Darius: Lord of Pleasures

Fifteen

Darius passed a card to the dignified little person who served as the Longchamps butler.

“The Honorable Darius Lindsey?”

“Lady Longstreet came out with my sister, Lady Leah Lindsey, now Countess of Bellefonte.” Darius smiled the smile of a man who doesn’t owe his inferiors an explanation but might be entitled to sympathy from them in any case. “Women must keep up their gossip, and I am a dutiful brother.”

“Very good, sir.” The man bowed himself out the door and left Darius listening to the rain on the mullioned windows. He’d ridden the length and breadth of Longchamps in recent days and had seen it was a well-run, old-fashioned estate. Whoever had been tending it for William had done a good job and had been doing a good job for some years. The house was well kept too, not a speck of dust, not a wilted flower, not a dingy window to be seen.

The door opened, and there Vivian stood in her gravid glory, her expression conveying both reluctant pleasure at seeing him and exasperation.

“Lady Longstreet.” Darius bowed, not even taking her hand. He had to do this by the rules or he’d lose his nerve—and Vivvie would toss him out on his ear.

“Mr. Lindsey?” She advanced into the room, leaving the door open—of course—and extending her bare hand to him. He bowed over it, resisting the urge to lay his cheek against her knuckles, and straightened.

“I bring felicitations from Lady Leah, now Countess of Bellefonte.” He assayed a smile, a cordial smile. “And I can pass along to her the news that you are in great good looks. Greetings as well from Lord Valentine Windham’s summer abode, where I am a guest for the season.”

Vivian’s lips quirked at his formality, but she sailed on, lady that she was. “Please have a seat. I’ll ring for tea.”

“Tea would be lovely.” He gave the last word the barest hint of an emphasis, and added a discreet look at his hostess’s person that conveyed what or who, exactly, he thought was lovely. “Is his lordship in residence?”

“No. He remains in London until Parliament adjourns, but I’ll pass your greetings along to him. How is your sister, and when did she wed?”

Darius offered a brief and somewhat edited recounting of the odd courtship of Nick and Leah Haddonfield. “There is suspicion that Leah might already be in anticipation of a happy event. May I tell my sister you’re well, my lady?”

Vivian dipped her chin, abruptly shy. “You may.”

“Vivvie”—he dropped his voice—“we’ve had this discussion.”

“But not”—she glanced around—“not inside, with walls and carpets and a tea tray on the way. What can you be thinking, Darius?”

He’d been thinking that friends called on each other, a precious, prosaic thought. “If I’m not a stranger on the day of the christening, it will be easier to explain my interest in the child.” Her eyebrows rose at that, but he wasn’t done. “Besides, Leah and Emily have both asked after you. Do you know Mrs. Stoneleigh?”

“The late colonel’s widow?”

“She’s Axel Belmont’s wife now, and not an hour distant in the direction of Town. She’s similarly anticipating a happy event.”

Vivian studied her hands, upon which, Darius noted, she no longer wore rings. “You know a prodigious number of expecting women.”

He could sense the speculation in her observation—a penance he’d serve until he’d regained her trust. He rose and spoke barely above a whisper. “You’re the only one expecting my child, Vivian.”

“You’re certain?”

“Positive.” And what a fine thing it was to be able to say that to her with absolute sincerity.

She chewed on his assurances while the tea tray arrived, piled high with scones, butter, jam, cheese, and fruit. The look he gave the tray must have communicated easily.

“Don’t stand on ceremony.” She passed him a cup of tea. “The kitchen cooks for Able, me, and Portia, but guests are a rarity.”

“Because you require peace and quiet.”

While he watched, she split him a scone, spread a thick layer of butter on one half and jam on the other, and arranged it on a plate with strawberries and cherries.

“I can pass on the cheese,” he said, putting his hand over hers when she’d reached for a few slices. “It figures prominently in our camp fare.”

“Camp fare, Mr. Lindsey?” She eyed him up and down, rose, and went to the door to speak with a footman. As she resumed her seat, she aimed a question at him. “What are a duke’s son and an earl’s son doing subsisting on camp fare?”

He overstayed the requisite social call by half an hour, which a man might do when bringing news from a long-out-of-touch acquaintance, and the same man was intent on demolishing the flaky pastries and fresh fruit before him. In that time, he told Vivvie about his brother’s progress down in Surrey, and about Valentine Windham’s struggles with the Markham estate, and with the widow Markham as well.

