Darius: Lord of Pleasures

Sixteen

“It’s a belated lying-in gift.” Angela set the little package on the table by Vivian’s sofa. “From William, who looks positively beamish these days.”

Vivian smiled at the bundle in her arms. “A man his age should look beamish when he has a newborn son. Will you hold the baby?”

“Come here, wee baron.” Angela scooped the child up. “I swear he’s smiling already, Viv, and growing like a weed.”

“I’ve the sore parts to show for it.” Vivian frowned briefly, only to find her sister regarding her with a pragmatic intensity.

“Has the bleeding slowed down?”

“It has stopped,” Vivian reported, used to Angela’s blunt speech about female functions. “And I’m eating my steak and kidney pies, and drinking a great deal of chamomile tea.” She tore at the wrapping on the package and found two books, slim little volumes in Muriel Longstreet’s hand.

Angela shifted to sit on the couch next to her sister. “He said they were from Muriel’s confinements and her years of early motherhood.”

“Oh, Angela…” Vivian traced the leather binding and peered at a random page. “William treasures these, and I can’t…”

Angela met her sister’s gaze and smiled in sympathy.

“You can,” she said. “Our mama is not here to offer her support, but William can give you this much from a woman who took your interests very much to heart. He’s still down in the breakfast parlor, if you’re thinking to thank him.”

“I’ll take the baby and give my husband a scold he won’t soon forget.”

Angela bit her lower lip. “You might consider thanking him instead. William wants you and this child to be happy, and he can’t stop what’s coming any more than you can.”

“He can fight it.” Vivian set the books aside and slipped on a pair of house mules. “He can at least pretend having this child gives him a reason to live, not an excuse to die.” She stopped and looked away, only to find Angela passing her the handkerchief from her bodice.

“It’s like this,” Angela said in sympathy. “You think the child is safely born, and all will be well, and it will be, but nothing is the same, and that takes getting used to.”

“I’m all right.” Vivian dabbed at her eyes then passed the handkerchief back. “How do you manage as if you’ve five hands, Angela? I’d have dropped the baby by now.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Angela said with peculiar gravity. “You’re his mother, and that means, on some level, you’ll never let him go. Now, let William dandle his son, and then I must be back to my own brood.”

“You’re good to keep checking on me.” Vivian leaned over to kiss her sister’s cheek and accepted the baby back from Angela.

“That reminds me: Is Ainsworthy keeping his distance, or does he presume to check on you too?”

Vivian glanced up from the baby. “He presumes. He was here less than a week after the baron was born, carping at me regarding my future, as if my husband weren’t alive and breathing under the same roof as my son.”

Angela’s normally serene features creased with distaste. “Thurgood Ainsworthy is a snake. Another benefit of being married to a publisher is that Jared doesn’t mince words, and I probably fell in love with my husband the day he forbid Ainsworthy from calling on me.”

Vivian gave a little shudder and hugged the child closer, because Ainsworthy had been regarding her lately with an all-too-satisfied proprietary air, and yet he’d shown the baby no regard whatsoever.

Angela tucked her handkerchief back into her bodice. “No more talk of that wretched weasel. Let your husband and your son enjoy a little of each other’s company.”

Vivian accompanied her sister down the steps, saw her on her way, and found William reading his paper in the breakfast parlor.

“Good morning, William.” She kissed his cheek and took a seat before he could rise and hold her chair. “I’ve brought a visitor.”

William set his paper aside. “How is the lad this morning?”

“In good spirits.” Vivian shifted the baby so William could see his face. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Come here, boy.” William held out his arms. “You’ll be appalled at what our regent has done with your birthright lately.” He took the child in his arms, and watching the old man and the new baby, Vivian felt a pang of such strong emotion that tears welled again. William had given her this child, and William was leaving her with this child.

William glanced up from the baby. “Waxing sentimental, Vivian?”

“Very.” She looked around for the teapot, the toast rack, anything. “William, how are you feeling?”

He met her gaze, and some of his cheerful expression slipped. He patted her hand. “You must not be afraid. All will be well.”

