Darius: Lord of Pleasures

Six

Everlasting God, she had to get him out of her bedroom—out of her bed. And there he lay, scratching his chest and stretching like that worthless cat.

“Good morning to you too.” He offered her a sleepy smile and flipped back the covers to cross the room in all his oblivious nudity. Vivian turned away, but not before she caught sight of his arousal, and she had to swallow back a howl of sheer… upset.

William must hate her, to put her into the keeping of a man built like that. In the cold light of morning, she saw there was no way she could couple with Darius Lindsey and not be rent asunder. Women bore children, true, but they also died bearing children, probably the children of great, oversized, handsome louts like him.

He moved behind the privacy screen, but his height meant Vivian knew exactly where he was, and her ears told her exactly what he was about.

“So, Vivvie,” he said around a mouthful of her toothbrush. “I take it you aren’t a morning person?”

“I am a morning person.” She hiked the covers up to her chin. “I am not a waken-to-find-your-hands-on-me person.”

“You’re shy in the morning,” he concluded, not sounding at all disconcerted. “I used to be, but then, I am in charity with life today, and you can’t bring quite the same good cheer to the morning I can.”

“And why is that?”

“You’re frustrated.” He shrugged, his smile sweet as he—all of him—came into view. “While I’ve been recently sated, after a fashion. Shall I relieve your frustration?”

She nodded firmly. “By leaving this room.”

She thought he was going to oblige when he ambled over to the door in all his glory, but he merely stuck his head into the corridor and bellowed instructions to the house at large. When he strolled over to the bed, it was obvious his interest in the day was still… aroused.

She spared his erection a shuddering glance. “Can’t you do something about that?”

“I’d rather you do something about it.” He yawned again and climbed in beside her. “I suppose you being shy in the morning, that’s a little much to ask for our first time.”

“Will you leave me in peace?” She hissed it, and some of her upset must have gotten through to him, because his smile faded.

He tucked the covers around her shoulders. “Here’s how I see it, Vivvie: the more often we couple, the more likely you are to conceive. If we’re to achieve your goal, then you should be pestering me for my attentions every few hours for the next three weeks.”

“Every few hours?” She huddled down into the covers on a moan of horror.

“Sweetheart.” He scooted closer. “Talk to me. I can’t address whatever’s bothering you unless you tell me what it is.”

Just when Vivian thought she’d die of mortification, a knock sounded on the door, followed by Gracie’s cheerful presence bearing a tray.

“Morning, all.” Gracie beamed in the general direction of the bed. “Looks to be snowing out again, and Master John’s already up and about.”

“I’ll take the tray, Gracie.” Darius reached out long arms. “You see to the fire.”

“I take it milady likes to sleep in.” Gracie eyed Vivian, who had all but scooted under the covers.

“I wore her out.”

Vivian poked her head up enough to catch his smile, whipped a pillow from under her head, and smacked him with it.

“Wakes up cranky,” Darius said, shielding the tray with his body. “Best be quick, Gracie, if you don’t want to be the victim of violence.”

Gracie winked at Vivian. “Smack him again, milady. It’s the only way with the cheeky ones.” The maid was gone before Vivian could fashion a reply, and then Darius passed her a cup of tea.

“She’ll leave us in peace until we leave your room,” he said, pouring his own cup and setting the tray on the nightstand. “Now what are these maidenly vapors about?”

The tea was hot and strong and as much fortification as she was likely to find anywhere.

“Every few hours?”

“’Fraid so, love.” He sipped calmly. “I’m looking forward to it more than I thought I would.”

“You’re looking…” She finished her tea in two gulps, feeling a sudden empathy for foxes set upon by hounds. “I cannot do this.”

“You haven’t even tried, Vivvie.” His tone was chiding, and he was right, damn him. “Don’t you want a baby? A wee little fellow to cuddle and coo at?”

“Yes, I want a baby.” She set her cup aside, because he was right about this too. “But I’m… scared.”

“Ah.” He set his cup next to hers, and Vivian wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “Then we’ll put your fears behind us tonight, and you’ll see it won’t be so bad. I promised you pleasure, remember? I’ll take care of you, Vivvie. I’m good for that, if nothing else.”