Vivian’s brow knitted. “I don’t know her. She’s a baroness?”

“She keeps a very circumspect existence, for reasons known to her.” Darius surveyed the crumbs on his plate. “Valentine will get her sorted out, and she’ll sort him out too, unless I miss my guess.”

“A summer idyll.” Vivian’s tone was wistful, and Darius knew he had to take his leave of her before he put his arms around her and offered the kind of comfort an acquaintance would never offer.

Though a friend… “Walk me to my horse?”

“Of course.”

He could not resist putting a hand under her elbow and assisting her to her feet. It was dear, sweet, and vaguely worrisome that in her condition such assistance was genuinely appropriate.

“I miss my feet,” Vivian said as she took his arm and progressed through the house. “I recall them, though, and trust they are still in their assigned location.”

“Appears that’s the case.” Darius patted her hand as they approached the front door. A footman opened it, and they were in the shade of the front terrace. “I’ve missed all of you.”

He’d kept that admission for when they had the privacy of the out of doors, and for his restraint, he was rewarded with another of Vivian’s shy smiles.

“You barely know me,” she murmured, but he noticed she wasn’t in any hurry to get him to the stables.

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to call again. I’m without much civilized company at the Markham estate, and without civilized victuals entirely.”

Her steps slowed as they approached the stable yard, and she did not turn loose of his arm. “Your sister would expect me to extend some hospitality to you, so you must not be a stranger.”

“Gracious of you.” Darius kept his relief at this victory off his face. “And what’s this?”

“Some civilized victuals.” Vivian eased away from his arm and took the bag from the footman who’d come around from the back of the house. “For sons of the nobility forced to rusticate in primitive surrounds. Is this your horse?”

She patted Skunk with a convincing show of interest.

“Skunk, by name.” Darius took the reins from the groom and checked the tightness of the girth.

“Is he from America, then?” She ran a hand down the horse’s neck, a slow, gentle caress that Darius felt in low and lonely places.

“Just his name.” He checked the length of his stirrup leathers, which the grooms would have had no reason whatsoever to fuss with. “You might consider calling on Mrs. Belmont. She’s been accepting callers since her remarriage.”

“I know the Belmont estate. It’s very pretty.” She stroked the horse again, and Darius told himself to stop dawdling, for God’s sake. He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“You’re very pretty.” He murmured the words in the moment his mouth was near her ear, and was rewarded with her blush.

“Lady Leah never told me what a flirt you are.” Vivian touched her cheek. “I am going to tattle on you, sir.”

“Vivian?” Portia’s voice caroled from the direction of the garden, from which she was marching forth, a basket of blooms in hand. “Do we have a visitor?”

Of course they did not. The steward’s wife might have visitors, but Vivian’s visitors were not Portia’s. Darius did not remark the distinction, but rather, exerted himself to bow and smile and give a convincing impression to Portia of a younger son avoiding work on a hot summer morning.

He made liberal mention of his sister, and batted his eyes at Portia until she was simpering. Vivian took her revenge by stroking Skunk, fiddling with his mane, and scratching gently behind the beast’s hairy damned ears.

“I’ll take my leave of you both.” Darius swung into the saddle. “My thanks for the provisions. You may be assured a letter reporting all to the Countess of Bellefonte will be in the next post.” He touched his hat brim and trotted off before Vivian could run her hand over the horse’s flank one more time.

Vivian, for her part, did not watch him go, because Portia was a shrewd observer.

Portia’s eyes narrowed on Skunk’s retreating quarters. “The man no doubt has haunted Town since coming down from university. He could have called on you there. He’s a good-looking devil, if you don’t mind all that height and muscle.”

“Wilton is tall.” Vivian picked up the basket of flowers—forget-me-nots among them, of course. “Lady Leah has the same height and was quite graceful on the dance floor.”

“And she’s caught an earl.”

“You’ve a good man, Portia,” Vivian chided. “We both have good men.”

“I suppose.” Portia linked arms with Vivian. “This heat makes me peckish. Shall we have a plate to tide us over?”

“Nothing for me, thank you. Mr. Lindsey brought with him a spectacular, if politely indulged, appetite.” She lifted the basket. “I’ll put these in water. They’re very pretty.”