“You are not well,” she rejoined, moving her hand to pour a cup of tea. “You smile and pat my knuckles and tease the baby, but, William…”

“I know, Vivian. We watched Muriel die, you and I. Do you think I don’t know this is hard on you?”

“It doesn’t seem hard on you,” she said, some exasperation coming through. “I’ve never been a mother before, William, and I never expected to be a mother, not like this, not without…”

“Without a husband, a father to your child to raise him up with you,” William finished the sentiment. “You must trust me, Vivian, to do what I can for the boy and for you. He’s barely a month old, but I do love him. I love that he exists, and my regard for you, for what you did for the Longstreet succession, is greater than you know.”

It was as close as he’d come to telling her he loved her, and Vivian’s emotions shifted toward panic. From William, it was tantamount to a good-bye.

“Now”—William’s tone became brisk—“take this great strapping lad from me, for he grows too heavy for these old arms. Will you be ready for the christening?”

“I will be. Angela will be as well, though I still say it will look peculiar not to have Jared for the godfather.”

“Jared understands my choice,” William said, passing the child back to her, “and I daresay you do too. Lindsey will make a proper job of it, and for reasons the world need not be privy to. I’ve written to him, you know.”

“About?”

“The man has a son, Vivian.” William said it very quietly, even though they were alone behind closed doors with only that son in attendance. “He deserves to know that your confinement has come to a happy conclusion, and he deserves to know that child and mother are doing well.”

“This is not his son,” Vivian said just as softly. “Legally, the man is nothing to the child.”

William picked up his paper. “The very point of our elaborate fiction, but Darius Lindsey is a person, Vivian, a flesh-and-blood man, with feelings he probably doesn’t even comprehend himself. I gather others have treated him as if he lacked those feelings, and I don’t want to do him the same disrespect. Now, take his lordship here and explain to him he must behave at the christening, as the honor of the House of Longstreet rests in his chubby little hands.”

William turned his attention back to the paper, silencing Vivian from further remonstrations.

She cuddled the baby closer. “My thanks for the diaries. I’ll take the best care of them.”

He folded down the paper to regard her and the child. “I know you will, and of our son as well, but see that you allow some care to be taken of you too, Vivian.” He returned to his paper on that cryptic note. Vivian took the baby back to the nursery and stayed there with him, reading diaries written decades earlier by a woman now dead.

Her peaceful day was interrupted by Dilquin’s announcement that Mr. Ainsworthy was again swilling tea in the family parlor. Grateful that the baby slept—Vivian had yet to introduce her former stepfather to her son—she took her time tidying her hair.

“Vivian, dear girl.” Ainsworthy took both her hands in his and spread them wide, so she was prevented from dodging his kiss to her forehead. “My dear, you look positively peaked. I am concerned for you.”

“Newborns will wake one up frequently through the night,” Vivian said. “If you’ll keep your visit short, I’ll have time for a nap before the baby wakes.”

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to employ a wet nurse, Vivian?” Ainsworthy contrived to look worried. “If our dear queen could do so for all fifteen of her offspring, you might consider it as well.”

Vivian’s chin came up half an inch. “He’s my son and William’s heir, and I am not the Queen. A wet nurse will not be necessary.”

“Perhaps later.” Ainsworthy seated himself and gestured to the place beside him on the sofa. “William can’t think to tie you to that child for months and months.”

Vivian took a separate chair, close enough that she could pour the tea, far enough away to avoid Ainsworthy’s hands.

“I expect I’ll be tied to that child for the rest of his life,” Vivian said, pouring herself tea, because Ainsworthy had helped himself before she’d arrived. “How is your family?”

“You are my family. You wound me when you suggest otherwise.”

“I’m inquiring after Ariadne and her son. More tea?”

“Just a drop.” Ainsworthy held out his cup. “Have you warned that sister of yours you’ll be joining my household when William shuffles off this mortal coil?”

Vivian rose, fists clenched, fatigue, grief, and pure fury burning off her manners. “That kind of talk is inappropriate, callous, and unwelcome.”

“Unwelcome? To offer you succor in your impending grief? To extend the arms of familial love and support in your hour of need? Vivian, childbirth has taxed your wits if you think I have anything but your best interests at heart.”