And what was that supposed to mean?

“Come here.” He looped an arm across her shoulders and pulled her to his side. “Relax. Last night, you slept like a soldier after a forced march.”

“You wear me out.” She sighed at the feel of his hand massaging her scalp.

“Just distracting you from your imagined fate.” His lips grazed her temple, and Vivian had the oddest notion it had been a kiss for comfort—her comfort. “You like to cuddle, you know.”

“I am not in a position to argue.” She was, in fact, plastered to his side, her cheek pillowed on his chest. “I can hope it’s a passing tendency.”

“I gather William isn’t a cozy type of husband?”

“How would I…?” She closed her eyes and turned her face into his warmth. “William is dignified.”

“Dignity in the bedroom is almost impossible to imagine. You’re afraid I’ll hurt you?”

She nodded, relieved he could say what she couldn’t.

“I’ve never physically hurt a woman, Vivian.” His grip shifted to her nape, where he was squeezing the tension right out of her. “Never, nor will I.”

“But you let them hurt you,” Vivian pointed out because it bothered her, exceedingly.

“A few whacks with a crop is hardly worth quibbling about, and they enjoy it sufficiently to make it worth my while. It’s of no moment.”

The teasing tone was gone from his voice, and Vivian had the sense she was now in bed with the real Darius Lindsey, not the strutting, teasing, flirting facade he’d offered her earlier.

“Do you bring them here?”

“We’re not going to discuss this.” He kissed her cheek this time, in apology for his words—she hoped.

“I don’t want to be like them, Darius.” She felt him closing himself off from her, and surprised herself—him too, based on his expression—by hiking a leg across his thighs then straddling him. Her nightgown made the whole business more complicated, but when she was snuggled down onto his chest, the effort had been worth it.

His arms came around her, and his cheek rested against her hair. “How is it you don’t want to be ‘like them’?”

“You let them take advantage of you,” she said. “If they weren’t whacking at you, they’d just find some other man to abuse. You aren’t a person to them.”

“Another naughty pony,” Darius said. “Perhaps.”

“Not perhaps.” She nuzzled at his sternum, then shifted up and slipped a hand around the back of his head. “I want to beat them with a crop for treating you thus.” She clasped him to her chest and put a name to what she was feeling: protective. Protective of a great, strapping lout with no sense whatsoever.

“Vivvie.” He wrestled her away a little. “Look at me.”

She turned her face from him—she was straddling him, and nightgown or not, there was nowhere to hide.

“Look at me.”

He brushed her hair back with such tenderness she wanted to cry, but then he anchored his hand in her hair to turn her face back to his.

“You have to learn, Vivian Longstreet, not to let your heart get tangled up in the physical sensations. We’re going to be repeatedly, gloriously intimate. I’ve promised you pleasure, and I can assure you I’ll be sharing in it abundantly. But you have to decide right now it’s only pleasure, like an ice on a hot day, a good gallop on a fall morning. It means nothing more than that. It can’t.”

“You decide that,” she accused, “or those beatings would have significance you can’t allow them.”

“Hush.” He brought her back down to his chest. “You’re disconcerted and tenderhearted, and you’ll see the sense in what I’m saying.”

He fell silent, and Vivian lay there in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart and wanting to cry—for herself, but also, incongruously, for him.

“For pity’s sake, Able, you have to ask him.” Portia Springer set her teacup down with the sharp bang of fine porcelain used roughly.

“You’re ghoulish, Portia.” Able rose from the kitchen table. “I can’t ask my own father what’s in his will.”

“Whyever not?” She rose too, and paced behind him across the kitchen. “You’ve managed this estate for him for years, Able, and shown one handsome profit after another, and the land is entailed. Entailed. You’re his only living child, and it would be the work of a moment to legitimate you. Truly legitimate you.”

“Not the work of a moment.” Able rinsed his cup off then went back to the table for hers. “The work of several moments, felonious, expensive moments, and I am not in the habit of forging marriage lines. The person providing that service would be in a position to blackmail me and all my children, Portia—your children.”

Which they were unlikely to have, the silence around them declared, as long as she was so parsimonious with her marital favors.