Portia’s lips thinned. “That Mr. Lindsey was pretty, too. Speaking of attractive men, have you heard anything from your dear steppapa?”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Of course. He dutifully writes once a month and conveys that all is well in his household.” He also conveyed that William was rumored to be in declining health, and Vivian must resolve to join the Ainsworthy household when the inevitable occurred.

A carriage clattering up the drive interrupted her unhappy musing, and both women stopped to regard the Longstreet traveling coach as it pulled into the stable yard. Vivian set the basket down and cocked a questioning glance at Portia, who merely shook her head.

“William?” Vivian’s husband emerged slowly, blinking at the sunshine heating up the humid air.

“Greetings, dear wife.” He crossed the few steps between them to kiss her forehead, and Vivian accepted his embrace easily. “I know I should have sent a note, but I bring the best news. Portia, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know as well that Mrs. Ventnor has been safely delivered of a daughter. Mother and child are thriving, as is Mr. Ventnor, truth be told.”

“Oh, William.” Vivian hugged him in fierce joy and profound gratitude for her sister’s continued wellbeing. “You are dear to bring me this news in person, and I have missed you so.”

William smiled down at her. “You flatter an old man. I’m a tired old man, too. Come sit with me on the terrace, and I’ll catch you up on all the gossip from Town.” He did not include Portia in the invitation, which was likely what prompted her to speak up.

“We’ve some gossip of our own. Vivian just had a caller, an earl’s son, no less.”

“Vivian has occasionally entertained dukes, no less.” William offered his wife his arm, his tone deceptively pleasant. “If there’s a title visiting in the area, it was simply protocol for him to look in on my dear wife.”

“But Mr. Lindsey hasn’t a title,” Portia went on, “though I gather his sister and Vivian were acquainted in her youth.”

“Vivian is still very much in her youth.” William’s tone cooled a trifle at Portia’s persistence. “My eyesight, thankfully being undiminished, I can attest to this. Portia, would you be good enough to relieve Vivian of these flowers?” He passed her the basket, and a look even Portia should have been able to interpret. “I’ve missed my wife and would beg a moment to enjoy her all to myself.”

Portia took herself off, and William sighed gustily as he and Vivian made their way around to the back terrace.

Vivian peered up at him as they made a slow progress down the walk. “You look in need of a rest and some cosseting, William. You’ve been working too hard.”

“I’ve been getting too old,” he countered good-naturedly. “Clever of Lindsey to recall the connection with his sister.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Mind?” William took a minute to lower himself onto a cushioned wrought iron chair. “I should have thought of it, but if he’s bothering you, Vivian, I’ll wave him off. I think it’s… sweet, I suppose, that he’s doing the pretty.”

Vivian signaled a footman for a tea tray, hoping there was still a scone or two in the larder.

“I think it’s cheeky,” Vivian said, meeting her husband’s gaze.

William’s expression became thoughtful. “You’re going to need allies, Vivian, and Lindsey is motivated to champion your causes, so to speak. You’d be silly to take umbrage at a perfectly respectable social call. Now, I did not have time to write you and fill you in properly on the fate of Havisham’s little bill regarding French soap.”

He patted her hand, and launched into a juicy recounting of the maneuvering necessary to distinguish legislatively between French soap and English soap. Vivian listened dutifully, and could probably have repeated much of what William had said verbatim, though her mind was elsewhere. First, she was concerned, for William looked like death, for all his spirits seemed sanguine, and he was actually eating a little of the food before him.

Second, William was not the least perturbed that Darius had called on her. In fact, he’d seemed almost to have expected it.

Darius had nigh expired from surprise when William Longstreet signaled his coach to stop and poked his head out the window to offer a cheerful greeting.

“Lindsey, what a unique mount you have.”

“My lord.” Darius nodded as a sort of mounted bow. “I bid you good day, having just had the pleasure of doing likewise to your lady wife.”

“And how is Vivian?” William’s smile became mischievous. “Did she threaten to have you forcibly ejected from the premises?”

“She was all that is gracious.” Darius straightened a lock of Skunk’s mane that had fallen to the off side. “Mostly. You don’t mind?”

“My dear young man, you think I’d mind a social call after what has transpired previously—and at my request? Call all you like. It will be a nice change from all that parliamentary whining, and make your occasional presence at Longchamps in future less of an oddity. You’re summering with Moreland’s youngest, aren’t you? You must come calling when bivouacking with the primitives palls.”

