted escape, and accosting him in public was a good place to start.

“I have a few dances free.” Blanche reattached herself to his side. “I’m told you’re grace itself on the dance floor.”

Darius turned to pick up his drink and managed to dislodge her again. “For that, you need to dance with Lord Val Windham.”

“The pianist?”

“The same.” Darius kept his drink in his hand, for Blanche wasn’t about to risk spilling something on that gown of hers. Ye gods, it was barely decent.

“I’d rather dance with you.” She eyed him as if he were a hanging ham and she a starving bitch. “Later tonight, as a matter of fact. On my sheets.”

Vivian. The thought of her circled in his mind like a tired old prayer, a child’s futile wish, a forlorn hope. He opened his mouth to put Blanche off when rescue came from an unlikely quarter. His sister approached, the tallest man in the room at her side. Leah began on introductions, but her escort cut her off.

“We’ve met.” Nick Haddonfield smiled blandly, while his piercing blue eyes assessed Darius closely. “Lindsey, a pleasure to see you in Town. And Lady Cowell, a pleasure as well.”

“Nicky,” the woman clinging to Darius purred, “always a pleasure to see you, but I don’t know as I’ve met your young lady.” She added a particular female emphasis to the word “young,” the slightest, nasty little inflection, so in the way of unkind women, it implied its opposite.

“My sister.” Darius spoke up and shifted to shake Blanche off his arm once and for all. “Lady Leah Lindsey. Leah, Lady Blanche Cowell.” Darius was amused to see Leah did not curtsy but merely inclined her head.

Reston winged out an arm thick with muscles no amount of finery could disguise. “Blanche, perhaps you’d favor me with a few minutes of your time. It has been at least since the holidays since our paths crossed. Lindsey, Lady Leah.” He offered Leah a slow, deep bow, one unmistakably intended to convey respect, and took his leave, Lady Cowell on his arm.

Darius nodded at Reston’s retreating back. “So where did you meet that?”

“I met him in the park with Emily,” Leah said. “Where did you meet her?”

Swimming in the Channel with a school of sharks who will cheerfully destroy you.

“She’s frequently at the same functions you are,” Darius lied, oh, so easily to his dear sister. “She travels in a slightly less genteel circle.”

“Lord Reston apparently frequents the same set.”

“You needn’t sound so offended.” And to anybody but her brother—any of the hundred or so people milling around the ballroom with them, she probably wouldn’t have. “I doubt either of them will be joining us for supper.” He’d run screaming into the night if Blanche presumed that far.

“I think we might see more of Lord Reston. He seems to have taken an interest in Emily.”

The topic was now familial, so Darius took his sister’s arm and steered her toward the corner of the room reserved for chaperones, companions, and other wallflowers. “And Wilton will probably allow it. The man’s heir to an earldom, though birthing his get will likely kill little Em.”

“You don’t like Reston?” Leah asked, her curiosity evident.

“I like him well enough, though I can’t say I know him.”

“What do you know of him?” Leah asked, and Darius was reminded she’d asked about Reston before.

“He’s a favorite with the ladies, at least the ladies like Lady Cowell,” Darius said meaningfully. “He pays his bills, looks after a herd of younger siblings, and is quite the horseman. Not sure what else there is to tell, except that he’s the largest titled lord I’ve seen, and his papa, the earl, is old as dirt. Haven’t I said as much previously?”

“And his papa is not in good health,” Leah added, causing Darius to study her more carefully.

“Is he trifling with you, Leah?” He’d flatten the man if he were. Leah had troubles enough as it was, and a good bare-knuckle fight would fit on Darius’s schedule with appalling ease.

“He most assuredly is not. Is Lady Cowell trifling with you?”

Sisters knew how to shut a man up. “I am not going to dignify that. Shall I lead you out or find you a place to hide?”

“Leave me in peace.”

Because Hellerington hadn’t been again in evidence, Darius acceded to her wishes. He danced with his share of wallflowers, kept an eye on Leah, and saw her later sharing supper with Reston. Wouldn’t that spike Wilton’s guns, if Reston were courting Leah and not angling for little Emily?

When Darius loaded his sister into the coach, he tucked an arm around her shoulders, and she budged up with a sigh of relief.

“Do I tell you often enough what a good brother you are?”

“I’m not a good brother,” Darius replied, thinking of John hidden away in Kent and Lucy threatening what little peace Leah enjoyed. “But I am a noticing brother. What was that business with Reston and the strawberry?”

“The strawberry?”

“He sequestered himself with you behind the ferns, Leah, and in the course of sharing supper with you, fed you a strawberry from his own hand.”

“He was flirting.” Leah yawned. “Nick likes to flirt.”

“Nick.”

“Lord Reston.” She straightened up, but Darius gently pushed her head back to his shoulder.

“You said he might be trolling for Em,” Darius reminded her. “What if he’s trolling for you?”

“He might offer, just to wave Hellerington off.”

“He might hurry Hellerington up, if he offers.” Darius frowned into the darkness. “Do you need me to speak to him?”