Childbirth had not taxed her wits, but rather, sharpened them. “I beg leave to doubt the purity of your motivations, Thurgood, when my husband yet lives, and our household is celebrating the birth of William’s heir. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go check on my son and perhaps take that nap you think I need so badly.”

She swished out, closing the door softly only by exercise of will. The nerve of the man was appalling, and yet Vivian couldn’t toss off Thurgood Ainsworthy as just an interfering busybody. He’d schemed to see Angela wed, and he’d schemed to induce Vivian’s mother into holy matrimony, at substantial cost to the bride and her children.

“Dilquin.” Vivian kept her voice low, because Thurgood was no doubt intent on swilling his tea before he took himself off. “You will make sure that man leaves this house, and you will not allow him across the threshold again unless William is with me.”

“Very good, my lady.” Dilquin looked not the least perturbed by these directions, but his eyebrows flew up when one of the under footmen came running from the back of the house.

“My lady, come quick. His lordship’s in a bad way!”

“He’s merely unconscious,” Vivian said, seeing the rise and fall of William’s chest. “Get him up to bed, but for God’s sake, don’t let Ainsworthy see you. Send for Dr. Garner, and bring paper and pen to his lordship’s room so I can let my sister know as well.”

Her orders were swiftly carried out, but Vivian’s heart was pounding in her chest, for there was no such thing as merely unconscious for a man of William’s years. Dilquin directed the footmen, who carried William to his bed then politely ejected Ainsworthy from the family parlor before the physician arrived.

By the time Doctor Garner was on hand, William was tucked up in bed and conscious, but he was alarmingly pale and weak. To Vivian’s ear, her husband’s voice was altered as well, his speech ever so slightly slurred.

The physician would not have picked that up, because he hadn’t heard William’s voice day in and day out for the past five years, but Vivian heard it, and her unease at William’s condition grew apace.

Doctor Garner drew her aside, wearing a sympathetic expression on aging Nordic features that looked both fierce and kindly.

“A mild apoplexy would be my guess, my lady,” he said. “You must keep him comfortable and calm, though another seizure could occur at any time. He will be weak, possibly weaker on one side than the other, and he might have trouble recalling things or putting his thoughts into words. He’s lucky. An apoplexy can be far more serious, leaving one without the ability to speak, move, or even swallow.”

“He’s lucky, and he can recover, can’t he?”

“Some do,” the physician said, folding the earpieces on his spectacles, then unfolding them. “Each case is different. Some go on and become as good as new, some fall victim to other illnesses, some are taken by another apoplexy within days, even hours.”

And, Garner seemed to be saying, medicine played no role in altering those outcomes.

Vivian unclenched her fisted hands. “William’s heir was just born a few weeks ago. His lordship has much to live for, and we will do all we can to keep him with us.”

“I’d advise against such determination,” the man said, tucking his spectacles into a vest pocket. “Clearly, my lady, you are devoted to your spouse, which does you credit, but he’s very old, and being dependent on others for all assistance isn’t easy for a man like Lord Longstreet. I’ve been his physician for years and had to have this same discussion with him when the late Lady Longstreet became so ill. If God is calling William home, who are we to demand William ignore that summons for our comfort?”

“When it was William’s spouse dying”—Vivian had to pause on that word—“I understood such sentiments clearly, Doctor. I was closer to Muriel than to William at the time, of course, but now…”

Doctor Garner patted her arm. “Now you keep him as cheerful and comfortable as you can, and leave the rest in God’s hands. Then too, you have a new baby, and your own health cannot be allowed to suffer because you’re fretting over Lord Longstreet. Physically, he’s not in much pain beyond what ails an old man. His discomfort is more likely caused by the injury to his dignity.”

“Oh, that.” Vivian’s smile was rueful. “We Longstreets are always very much on our dignity.”

“Sometimes dignity is all that’s left to us. You’ll send for me if there’s any change in his condition?”