He’d thumped his cane on the coach roof and departed with a wave of his hand, leaving Darius to stare at the retreating coach in puzzlement.

He tried to put a name to the expression on Lord Longstreet’s face: mischievous, yes, but also amused and even pleased. And of course, Valentine Windham’s father, His Grace the Duke of Moreland, would be rubbing shoulders with Lord Longstreet and passing along the occasional piece of family gossip.

Hence, William had known Darius would be in Oxfordshire.

Had William foreseen Vivian’s proximity to Darius?

He discarded that notion as patently absurd but had to admit William had seemed blasé about Darius calling on his wife. Blasé, and tired—weary to the bone, perhaps even ill. Vivian had warned Darius it was so, but still, seeing the man was a shock. Realizing Darius would genuinely mourn the old man’s passing was a greater surprise yet.

“The Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey, come to call.”

William glanced up from Muriel’s 1805 diary—and wasn’t that an exciting year?—to find young Lindsey standing in the doorway looking handsome, bashful, and determined.

Relief at seeing that Vivian’s doting swain remained well and truly interested vied with an old schemer’s pleasure at plans coming nicely to fruition. Lindsey would do—for Vivian and for the child; Lindsey would do well.

“Mr. Lindsey. I see you took me at my word, which is more than I can say for most of the damned Commons.” William creaked to his feet and extended a hand toward his guest. “Vivian has abandoned me to make the acquaintance of Professor Belmont’s new wife.”

Lindsey accepted the handshake, glancing around the study William considered his retreat at Longchamps. The furniture was heavy, worn, and comfortable, and Portia knew better than to trespass in here.

“I wasn’t sure you’d receive me in Vivian’s absence.”

Young men were so relentlessly afflicted with bravery. William glanced at Muriel’s diary and hoped she was enjoying the little drama playing out in their home.

“I’m the friendly sort,” he assured his guest. “Or perhaps I’m merely bored, as country life is abysmally quiet. Let’s find some shade out back. I’ve been wanting to know how your sister ended up wedded to Bellefonte’s heir.”

He led Lindsey through the house as he spoke, wanting the fellow to see that Vivian’s surrounds were commodious and well cared for. They reached a side door, and William turned to aim a conspiratorial wink at Mr. Lindsey. “We’ll have more privacy back here.”

To William’s delight, thirty minutes later, young Lindsey was deep in explanations of the Lindsey family’s secrets.

“I haven’t shared this with anybody.” Lindsey looked puzzled as he took a sip of sangria—the man had lived in Italy for a time, and William had chosen their refreshment accordingly.

“It isn’t as if I’ll be repeating it,” William replied.

Lindsey studied him for a long moment while a lovely fresh breeze stirred the leafy branches above them. From the look in the man’s eyes, William had the sense Lindsey hadn’t had the benefit of much plain speaking regarding his family, certainly not from those whose opinions were unassailably well informed.

When William picked up his drink, his hand shook slightly, so the ice clattered against the side of the glass. His guest ignored that indignity, for which William accorded him points.

Muriel would have said Lindsey had possibilities, and she would have been right, though Lindsey himself might not agree. Fatigue dragged at William, and a touch of regret that he would not see all of Lindsey’s potential bear fruit.

Lindsey rose and leaned down as if to offer William assistance.

“None of that,” William said, waving him off and pushing out of the chair. “I can still maneuver about, though God knows for how much longer I’ll be forced to racket around in these old bones. I’ll tell Vivian you called, and she’ll be sorry to have missed you. Truly, Lindsey, you’ve brightened my morning, and you must come again.”

“I think you mean that.” Vivian’s dashing swain looked bewildered and… humble. Humility was a precious quality in a young man—in any man. “I can’t fathom why it should be so.”

Lindsey was a bright fellow. In another few decades, he’d understand well enough.

“Be off with you.” William waved toward the stables, which lay at too great a distance for a tired old man to contemplate. “I’ll expect you back when you have more time to spend socializing.”

And then, when he ought to have gone striding off toward the driveway on those young, strong legs of his, Lindsey turned, hat in hand, and speared William with a look.

“Thank you, my lord. Thank you most sincerely.”

At least he had the savoir faire not to lapse into specifics, because William knew damn good and well Lindsey was not thanking him for a glass of sangria and some idle talk.