“I’m twenty-eight,” she spat. “There’s plenty of time for that.”

“I’ll not see thirty-eight again,” he countered, using a thumbnail to scrub at the sugar stuck to the bottom of her cup. “I’d like to be on hand to raise my children, Portia. I’ve no doubt William has left his current viscountess in peace, in part because he understands the need for a father to raise his own children.”

“You’d raise his children,” Portia muttered, though Able knew by her tone she was regrouping.

“He hasn’t any other children left. This is a moot discussion, and I cannot relish the task of raising half siblings four decades my junior. Leave it, Portia, please.”

“If the land goes back to the Crown,” she started up again, fists propped on ample hips, “you have nothing. Twenty years of slaving for that man, and nothing to show for it.”

“If the land goes back to the Crown, somebody still has to manage it, and we’ve money set aside, Portia. I’m a good steward, and there’s work to be had for such as me, and for thirty-eight years, my father has provided either directly or by means of furnishing me a livelihood.”

“Like hell.” She shifted to block his exit, and Able knew for the thousandth time some sympathy for men who beat their wives. “Stewards are invariably poor relations, and that old man is the only person you’re related to, and he’s looking worse each year, Able Springer. Each season.”

Able couldn’t argue that, not when his father was indeed showing his considerable age. “He has been generous with us, Portia, and you’ll not be pestering him now regarding his will. His lordship has had enough of death and grief these past few years.”

“Not so much he couldn’t remarry well before his mourning was up,” Portia snapped. “You must get all that strutting and pawing in the bedroom from him.”

He was torn between the urge to lay hands on her and the urge to emigrate to the Antipodes—alone. “Portia, dearest wife, if I could recall the last time you permitted me the pleasure of strutting and pawing in the bedroom, I might comprehend your remark, but for a woman who’s intent on inheriting a title and wealth, you’re doing precious little to secure the succession.”

He departed on that volley, not sure he’d know what to do if she did allow him intimacies. Eight years ago, she’d seemed like such a catch—practical, knowledgeable about the running of an estate, and comely enough for a man of his station. He’d hoped they could be friends.

His father hadn’t commented on his choice of wife, and a few years later, Lady Muriel had succumbed to the illness plaguing her. He’d liked Lady Muriel, and thought Portia might share a few of her more interesting qualities. More fool him.

He found his father in the breakfast parlor, noting again the older man’s gauntness, and felt a sweeping sense of loneliness. They didn’t know each other well, but, by God, they were the last of their line.

“Good morning, your lordship.” Able took a seat at the table. “I trust you slept well?”

“I slept.” Lord Longstreet’s smile was fleeting. “As one ages, that becomes a practice of dozing between trips to the chamber pot.”

“You miss your wife,” Able said. “Perhaps you’d sleep better in her company.”

“Vivian?” Lord Longstreet’s eyebrows rose. “One can hardly imagine such a thing. When are you and Portia to present me with some grandchildren, Able? It’s been what, six, seven years?”

“About that.” Able topped up Lord Longstreet’s teacup. “The Lord hasn’t seen fit to bless us.”

Lord Longstreet stirred his tea. “Is it the Lord being stingy, or your lady wife?”

The morning was to be a series of interrogations. “Is there a reason for such blunt inquiry?”

“An old man’s nosiness. A father’s nosiness. The male line in our family is not known for its fecundity. You might have to work at it, do you want children, if you’re like I was.”

“You had three sons. Many families make do with less than that.”

Lord Longstreet took a sip of his well-stirred tea. “Is she hounding you?”

“My lord?”

“Portia, is she hounding you regarding the estate?”

Able studied his tea—into which he had not put even a dash of sugar.

“You never call me father, Able.”

“You’ve never invited such familiarity,” Able said, wondering if everybody in the household had gone daft. “And you do not call me son.”

Lord Longstreet considered him from across the table. “You are certainly acknowledged. You always have been.”

“I’m not your heir, and I never can be.” Able addressed his teacup. “I understand that.”

“Though Portia would have it otherwise,” Lord Longstreet concluded. “She has the ambition I found in Muriel but not the integrity.”