“Of course.” Vivian showed him out and felt keenly the silence in the house in the wake of the morning’s developments. She had to face her husband’s approaching death, but how, exactly, did one face such a loss? She mentally put the question to her Maker, but no almighty answer rained down from the puffy clouds in the pretty September sky. Not knowing what else to do, Vivian fetched her son, had a rocking chair moved into William’s room, and brought the baby with her so she could sit by William’s bedside and pray for his full recovery.

Valentine Windham had agreed to accompany Darius to the christening in exchange for Darius’s promise to attend the opening concert of the symphony season. Darius had updated his wardrobe, procured a rattle in the shape of a scepter for the baby, and ordered flowers sent ’round to the new mother.

All that remained was to call upon Lord William—as a courtesy—the day before the christening. A simple social call had never caused a grown man so much trepidation or so much dithering over his attire.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the butler said, handing Darius’s hat and cane off to a footman. “The Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey?”

“Yes. If you’d take my card to Lord Longstreet?”

“Lord Longstreet is likely not at home.” The butler’s brow puckered as he led Darius into the library. “Shall I let Lady Longstreet know you’re here?”

“I don’t want to bother her,” Darius said. Calling on William was one thing; calling on Vivian just weeks after she’d given birth wasn’t as easy to explain.

“You’re sure?”

“I am.” Darius took a minute to glance around the parlor. The wainscoting was dark, the walls done in a forest green, the gilt kept to a minimum. A comfortable, masculine room with well-padded chairs—probably William’s preferred territory.

“If you’ll just wait a moment, sir.” The butler bowed slightly. “I’ll retrieve your hat and cane.”

“Certainly.” Darius nodded, not at all displeased to have a few minutes to study this little piece of Vivian’s world, and just perhaps, to hear the sound of a baby crying elsewhere in the house.

He heard the butler’s dry tones and a softer voice, the words indistinct. Without warning, the door opened, and Vivian stood there, her expression surprised. “Mr. Lindsey?”

“Viv—my lady.” He didn’t approach her, but he wanted to. God in heaven, he wanted to. “A pleasure to see you.” A pleasure and a towering relief, also the answer to myriad heartfelt prayers for the lady’s well-being.

“I didn’t know you’d come calling.” She took a few steps into the room, paused, and turned to close the door. “Dilquin suggested William might like me to read something besides Muriel’s diaries, but he neglected to mention we had a caller.”

God bless Dilquin. “I thought a call the day before the christening might be courteous. I gather William is from home.”

“He’s… unavailable.” Vivian looked away, her expression bleak. “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea sounds good.” Bilge water would sound good, provided he could drink it in Vivian’s parlor, in Vivian’s company—though William’s situation sounded not good at all. Darius held his ground while Vivian went to signal a footman. His eyes traveled over her as discreetly as he could manage, silently cataloging the changes: Her figure was once more in evidence, but more lush. The waistline of her dress was raised, though Darius could tell her breasts were fuller, her hips a little rounder, her backside a touch more generous.

The sight of her made his mouth go dry, she was so lovely. There was a softness about her, a maturity that made what had been pretty before beautiful now—despite the fatigue he could see in her eyes, and in the way she moved a little carefully to the sofa and took a seat.

She raised her gaze to his. “Will you join me?”

He could not tell if he was supposed to be Darius or Mr. Lindsey today, but he accepted the invitation and sat beside her, leaning close enough for a little whiff of her scent. “The baby is well?”

The exact right question to ask a new mother, and the answer a new father very much needed to know.

Vivian smiled broadly. “Healthy as a little piglet. He’s perfect, Darius. Just… perfect, and when he smiles, it’s impossible to believe there’s misery or strife anywhere in God’s creation.”

“You’re smitten with your own offspring,” Darius accused, returning her smile. “He’s keeping you up nights, I’d guess.”

“He’s growing.” Vivian smoothed a hand down her skirts, and Darius was pleased to note that with him, she did not blush. “Growing boys need sustenance.”

“You’re not using a wet nurse?”

“My mother didn’t endorse it, and neither does Angela, and all four of hers are thriving. I don’t want to hand my son off to a stranger, not until I have to.”

Our son, Darius mentally corrected her, though he hadn’t the right. “What does that mean?”