“And my thanks to you, Mr. Lindsey. You must come back soon, and we’ll talk further. I never did hear back from you regarding those homing pigeons.”

Lindsey took the hint. He bowed, tapped his hat onto his head, and promised he would call again soon.

Muriel would have been pleased.

Vivian would be pleased, too.

Darius had taken to calling at Longchamps on Mondays and Fridays, and for three consecutive visits, he’d found himself entertained exclusively by his host. Lord Longstreet’s company was oddly comfortable, and he told Darius a number of stories about Darius’s father that supported Lord Longstreet’s conclusion that Wilton was a “waste of good tailoring.”

Longstreet also talked about commercial policies, and where the trade opportunities were likely to lie if legislation were enacted as he anticipated.

“I’d be discussing this with my son, you know,” Longstreet said over one of their pitchers of sangria, “but the man hasn’t the head for policy matters. He’s a dab hand with the land, though.”

Longstreet was old and frail, but he was by no means growing vague. “You speak in the present tense, my lord. I was under the impression you had no extant progeny.”

“So Vivian didn’t get around to tattling on me?”

“Regarding?” Darius knew his host well enough by now to suspect Lord Longstreet had told him only what he wanted Darius to know when they’d met that long-ago November evening.

“My steward,” Longstreet said. “Able Springer is my by-blow. He can’t inherit the title, of course, hence your assistance was necessary.”

Assistance. Perhaps Longstreet had been more diplomat than politician. “I suppose this explains his wife’s presumptuousness.”

Longstreet gestured to the pitcher—a ceramic container Darius could lift easily, though he suspected his host could not. “Portia’s a managing baggage,” his lordship said as Darius refreshed their drinks. “Maybe a child will settle her down.”

“I don’t think so.” And what was it about Longstreet that invited such honesty? “Women like that are bound for trouble, and they don’t outgrow the taste for it.”

“You speak from experience, but there’s little I can do about her. She’s Able’s wife.”

“You can keep her away from Vivian.”

Longstreet regarded him steadily, and Darius realized it was the first overt mention between them of any interest Darius might have in Vivian’s welfare.

“I can send Vivian back up to Town,” Longstreet suggested after a moment. “I’d as soon have her lying in where there are physicians available. I do not want to entrust the Longstreet heir’s arrival to some country midwife.”

“It’s not my place to comment,” Darius said, though the idea that Vivian might have none save Portia to attend her was intolerable. “Her sister is in London as well, and if a lady cannot have the comfort of her mother’s support at such a time, then her sister might be the next best thing.”

Darius withstood yet more scrutiny from faded brown eyes that likely missed nothing. “I don’t suppose you’re on your way up to Town?”

He was—now. Darius rose, sensing the summer heat, the wine, and the time spent in conversation had tired his host. “As a matter of fact I will be soon.”

Longstreet pushed himself out of his chair, a maneuver Darius watched with some concern. William was slowing down yet further, having to pause for balance frequently, and looking even thinner than he had a few weeks ago.

He accepted the cane Darius handed him and aimed a look at his guest Darius could not read. “Will you make your good-byes to Vivian?”

“Lord Longstreet…”

“Now is not the time to turn up prissy,” his lordship said briskly. “If Vivian thought I’d let you scamper off without taking proper leave of her, she’d skewer me where I stand. She should be back now, though she and the Belmont woman have become thick as thieves.”

“They’re both facing impending motherhood for the first time.”

“While I face death,” Longstreet said, “and you face, exactly what?”

Excellent question.

“I’ve been summoned to my brother’s estate in Surrey,” Darius said, “and I’ve my own place to check in on, as harvest approaches. Then too, my younger sister is in Town with Lady Warne, and I should likely make my bow to her.”

“You’ll be busy, rather than fretting over Vivian,” Longstreet observed. “Staying busy helps. Staying drunk decidedly does not.”

“One perceives this.”

“Then you’re a brighter lad than I was. Muriel had to put her dainty foot down with me. Ah, Vivian.” Longstreet’s gaze traveled to where his wife came around the corner of the house. “You’re in time to stroll with Mr. Lindsey before he departs for points south. Don’t stay in the sun too long, my dear. It leaves one quite fatigued. Lindsey, safe journey.”

Darius took the older man’s hand and knew a welling sadness that he might not see William Longstreet again. Nothing but good had come of Darius’s association with the man, and that surprised as it touched as it confounded.

