Darius: Lord of Pleasures

Thirteen

How he got back to his rooms, Darius didn’t know. Lucy had ambushed him on The Strand, and that was how they played their game now. She and Blanche both insisted he acknowledge them when they met in public. And lately, he’d been running into them far too much for it to be mere happenstance.

He felt stalked, hunted, like a wee mouse in the shadow of the hawk.

And then his worst nightmare, a potential encounter between Vivian and Lucy.

Between good and evil, between his dreams and his deserts.

Vivian had looked so stricken, seeing him with Lucy on his coattails, and well she should have. Her thoughts had been clear enough: she’d been comparing herself to Lucy and finding herself wanting. And that, that, was what hurt the most, that his lovely, sweet Vivian should doubt herself.

Though wouldn’t Lucy have a fine time shredding Vivian’s reputation? Leah had been through the worst treatment gossip and scandal could cause, had dealt with heartbreak, grief, and a load of earthly woes. Lucy could hurt Leah, but she could destroy Vivian.

So Darius had dealt what he hoped was a survivable blow first, and now he had to do something, had to make amends to Vivian lest she fret and brood and doubt herself further. He owed her an explanation and an apology, and that was that.

He was about to put pen to paper when a knock sounded on his door.

“Mister Darius Lindsey!”

Darius opened the door to find a running footman panting on his doorstep.

“I’m Lindsey.”

“I know.” The man bent over to ease his breathing. “I’m to give you a message from Reston. Your sister is at his place, and she’s right enough, but you’re to come. Don’t tarry or discuss your plans, and I’ve told your brother the same. I’m off to the grandame’s when I get me wind.”

“Grandame?”

“Lady Warne.” The man straightened. “Reston’s grandame.”

“Leah’s all right?”

“She be fine.” The man’s gaze slid away, and Darius could only guess Leah wasn’t quite so fine.

Darius caught up with Trent, whose toilette had likely required some attention before he could call on Reston even casually. Together, they arrived to find a teary Leah burrowed against Reston’s side, a visible bruise rising on the side of her face.

Reston explained that their sister had nearly been abducted from the park, and further ventured his suspicions that it was likely Hellerington’s doing. To Darius’s thinking, the near tragedy was a blessing in disguise, as it put any notion of Reston’s offering for Emily off the table.

Leah wasn’t just comfortable with Reston’s touch, which would have been noteworthy enough, she was positively clinging to him, and Reston was damned near clinging right back. On a man of his size, the behavior was oddly sweet and… dear.

Which was fortunate, for Reston announced his intention to marry Leah, and from what Darius could see, Leah was going to allow it.

Arrangements were made for Leah to be chaperoned under Reston’s roof by his grandmother until a special license could be procured. Reston was confident he could handle Wilton, and so Darius was left to stroll home in the slanting twilight with Trent. Later, he’d troll in low places for clues regarding his sister’s would-be abduction; for now, he’d see his brother home.

Trent shook his head. “Just like that. We’re fretting over her being dragged into Hellerington’s clutches one day, and she’s marrying Bellefonte’s heir the next.”

“I like him.”

“You know him?”

“Some. Not as much as I should, but Leah trusts him, and that has to count for a lot.”

“How can you tell?”

Darius cocked his head at his brother. “She was wrapped around him like seaweed, Trent. You had to have seen that.”

“I saw him whispering at you in the corner and looking alarmingly ferocious when he did.”

Nick Haddonfield looking ferocious was a sight to give any sane man pause. “He was suggesting, as a wedding present to our sister, I leave off associating with certain women of questionable character. Reston delivers a very convincing scold.”

Trent delivered a very convincing look of fraternal disappointment, which suggested Darius’s public encounters with Lucy and Blanche were being noticed.

Bloody, sodding hell.

“I will not waste my breath echoing Reston’s sentiments, but I will point out that our situation with John will be considerably complicated if Leah marries Reston. He’s not stupid, Dare, and if he’s part of the family, sooner or later, he’ll pop in on you at Averett Hill.”

Darius stopped walking. “Good God.”

“Beg pardon?”