“‘Boys go into men’s hands,’” she quoted, “though I have a few years before that happens.”

She had those years, while Darius did not, and yet he didn’t begrudge them to her—exactly. “I’m glad you’re not using a wet nurse. If nature is any guide, it’s a peculiar practice at best, but is there something you’re not telling me, Vivvie?”

She was saved from answering by the arrival of the tea service, which gave Darius further opportunity to study her. There was an agitated quality to her, in her movements, around her eyes and mouth. He’d seen Vivian in many moods, from uncertain to angry to passionate, but she’d always had a quality of self-possession.

She passed him his tea, prepared with both cream and sugar, and Darius watched while she poured her own.

“You’re tired, Vivvie,” he said, “and maybe a little frayed around the edges from the birth and delivery. Was it very bad?”

“Bad?” She set the teapot down but kept her fingers wrapped around the handle, as if a little porcelain pot might steady her.

“I thought of you.” He set his teacup aside and saw his hand was reaching forward to rub a slow circle on her shoulder. She looked in want of cuddling to him, in want of comfort. “I thought of you constantly. Childbirth is legendarily uncomfortable. That you suffered… I would wish it otherwise.”

Was he the only man in all creation who would have borne a child to spare the mother her travail?

“I have a healthy son.” She spoke as if reciting from a copybook. “William has his heir, and it was worth it. Angela said her first took twice as long as little Will did.”

“You’ve named him William? The quintessential good English name. I like it.”

“Wilhelm, actually.” She turned a faint smile on him. Had she wondered what he’d think of the name? “Wilhelm Fordham Longstreet, after William’s grandmother, Wilhelmina, who came over with the court of German George.”

Darius’s smile faded, though he didn’t drop his hand, because Vivian wasn’t protesting the contact. “Interesting middle name. Your idea?”

“William’s.” Vivian slanted a puzzled look at him over her shoulder. “He chose the names, and I like them. Your brother’s eldest is named Ford, isn’t he?”

“Fordham. After his uncle, Darius Fordham Lindsey.”

“Oh.”

She looked so completely nonplussed, Darius put aside the burning need to meet Vivian’s son—his son, too, in a sense—and cast around for something, anything, to keep the conversational shuttlecock aloft. “Have you hired a nurse yet?”

“I’m borrowing one from Angela,” Vivian said, looking relieved at the change in topic. “She’s here only during the daylight hours, and a baby requires care ’round the clock.”

“Vivvie, I know how this works, because I’ve been through it before. You want to be a good mother, and I know you are, but that means you’re reluctant to let anybody, save perhaps your sister, deal with the child at all. Because you’re not using a wet nurse, you must be up and down all night with him, and then you’re trying to run William’s household by day as well. This is how women end up with nervous exhaustion.”

“You know too much.” Vivian hunched forward, but she didn’t shrug off his hand, so he continued to rub her back. “Angela scolds me similarly though.”

“She isn’t scolding. She’s trying to look after you.”

Vivian scowled at him over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be doing that.” Now she aimed a look at his hand where it rested on her shoulder.

“I’ll bargain with you. You nap at least in the afternoon when the child naps, and I’ll leave off dunning you.” Though of course, he had nothing to bargain with and wouldn’t be on the premises to dun her—or rub her back or cuddle her or anything.

The current of bleakness common to all their dealings widened, threatening to engulf even his joy in being with her.

Until Vivian gave up a sigh, a tired sigh to Darius’s ears. “I could. I could go to sleep right now, in fact.”

“Is the baby asleep?”

“I hope so. You say John’s mother went through this?”

“I had to practically move her bed into the nursery. She never really recovered from the childbirth, and she was terrified the child would not thrive.”

Vivian nodded. “I can understand being terrified.”

“For God’s sake, Vivian, you’ve said the baby is healthy and growing, the delivery was uncomplicated, and you’ve got at least a day nurse.” Darius sat forward to slide his arm around her waist. “You’re a good mother, I’d stake my life on that, and all you need is a little more rest.”