“No.” Leah sounded firm on that. “If there’s ‘speaking to’ needed, I can address the man directly.”

“That’s unusual, for you to be forthright with a man other than me or Trent.”

“He’s an unusual man.” Leah’s voice was dreamy, and Darius wished there were enough light that he could assess her expression. “He said to warn you off that woman all but humping your arm.”

The description left no room for confusion. “Blanche is a casual acquaintance.”

“If Nick said to beware of a lady, and Nick makes no bones about enjoying women, mind you, then you need to take heed.”

“Nick, Nick, Nick.”

“Lord Reston.”

Darius jostled her affectionately. “Keep telling yourself he’s Lord Reston, but to me, it looks like he’s already gotten to first names, strawberries, and God knows what else.”

“And if he has?”

“Marry him,” Darius said flatly. “He’s big enough and man enough to face down Wilton, Hellerington, me, whomever.” Lucy and Blanche. “You could do much worse, Leah, and he’d take care of you. If he’s courting you, he has my endorsement.”

It wasn’t something he’d been able to say before, not about the puppies who had sniffed about her skirts five years ago, not about her would-be elopement partner, not about the few men who’d shown an interest so far this year.

“Don’t tell him that,” Leah said on a weary sigh. “He’s arrogant enough as it is.”

“Not arrogant,” Darius said, almost to himself. “Reston is self-assured, and that’s a different thing entirely.”

When Leah was dozing on his shoulder, he let the conversation lapse but sent a prayer up to whatever God listened to creatures such as he that Reston took on the problem that was Leah and her situation, and please, heaven, let it be soon.

“You are kind to think of me.” Vivian accepted a cup of tea from Portia, knowing it would lack sugar, for Portia deemed sugared tea unfit for breeding women. Since learning of Vivian’s pregnancy, Portia was a veritable font of odd ideas regarding childbearing, and even child rearing.

“Public school builds the character,” Portia announced. “Look at Able, and he’s a product of Rugby.”

Look at Able? One could barely see the man for the way he avoided his wife’s company. Able had stayed about a week then hared back to the country, there to plough and plant and enjoy his wife’s absence, no doubt.

“And what will you name this child?” Portia inquired as she sipped her own tea—heavily sugared.

Lindsey Longstreet had a nice sound and would fit either gender—she’d yet to suggest this to William. “I assume William will want a family name.”

“And good heavens, what if it’s a girl?”

Portia’s own gender must have temporarily escaped her notice, so great was her dismay at this possibility. “We’ll love any child God sees fit to give us, Portia.”

“But a girl can’t inherit the viscountcy, and then where will we be?”

“We’ll manage, Portia.”

Except Vivian wasn’t going to manage another minute of the woman’s conversation.

“I’m for a little shopping,” she decided, though what she’d shop for was a mystery. “How about you?”

“Shopping?” Portia’s eyes took on a gleam, and Vivian realized she should have been more devious. “I might need to pick up a few things.”

“You must accompany me then.” Though invariably, Portia needed something at every shop they browsed, and somehow, Vivian ended up paying for it. Portia’s maid forgot her pin money, or her reticule, or didn’t think to bring quite that much with her. The excuses were as endless as they were lame.

No matter, every outing was a potential opportunity to cross paths with Darius.

Vivian recalled shopping with him, the way he’d managed the proprietors and clerks, the eye he had for quality, and the way he’d teased, reasoned, and cajoled her into everything from embroidered underthings to new gloves. His name stood for the ache in her heart and the empty place in her bed and the life growing in her womb. She missed him and missed him and missed him, and worse, she sensed William knew it.

She’d see Darius at the christening, and for more than the space of a single moonrise. He’d said as much, and if there was one thing she’d believe about Darius Lindsey, it was that he’d keep his word.

Thoughts of him had her nipping up to her bedroom to retrieve a little slip of paper from her vanity. She was still kept waiting a good ten minutes before Portia joined her at the foot of the stairs.

“Shouldn’t we take a footman or two with us?”

So Portia could collect more purchases? “They have enough work. It’s a pretty day, and I can use the exercise.”

“We’re not taking the carriage?”

“I need to stretch my legs. Shall we be off?”

Portia gave her a peevish look but linked arms and marched off with Vivian into a lovely spring day.

“Well, Vivian,” a male voice called out when they were nearing Green Park, “won’t you introduce me to your pretty companion?”

The benevolence of the spring day muted. “Thurgood.” Vivian stopped abruptly, so lost in her ruminations she hadn’t seen him on the sidewalk before them until he’d spoken. “A pleasure. Portia Springer, may I make known to you the gentleman who used to be my stepfather, Thurgood Ainsworthy. Thurgood, Mrs. Portia Springer, late of Longchamps, Oxfordshire, where she is the wife of William’s hardworking steward.”

Hell would freeze over before Vivian would discuss her husband’s illegitimate son with the likes of Thurgood.

“Ladies.” He bowed low over each of their hands, holding Portia’s—of course—a moment too long. “May I escort you somewhere, or are you returning home?”

“We’re off to Bond Street,” Portia caroled, batting her lashes.