“He’s my bloody neighbor.” Darius blew out a breath. “Not two miles up the lane, and closer as the crow flies. Reston, that is, down in Kent. This is going to get tricky, Trent.”

Trent kicked at a loose piece of cobblestone, sending it skittering and bouncing down the lane. “I hate tricky. Perhaps he’ll be at the family seat now that his papa is sticking his spoon in the wall.”

Darius resumed walking at a more brisk pace. “Not Reston. He hops around like a great flea, and I’ve seen him often enough on this or that huge horse to know he’ll be in evidence around the neighborhood. As will Leah.”

“Give it time,” Trent said, his tone grim. “They’re not married yet, and even when they are, we’ll want to see how they go on. Reston’s no saint. He’ll be decent about John, and he’ll keep his handsome, smiling mouth shut.”

“We could send John to Crossbridge.” Trent’s estate, one where he’d spent precious little time in recent years, and more distant from Town and all its gossip than Averett Hill. The notion of sending John away to strangers left Darius feeling sick in the pit of his stomach.

“I’ll write to my staff there,” Trent said, though the way he wrinkled his nose suggested the idea of moving John had no appeal to him either.

“It’s just a thought. There’s no need for any hasty maneuvers yet.” And, Darius reminded himself, he had a letter to write too.

Darius tried to write the letter, the brief note to Vivian, and it kept escaping him. Instead of a simple, innocuous apology, he’d trail off into admissions that he missed her, worried for her, regretted their encounter, but didn’t regret it either.

He stared at the little bottle of scent she’d left behind. He sniffed it repeatedly, and he missed her.

He worried for his brother, took Emily riding, and missed Vivian. He kept to his rooms lest Lucy and Blanche have more opportunities to accost him in the broad light of day, as lately they’d grown miserably bold and uncaring of appearances. It was as if they had put a collar and leash on him in truth.

Reston’s papa died, and Darius considered popping out to Kent to attend the funeral, just to get away from London. He discarded the notion because Leah needed privacy with her new husband, not Darius hovering at an awkward time.

And the truth was, Darius could never again be with Vivian the way he had been in Kent. The pain of that was sobering and checked his need to spend time with her again. So the silence between him and Vivian lengthened, until Darius was at a bookshop, looking for a gift to present to Emily on the occasion of her seventeenth birthday.

He caught Vivian’s scent first, then the sight of her, back turned to him, but it had to be Vivian. He knew the nape of that neck, knew the curve of that spine, and the soft, muscular swell of those glorious female buttocks.

“Vivvie.”

He’d spoken softly, for there were other patrons elsewhere in the shop. She went still at first, so he said her name again, and what a pleasure that was, just to say her name out loud. “Vivvie, look at me.”

She turned slowly and looked at him, and over his shoulder and everywhere else.

“I’m alone,” he assured her, closing the distance between them slowly, as if she might spook and bolt did he move too quickly. Except she was visibly, wonderfully pregnant, and bolting was likely beyond her. “You’re well?”

He stood as near to her as he dared. Seeing her up close was intoxicating, sending currents of pleasure and longing out over his limbs and down into his gut.

“Say something, Vivvie. Please.” He’d been paid to beg, but now, here, in this public place, he had to struggle not to go down on his knees. “Laugh me to scorn, ring a peal over my head, kick me anywhere you need to, but please don’t—” He fell silent.

Her gaze held his, and in her eyes, Darius read a wealth of conflicting emotions: wariness, hurt, confusion, and—thank you, Jesus and the holy saints—longing.

“I’m well, Mr. Lindsey. And you?” Her hand settled over the bump where her waist used to be, and he had to touch her. He reached out and traced his fingers over her knuckles where her hand rested over her tummy.

“I’m…” Miserable. Miserable for want of her, for worrying about her, worrying about Trent, dodging the female predators he’d invited into his life, fretting over John… “I’m glad to see you. I’ve wanted to explain, to apologize for our last encounter.”

“You needn’t.” She turned from him, as if to study the shelf of books at her eye level.

“I need to,” he corrected her and leaned in close enough to whisper, close enough to inhale her fragrance. “The woman I was with would hurt you and enjoy doing it.”