Able bristled, because indirectly, it was a harsh judgment of him—and accurate in all its implications. “That’s an unflattering conclusion about a woman you barely know.”

“I’ve thrived in the Lords for half a century, Able, because I am an astute judge of character. Not as astute as Muriel, but she taught me to see what most men miss, and Portia is becoming bitter. She likes being lady of the manor, pretending to be the viscountess, but she’s the steward’s wife. That’s all she’ll ever be, and it tears at her.”

“The bastard’s wife,” Able said. “I was the bastard when she married me, and not even the regent can change that. I do comprehend my station, my lord.”

“And I comprehend your worth, Able.” Lord Longstreet rose slowly, mostly by bracing his knuckles on the table and pushing. “You may assure your wife of this fact and refer her to me should she doubt it. It looks like we’re in for more snow.”

“Snow means it can’t be all that cold,” Able said, rising out of respect. “Would you like to ride out with me today?”

“Ride out? I haven’t ridden the land here for what, three years? Suppose we could bundle up, take a flask or two?”

“Of course.” Able smiled as much at the prospect of escaping the house as at the twinkle in his father’s eye. “And maybe drop in at the Hot Cross Bun for a scone.”

“Haven’t had one of their scones for years.” William smiled in remembrance, and Able knew, he just knew, the last time William had dropped by the local bakery for a treat, Lady Muriel had been the one to jolly him into it.

“Let’s be off, then,” Able said. “Before we’re caught and forced to spend the day with the ledgers—or worse.”

Vivian Longstreet was proving problematic—interesting, but problematic. A month wasn’t going to be long enough to unravel the blend of shyness and determination Darius sensed in her, and a month was going to be too long to have her underfoot.

He glanced at the note from Blanche Cowell complaining of his month-long absence from Town. Because her husband would require her at the family seat for at least two weeks of that month, Darius hardly spared her a thought.

Lucy Templeton was similarly discommoded by Darius’s absence, and her missive promised predictable retribution for his not coming when she snapped her fingers at him.

Darius set her note aside as well, anticipating a game of Spoiled Puppy when he returned to Town. She’d spank him until her hand hurt, and “let” him put his nose in her lap for his reward when he was sufficiently contrite. It was beyond tedious. If Lord Longstreet provided the remuneration he’d promised, Lucy Templeton, Blanche Cowell, and all of their ilk might soon be nothing more than bad—very bad—memories.

“So this is where you hide?”

He glanced up from his desk to see Vivian standing in the door of his study. She was attired in the closest thing he’d seen on her to an attractive dress—a soft brown velvet creation with a raised waistline, suggesting it was years out of date, though it looked comfortable.

“This is where I shovel my way through the reams of correspondence that must occupy a man involved in commerce.”

“Commerce?” She advanced into the room, glancing around. “I thought you were a gentleman farmer.”

“A farmer, in any case.” He tossed his pen down. “I haven’t enough land to raise corn and livestock in any quantity, so I raise those goods that can be easily sold in Town.”

“And those would be?”

“I’m still figuring it out.” He rose and gestured to a pair of reading chairs near the hearth. “I’ve done well with garden vegetables thus far, mostly because I take inordinate care in their transport. I eschew the practice of hauling manure out of London in the same wagons I use to haul the vegetables in. The flavor benefits as a result. Eggs are easy to produce in quantity, chicken manure is valuable, and the feathers can also be sold, to say nothing of having a steady supply of chicken for the table. Eggs are hard to transport, though, and most everybody with an alley can keep a coop themselves in Town. Some keep their chickens on the rooftop, much like an old-fashioned dovecote.”

“William once said something about homing pigeons being a profitable venture.”

“I hadn’t considered them.” Darius took his seat after Vivian had taken hers. “It would require time, because the generations born on my land would always home to me. I’d have to sell breeding pairs, though I assume it can be done.”

“The government is using them more and more,” Vivian said. “They used them to get word of the victory at Waterloo, and it was faster than any horse or packet.”

Darius considered her, seeing not only beauty and grace, but also intelligence—and wondering if William saw any of it. “I didn’t know that. What else does William have to say about British commerce?”