“You’ll listen to Vivian when she orders you to rest and eat and so forth?”

“Hush, lad.” William drew Darius closer and settled both hands around Darius’s one. “You’ll give the woman ideas, and she’s adept enough at fussing and coddling. You’ll look after her for me? I’ll have your word on this, if you’ll humor an old man.”

“You have my word, Vivian and the child.” Darius nodded and swallowed, and then, with Vivian looking on in broad daylight, clasped Lord Longstreet in a careful hug. The man was all bones, his scent one of bay rum and camphor, but he hugged Darius back with surprising strength.

“Vivian, see Mr. Lindsey along, would you? I’m for a little lie down, and then perhaps you’ll send Able to me? The correspondence is piling up.”

“Of course, William.” Vivian watched him return to the house, concern in her gaze. “What was that about?” She aimed the question at Darius, who was also watching Lord Longstreet’s retreat.

“He’s dying, Vivvie.” Darius said it quietly but couldn’t keep the sadness from his tone. “He’s not going to last much longer.”

She slipped her arm through his. “He talks often about when he’s gone, and what I must tell the child of him, and so forth, as if dying comes around every other week. It upsets me, but I think he’s simply trying to get me used to the idea. What were you two whispering about?”

“Nothing consequential.” Darius patted her hand and led her toward a shady path. “You’re feeling well?”

“I’m feeling like a hippopotamus out of water,” Vivian said, and that confiding this was so easy was a pleasure to Darius, even as he wished he could take all the ungainly, hippopotamus sentiments onto his own shoulders rather than leave Vivian to endure them alone.

Love made a man daft—even a man who was trying only to be a good friend.

“Angela says it gets like this, so you can’t wait to be free of your burden, and then you realize you are going to be free of your burden, and after nine long months, you want a little more time to get used to the idea.”

“If she says that after four children, it’s likely true.”

They strolled along in silence until Darius spoke up again. “I’m going to have to depart soon for Surrey, but I’m leaving my direction with the Belmonts, and I’ll leave it with you as well.”

“And then?”

“And then there’ll be a christening to attend, God willing.”

“Or a funeral,” Vivian said softly. She turned into him, and his arms came around her.

“He’s ready to go, Vivvie. We don’t want to let him go, but he’s ready.”

She nodded against his chest. “He is, but why now?”

Darius didn’t answer, just stroked her back and let her be a little weepy and hoped none of the tears were because they were parting. Again. When she was more composed, he resumed their walk, keeping his arm around her shoulders.

“William thinks you’ll be safer delivering in Town where there are physicians at hand.”

“I agree. And Angela is there. She’ll attend me.”

“That’s good, then.” Darius realized they’d soon be within sight of the stables, and rather than turn loose of her, he drew her to a bench beneath an ancient oak. “I can’t write to you, and I can’t call much once you’re in Town, but know that I’ll be thinking of you and praying for your safety.”

She nodded, looking down at where her hand lay in his against his thigh.

“We’ve had an odd summer,” she observed. “Becoming friends.”

“It’s what I can offer you now,” he said, wondering at his own words. They were true, so he charged forth into more truth. “I’ve enjoyed this summer. You are good company, Vivvie Longstreet, and a good wife to your husband.”

“Hold me.”

She pitched against him, giving him little choice, but he was more than willing to oblige. He loved the ripeness of her shape, the subtle luminance of her skin, the maternal secret lurking in all her smiles. To see her here at Longchamps had been a privilege beyond imagining.

“We’re going to get through this, aren’t we, Mr. Lindsey?” She offered him one of those smiles now, a little sad, a little pained, but genuine.

“Yes, my lady.” He kissed her cheek and drew her to her feet. “We’ll get through this too.”

When she waved him on his way at the mounting block, Vivian was the picture of serene grace. She patted his horse good-bye and took his hand one final time.

“Leah has enjoyed your letters,” Darius said quietly, mindful of the grooms. Vivian’s brows rose, and Darius saw she’d taken his point.

“And I enjoy hers,” Vivian said, her smile not at all maternal. “Safe journeys, Mr. Lindsey, and my regards to your sister.”

He touched the brim of his hat with his crop and nudged Skunk into a canter, knowing if he lingered one more moment, he’d be off the horse, arms wrapped around William’s wife, unable to let her go.