Lucy and Blanche would hurt Leah, Trent, John, anybody Darius was foolish enough to allow within their ambit.

Vivian shook her head, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were glistening.

“I can’t understand it, Darius.” She stared at the books again. “I can’t understand what the attraction of such a woman is to you, but I must conclude you have a talent that serves to provide you coin, and where you exercise that talent matters little.”

“It’s not like that,” Darius protested in a whisper. “It wasn’t like that.”

She pierced him with a gimlet gaze, and Darius slipped his arms around her. This was dangerous, stupid, and utterly irresistible. He had to touch her, had to feel her embrace again. For a moment, she was stiff and resisting, but then, ah, then…

Vivian’s hands slid around his waist, and she pressed her face to his sternum. “I tell myself not to miss you. I should not miss you.”

“Hush.” He held her, rubbed her back, and breathed her in with his every sense. Her shape had changed, delightfully, so the baby rested between them, and he knew a flare of desire for her, even there, in public, with her upset and him needing to soothe her. He noted it, noted that it was the first bodily stirring to visit him since the last time he’d seen her, and then firmly ignored it.

Though he needed to kiss her, to soothe himself by kissing her. She startled a little—he remembered those little shocks and how they felt radiating through her body—and then she groaned softly into his mouth and kissed him back.

Ye gods and little fishes… He’d never kissed like this, with all the longing and tenderness he possessed, with all the apology, despair, and hope. He wanted to be better for her, but he was only Darius Lindsey, and she was married to William Longstreet, and so the kiss was a prayer too, for forgiveness and for time and for…

The kiss was not about any sexual passion on his part, though for her he had that in abundance. As he gloried in the sheer feel of her, what welled up in Darius’s soul was a passionate wish for her happiness, for her well-being, and that in some way, he might contribute to both.

“Vivian?” A shrill female voice carried from over the next set of shelves. “Where have you gotten off to, my dear?”

Slowly, Darius let her go, feeling as if a cold wind had pierced the first sunshine his soul had seen in months.

“I have to go.” Vivian rose up and kissed his cheek. “Stay well, Darius.”

“You too.” He watched her go, but it was the hardest thing he’d done. Harder than dealing with Lucy and Blanche, harder than handing Leah off to her giant viscount, harder than knowing John was lonely and inadequately supervised at Averett Hill. She moved off with that rolling gait common to women approaching the later stages of pregnancy, and Darius imprinted the vision of it in his imagination.

“Vivian, really, you shouldn’t go off like that by yourself,” he heard a woman complain. “What if I’d wanted to purchase something?”

“My apologies, Portia.” Vivian’s voice was softer. “One gets distracted by all that’s on offer. Have you found something to take back to Longchamps with you?”

The women moved off, while Darius kept to his niche in the back of the store, trying to think his galloping emotions into submission and letting the gladness in his heart and mind subside. He’d seen her, he’d held her, they’d spoken, and his cup was running over with relief. He waited until they’d left the shop then waited another fifteen minutes lest he run into them on the street.

He didn’t wait quite long enough though, because as Darius quit the bookshop, a purchase for Emily in his hand, he saw Vivian and her companion emerging from the shop across the street. He couldn’t help but smile like an idiot when their gazes met fleetingly across the distance. He was still smiling a moment later when a voice at his elbow snapped him out of his reverie.

“I’ve never seen you look that way,” Lucy Templeton mused. “Not at your sister, not at Blanche, and certainly not at me. Who is she?”

Portia Springer did not want to return to Longchamps, but William had spoken. Not loudly, for William was a gentleman, and Portia wasn’t stupid. He’d merely suggested London in summer wasn’t healthy and he’d appreciate it if Portia would repair to Longchamps and ensure all was in readiness for Vivian’s confinement.

Portia had never had a child, so the request was a transparent excuse to send her packing. Ainsworthy knew it; Portia knew it. If nothing else, Ainsworthy felt a grudging admiration for old William’s deft maneuvering.

“I don’t want to go.” Portia settled against Ainsworthy in blatant invitation. “You smell ever so much prettier than Able. But then, you’re a gentleman, and Able is a glorified farmer.”