“We need finer wool,” Vivian said. “There are Spanish sheep that produce a much higher grade of wool than our farm breeds, but we stick to what we know, when pretty much every country on earth can grow its own sheep.”

“His Majesty had some of these Spanish sheep, didn’t he?”

“William bought some in the dispersal about ten years ago, and they’ve been producing little sheep at Longchamps all the while. They’re… distinctive, but very soft to pet.”

“Like you.”

She smoothed a pleat in her dress. “And here we were doing so well, Mr. Lindsey.”

For her fortitude, Darius returned to the matter at hand. “So William thinks we need to focus on competing with other nations?”

“Of course. The Americans have more space to grow corn of all kinds than we’ll ever have, the Antipodes can grow sheep, and the shipping is getting faster each year. You think of competing with other vegetable farmers to get your goods to Town, but soon you’ll be competing with the French table grapes, the Spanish citrus, and so forth.”

“You’ve learned a thing or two, being married to Longstreet.”

“And what fascinating stuff it is.” She smiled, though the result was sad around the edges.

“To a man strapped for coin, it is fascinating.”

She apparently took him at his word. “Whatever you have, there’s demand for it on the Continent. The Corsican saw to that.”

“What do you mean?”

“His Majesty’s troops were usually provisioned by design, with quartermasters and contracts and a whole supply line set up by the military as the armies moved from place to place. The Russians and Germans operate similarly. Napoleon relied on what he called foraging, and what we would call pillaging, even in his own territory. Any place the Grand Armée passed through was devastated. Crops, goods, livestock, entire buildings were torn asunder in a night to feed the campfires—they’d even burn the fodder for the livestock in their campfires. You could export lumber, had you a wood. You could export anything, and there’d be a market for it there somewhere.”

Darius frowned at the fire, because this conversation was the furthest thing from flirting—and he was enjoying it. “How to get my goods to that market? And how to retrieve one’s coin?”

“That’s easy.” Vivian rose and went to the window. “You hire one of the half-pay quartermaster’s officers who campaigned from Portugal to Poland, and he’ll be happy to live cheaply on the Continent while taking a little coin to see to your business. Most of them picked up enough of the languages, they still have contacts, and a few have wives of foreign extraction.”

“You’ve thought about this?”

“I listen.” She turned, that slight smile still in place. “Hour after hour after hour, I listen to my husband and his parliamentary associates debating everything from soap taxes to window taxes to reform of every stripe.”

He could see her doing it too, quietly keeping the servants organized, the guests happy, and the conversation flowing—while William expounded on soap taxes. “What is there to debate about a soap tax, for pity’s sake?”

“If soap were more affordable, the general populace might put it to more frequent use and avoid some of the pestilence plaguing them. We’d then have a healthier work force and could tax what they create, rather than the soap they can’t buy now. Similarly with the tax on windows and fresh air in tenements and factories.”

She looked lonely over there by the window. Remote, though she was only a few feet away. “And we’d all smell better. This is what you and William discuss over dinner?”

“William and I rarely dine together privately. We entertain a great deal, or we did until this fall. Losing two sons has taken a toll on William.”

“It would take a toll on any man.” Darius rose and crossed the room to stand behind her. “Except possibly my father.”

“I don’t know the man.”

“Count yourself fortunate.”

She cocked her head in a manner Darius was learning meant serious study, so he distracted her by scooping her up and settling with her in his lap.

“You said you’d wait until tonight.” She sounded wonderfully tart in her disapproval, even as she cuddled into his embrace.

“I’m not under your skirts, Vivvie.” He nuzzled her breast, closing his eyes. To his consternation, she threaded her fingers through his hair and cradled him against her, as if he were a tired boy.

“Tell me about your father.”

“He’s awful.” Darius resisted the temptation to tell her they weren’t going to speak of this either. The topic was harmless enough—though distasteful. “If I learned to tolerate a beating anywhere, it was at his hands. My brother, Trent, was his particular project, which was no privilege, believe me, and my mother staked me as her personal favorite.”

“I gather your parents were not congenial.”

“They were at daggers drawn. Part of the reason I can countenance this scheme of William’s is because there is reason to doubt the paternity of at least one of my siblings. My mother was that angry with Wilton, that desperate.”