“I do.” She let her head rest on his shoulder, and Darius rejoiced to offer her even that passing comfort. William should be doing this for her, restoring her spirits, assuring her of her competence, but he was likely too involved with the opening of the fall parliamentary session, or maybe too damned dignified.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Darius asked.

“Of course, though I doubt William will attend.”

“Not attend the christening of his heir?” Darius shifted to consider Vivian more closely. The tension underlying her fatigue was William’s doing, Darius would bet his horse on it. “He’s unwell, then?”

Vivian nodded, so Darius waited, hoping she’d elaborate.

“Under the weather,” was all she said. “He caught a cold this winter at Longchamps and struggled to throw it off for most of the spring. He’s lost ground, Darius, and lately he’s very weak.”

“I was afraid he’d give up when the child arrived. It appears that’s the case.” The irony of it, that Darius should have spent years wishing his own father into the ground, and now grieve William Longstreet’s imminent passing, was not lost on him.

“Give up?” Vivian lifted her cheek from his shoulder to regard him. “I could just… I’m not ready for him to leave me alone with this baby to raise, a huge estate to see to, several other properties. The title is old, Darius, and the properties are many and complicated, and then too, William had investments, and I don’t know his man of business, and the solicitors are almost as old as William. I hardly know how to go on now as things stand, and if William dies…”

“When he dies”—Darius stroked her hair, hating the anxiety riding her so hard—“he’ll have made generous provision for you in his will.”

“He told you this?”

“He hasn’t discussed it with me, no, but the man wasn’t going to put you up to providing him an heir then ignore the magnitude of your sacrifice, Vivian.”

“Sacrifice?” She snorted and got up to pace. “I should just ask him, I know that, and he’d tell me, but it seems so… callous, like something Portia would do.”

“Portia Springer?” Darius rose too. “Not somebody whose company I’d seek. Come here, Vivian, and let me hold you a moment, and then I’ll be on my way. It doesn’t do for me to be closeted with you here for more than a few minutes, and you need to be napping in any case.”

And didn’t he just sound like the soul of avuncular wisdom, when what he wanted was to stand guard at her bedroom door, ensuring she wasn’t disturbed until she damned well caught up on her rest.

He held her, the way he’d held John’s mother when she was so tired and worn and bewildered as a new mother. The way he’d wished somebody had held him on more than one occasion.

“I’ll wish you good day, then,” Vivian murmured, though she remained quiet against him. Her shape was different than it had been over the summer. To Darius, it was wonderful in a whole new way. Still Vivvie, but even better, even more holdable, and worth cherishing.

“Walk me to the door, Vivvie,” Darius said, dropping his arms. “Then go upstairs and take a damned nap. You’ll feel worlds better, and the nurse will summon you if Will gets fretful.”

Will, his son, named Wilhelm Fordham. Decent of Lord Longstreet to do that, beyond decent.

Vivian paused before they left the library. “I’m glad you came. More glad than you know. If the baby hadn’t just gotten to sleep—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Darius assured her. He’d see her tonight in his dreams too, of course. “You’ll rest now. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Vivian tried for a smile, but it was a shy effort.

Darius kissed her cheek, only her cheek. “Get as much rest between then and now as you can.”

She leaned in, her forehead on his chest as if she were drawing strength, then straightened and took his proffered arm. Dilquin met them at the door, handing Darius his cane and hat.

Darius eyed the older fellow. “I’m telling your butler you’ve promised to nap. I will trust his discretion to see you keep your word.”

“The housekeeper and Mrs. Ventnor’s nursery maid will abet me in this cause, sir,” the butler volunteered. “Her ladyship will look in the pink tomorrow when she takes the baron about for the first time.”

The baron. Darius’s son already had a courtesy title and was going to sit in the Lords one day. It boggled the mind of a plain mister, it did, but Darius found himself smiling as he walked back to his rooms.

He could afford better now. Wilton’s death not a month past had released some funds in trust, and Averett Hill was turning a steady profit. Then too, all the jewels Darius had been given—had earned—were of good quality and had been sold so the funds could be invested along with the final installment William had provided. All in all, Darius was well on his way to thriving financial health.

So he considered where a man ought to move, if he wanted quarters suitable for the occasional visit from his one and only… godson.