“I don’t want to let you go,” Thurgood crooned. “Though I’m sure your husband must be mad with missing you by now.” He shaped her generous breast lingeringly, and she let out the predictable sigh.

“Love me, Thurgood.” She pushed herself more tightly against him.

“Of course.” Love being the ladies’ preferred euphemism for a jolly good fuck. He opened his falls, rucked her skirts, and obliged her on the closed lid of his wife’s piano. Portia liked to feel naughty, Thurgood liked to swive, so it was a good bargain all around. Five minutes later, Portia was drowsing on his shoulder, their clothing back to rights, and her nimble female mind apparently on other things.

“I have those documents,” she said, kissing the side of his neck. “Thank you ever so much for letting me know whom to go to.”

“The occasion arises where every person of enterprise has need of same.” Thurgood patted her breast, which he truly would miss until his next pigeon came along. “When can you come back to Town?”

“Once William dies.” Portia’s eyes took on a different kind of gleam. “With these documents in hand, we’ll have Longstreet House and all that goes with it. I’ll live here in Town, and we can be together as often as we like.”

Thurgood produced a somewhat honest, rueful smile at the complications inherent in having dear Portia permanently underfoot. “As if you’d limit your attentions to me. When you dwell here in Town, what’s to stop Vivian from simply rusticating at Longchamps? She’ll have a child to raise, and that’s the family seat.”

“I’ll stop her.” Portia’s smile was wicked. “If Able wants the child, he’s welcome to it, but Lady Vivian will be cast into the loving arms of her stepfather, and what you do with her will make no difference whatsoever to me.”

Thurgood beamed at her. “Portia, my love, you are a woman after my own heart.”

He undid his falls again and filled his hand with the soft abundance of her breasts. She truly would be a woman after his own heart, if he had one.

The note made no sense.

My Lady,

You left this behind. I trust, having seen it into your keeping, our paths will not cross again.

Lindsey

The little bottle of scent sat on Vivian’s dressing table, silent and mocking. Darius had been so… loving in the bookstore, and now this. Whatever game he was playing, Vivian wanted no part of it. Maybe he enjoyed the torment, maneuvering, and manipulation he indulged in with those other women, but it left Vivian feeling sick, sad, and heartsore.

The baby shifted, no longer the little fluttering sensation of months ago but a noticeable movement that applied a passing pressure to her innards.

Darius Lindsey was the father of her child, he’d brought her more pleasure and more joy than any other man, and he was hurting her in equal proportions. For the sake of their child, Vivian resolved to forget Darius Lindsey, to put him from her life, her mind, her hopes.

That kiss… and now this.

If he liked playing hot and cold, come here and go away, he could play it with his other women. Vivian had seen him a handful of times in the past five months, and he’d been cool to her on all but two occasions, and now this.

Enough. She had a child to think of, a husband in ailing health, and better things to do than hope she caught Darius Lindsey in an approachable mood.

Darius had felt a moment’s panic when Lucy had accosted him outside the bookshop.

“Portia Springer,” he’d said, thanking a gift for recalling details. “She isn’t up from the country often. Her husband is steward to a large estate.”

“She looks like your type.” Lucy’s frown was thoughtful. “A little used but holding up, and intent on getting what she wants. Can a steward’s wife afford to pay you well?”

She would ask that. Darius turned a frigid stare on her right there in the street. “None of your business, Lucy. I suppose since you’ve taken to following me, you expect me to escort you somewhere? It will give me a chance to tell you I’m off to Averett Hill and wish you a pleasant summer while I’m at it.”

“Why go there now?”

“Because London in the summer is pestilentially hot. Because I need to tend what few acres I have, and it’s almost time for haying. Because I damned well please to go.”

She attached herself to his arm and minced along beside him. “I forbid you to go.”

“Too damned bad,” he muttered, feeling her stiffen with outrage beside him. “Lucy, you do not own me, and my sister is safely married to Bellefonte, so sheathe your claws.”

“You have another sister,” Lucy snarled. “She can be tarred with the same brush.”

He resisted a flood of curses, because this vulnerability had not occurred to him. “Emily is as pure as the driven snow, and Wilton would call you out, did you offer her insult.”