“All the way to Ludgate, actually,” Vivian said. “I need to pick up a bottle of scent made to order. But it’s kind of you to offer.”

“Nonsense.” Thurgood slipped his arm through Portia’s, and Vivian wasn’t at all surprised to note Portia had turned loose of Vivian without a second thought. “Lead on, Viv, and let me be your gallant escort.”

There would be no getting rid of him, not when he was having such a good flirt with Portia, and Lord, wouldn’t William laugh to hear of this. Portia was handsome, true enough, but girlish coquetry on her looked about as believable as spectacles on a flying pig.

Thurgood insisted on fetching a hackney, so they arrived to their destination shortly where, thank a merciful deity, Thurgood made his excuses.

“Mr. Ainsworthy.” Portia held out her hand again. “It has been the most sincere pleasure. You must call on us at Longstreet House.”

Heaven help me, I shall kill her. Portia had no business extending such an invitation.

“I’d be delighted. My dear daughter and I always have a great deal to talk about.” Thurgood gave Vivian one of his indulgent smiles, and Vivian smiled back, trying not to choke. He’d been enough of a pest lately, with his carping about grieving together and William’s failing health. Everlasting God, the man was a disgrace.

Once in the shop, surrounded by a blend of lovely scents, Vivian was possessed of an immediate sense of well-being. She felt closer to Darius here. He’d had this shop mix up her personal scent for her. She’d come here only once since Christmas, but she wore the scent every day and never wanted to run out.

“What a handsome specimen you have for a steppapa.” Portia took Vivian’s arm as they strolled the shop. “You never said, Vivian.”

“I don’t think of him as handsome or ugly,” Vivian said, though she did—he was as ugly as a week-old sheep carcass in high summer. “He’s a terrible flirt, Portia, so mind yourself around him.”

Portia’s nose tipped up. “He’s not a flirt. He’s gallant, and that’s something else altogether.”

Vivian gave her order to the clerk then started on a round of the shop, sniffing idly at this and that scent. She was hunting for the one Darius used, but suspected he had his custom-made as well. And then she caught it, a little hint of his scent, as a woman’s voice drifted across the shop.

“Really, Darius,” the lady drawled, “rose is too juvenile, and lavender doddering. You can’t expect me to wear those in public.”

He was there, leaning in to say something quietly to the woman, speaking right into her ear. She laughed softly in response, and her bosom was positively mashed against his arm.

Vivian had ached over Darius Lindsey, and cried a bit, and sighed and wished and wished. Those tender sentiments paled to nothing when between one heartbeat and the next, her heart broke, leaving both anger and sorrow to flood into the breach.

“Perhaps in private then,” the woman said, loud enough that others could overhear. Darius straightened, and whatever he’d been intending to say died on his lips as he realized Vivian was standing only a few feet away.

Gaping, like a stupid cow. She shut her mouth and turned with brittle dignity. From behind the woman’s shoulder, though, she caught Darius mouthing the words, “cut direct.”

What was he trying to say to her? Cut him? Prepare to be cut by him? And there was Portia, catching sight of Darius and his companion as if they were the most fascinating entertainment since the coronation of Mad George.

Darius touched the woman’s arm. “Excuse me, Lucy. I see an acquaintance. An old acquaintance.”

He prowled over to Vivian, his entire manner exuding a kind of mute swagger, but his eyes held a plea Vivian still couldn’t fathom. He sidled up to her and picked up her hand, bowing low over it.

“My lady.” He kept hold of her hand, just as Thurgood might have, until she snatched it back. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Sir.” Vivian’s voice shook. “I believe you have me at a disadvantage, and I would like to remain there. Portia, it’s time we left.” She walked out without retrieving the perfume the clerk had brought from the back, but then she had to wait at the door of the shop for Portia to join her.

“Another satisfied customer, Darius?” The woman’s voice held amusement.

“Hardly.” Vivian heard him dismiss her without a backward glance. “If you don’t like the single-note fragrances, Lucy, you should try the blends. Over here…”

Portia came huffing up to Vivian’s side. “What was that all about? I was about to make a purchase.”

“I needed some air.” Vivian put a hand over her stomach, for reassurance, to steady herself, to quiet the pounding of her heart. “Shall we be on our way?”

“But we just got here.” Portia glanced back at the shop with longing. It wasn’t a cheap place to spend money.

And Darius had so little of it to spend.

“We’re going home, Portia.” Vivian’s tone was for once sharp. “We can come back later.”

“Who was that man?”

“I haven’t the least notion,” Vivian replied, walking faster, and her words were true. That fawning, droll, insouciant tramp was not her Darius, and that woman… how could he bear it? To be intimate with such as that? Had he taught that creature how to press up against him? Was she going to leave the shop with a personal blend chosen by the handsome Mr. Lindsey?

Or was the better question how Darius had borne being intimate with Vivian? She was unsophisticated, retiring, and more knowledgeable about Corn Laws than quadrilles, and it hurt, terribly, to see how she compared with Darius’s usual fare.

It hurt for her, and worse, it made her hurt miserably for him.