“Wilton is an ass. Maybe Hellerington can be persuaded to take an interest in Emily. He likes little girls.”

Merciful God. “Go to hell, Lucy.” Darius pried her fingers off his arm. “And take Blanche with you.”

He left her there, glaring daggers at his back in broad daylight, but then he’d gone home and written the most difficult note he’d ever penned, and it hadn’t even taken a single rough draft to get it right.

The confrontation solidified a resolve Darius had felt growing ever since he’d tucked Vivian into his traveling coach bound for London. She’d seen clearly what Darius himself only now grasped: The price of disporting with Lucy and Blanche was not his honor, but rather, his soul. Every single person Darius cared for—John, Leah, Trent, Vivian, and even the child she carried—was imperiled by Darius’s association with two women who regarded him as nothing more than an animated toy.

He had the determination; he had the courage; he had the desperation. He lacked only one final resource to see his plan set into motion, and he knew exactly where to find it. The time had come to ransom his soul back from hell.

So vast and varied were London’s commercial offerings that one no longer needed to make with one’s own hands each and every item a baby required. Vivian had embroidered receiving blankets and caps, knitted booties and shawls, and sewn dresses upon dresses for the unborn child, but there were a few things she had yet to procure.

A rattle. Every child needed a rattle, or several rattles.

A baby spoon, something in silver, not too ornate, but sized for a tiny mouth.

A little baby cup, also in silver, so it could be engraved upon the occasion of the child’s birth.

These purchases were of sufficient import to justify delaying a remove to Longchamps—these purchases, a growing concern for William’s health, and a reluctance to share a household again so soon with Portia.

That Darius Lindsey might yet be in Town was of no moment—unless Vivian were alone in her room late at night, sharing her bed with a particular brown scarf.

Vivian’s gaze traveled across a shop she’d patronized frequently to where a gentleman and a clerk were in conversation near a handsome bay hobbyhorse. The hairs on her nape prickled before her mind identified the speaker.

“The boy has been riding since I took him up before me as a babe. He needs…”

Vivian spoke up, though clearly Darius hadn’t spotted her yet. “He needs books, full of excellent stories about dragons and witches and trolls. He needs things to draw with, and a basket with a great fluffy pillow for his cat.”

Darius turned to her, expression inscrutable. “Madam?”

Today he was cool-Darius, though not cold-Darius. For an instant, she considered trying to be cold-Vivian.

Then discarded the notion. He looked thin to her, and tired, but not… she didn’t know what, but he was different. “Mr. Lindsey, isn’t it?”

“At your service, Lady Longstreet.” He bowed, and Vivian was very much aware of the shopkeeper watching their exchange.

“How old is the child you’re shopping for, Mr. Lindsey?”

He relaxed at her civil tone, and why not? His harpies were unlikely to accost him in a shop for children. Vivian would skewer them where they stood if they tried to.

Another queer start attributable to her delicate condition.

Darius took a step closer to her then checked himself. “John is rising seven and a curious fellow. I think you’d like him very much. He tries to exhibit the best manners possible under all circumstances.”

Oh, not this. Not veiled innuendos backed up by dark, pleading eyes.

“And does he succeed often enough to merit a lady’s praise?”

“I pray he does, and I’m sure his lapses are all well intended.”

She had no riposte sufficiently clever to convey that the lady’s feelings were slighted regardless of the well-mannered fellow’s intentions. When she might have signaled to her maid to gather up her purchases and complete her transactions, Darius took another step closer, and this was her undoing.

Carrying a child caused all manner of havoc with a lady’s sensibilities. She might be queasy, light-headed, fatigued, or unduly energized, wear a path to the necessary, and wake up at all hours with odd cravings.

In Vivian’s case, she had also acquired an astonishingly acute sense of smell. Darius’s unique scent came to her, promising pleasure, comfort, and passion in the middle of a children’s shop.

I’m fat, she’d said, quite proud of the fact several months ago. She had the proportions and maneuverability of a coal barge now, and in the space of a moment, she was seized with belated self-consciousness. That he, the only man to see her unclothed, should regard her in this state…

“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.