She stroked his hair absently. “One shudders to think of it, years and years of battle, and all within the one place that’s supposed to be a haven from strife.”

He fell silent, because her caresses were mesmerizing, which made no sense. “Shall we take a nap, my lady?”

“You gave me until tonight,” she chided, her hand pausing. “Is your father’s example why you’re so careful with John?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” And he didn’t want to pursue it, so he nuzzled her breast again, rubbing his cheek deliberately over her nipple.

“You’re trying to distract me. Let’s take a walk, and you can show me some of your land.”

“There’s nothing to see.” He did it again. “It’s all under snow.”

“So we’ll kidnap John from his studies.” She pulled away, but only a little. “We can make a snowman.”

“He’d like that.” Darius frowned while she traced his eyebrow with a finger. He’d like it too. He’d made snowmen before, for his sisters’ entertainment, mostly. Emily was more than a decade his junior, and she’d been in need of playmates. There was no point to a snowman, but a man could do only so much paperwork.

Vivian rose off his lap. “Then we can have a toddy before dinner.”

“You like my toddies?”

She smiled at him, not only with a curving of her lips but also with her lovely brown eyes. “The entire household likes your toddies. But yes, I do. I never knew this about myself, but I could become overindulgent in them.”

Darius rose, feeling bemused. “And I won’t be on hand to see the effects of my bad influence.” Neither would he see her great with child, and that… bothered him. “Come, and do not think of wearing a bonnet when the wind could kick up at any moment.”

“Imperious.” She took his arm. “It’s fortunate you’re competent with a toddy.”

“Among other things.”

He got the last, leering word, pleased to have restored the tenor of their dealings to harmless flirting. Talk of his father, making money, and commending Vivian back into her husband’s keeping was not… comfortable, and at least in his own home, a man should be comfortable.

Vivian had eaten as slowly as she could, though she’d known all the while Darius was watching her with a speculative, assessing eye. Had she gotten tipsy? Oh, likely. Would she regret it? Invariably.

He’d treated her to a game of chess after dinner, beating her eventually, but she’d at least made him work for it. The difficulty was, lingering over the chessboard made the effect of the spirits wear off, and here she was, bathed, nightgowned, and tucked up in her bed, awaiting her fate.

When the clock struck ten and still Darius hadn’t joined her, Vivian had had enough.

She yanked open her door, intent on searching him out and demanding he be about his intended purpose, only to find him lounging across the hall in the chair she assumed was reserved for a footman.

“Good evening, Lady Longstreet.”

“What are you doing, sitting there?”

He rose and prowled toward her, giving Vivian the sense he’d been gathering his nerve, of all things. “Are you sure you want this, Vivian?”

She nodded and tucked her lawn tent closer. It was colder than Hades in the hallway, and God knew how long Darius had been sitting there.

“Because to want this baby, you’re going to have to want me.”

“Come.” She tugged him by the wrist down the hall.

“Where are we going?”

“Your bedroom, which I’ve yet to see. I want my bed to be for me, your bed for other things.”

“What if I don’t care to share my bed?”

She shot a peevish look over her shoulder and towed him along. Of course he’d want his privacy. He probably needed it desperately, in fact. “Then we’ll go to a guest bedroom.”

“One isn’t made up, much less warm.”

“Darius.” She stopped and peered up at him. “Do you want William’s coin? Because if you do, you’re going to have to want me, and I intend to be in your bed.”

“I want William’s coin,” he said, gathering her braid at her shoulder and staring past her head. “I do want that.”

“So, where will we do this?”

Well, everlasting, merciful God, so what if he heard the tremor in her voice? But when he looked at her, some of his characteristic amusement was evident in his eyes.

“Wherever you please, Vivvie.” He slipped his fingers through hers. “I’m yours to command.”

“Of course, you are.” She hated the detachment behind his humor. “Where is your room?”

“Come.” He slid his arm over her shoulders. “It’s nice and cozy. I’ve languished in there at my bath for most of the evening.”

Interesting. Vivian had drawn hers out until the water was cold too.

“I don’t get to keep my lawn tent tonight, do I?”

“We can worry about that later.”

“I want to worry about it now.”

He opened the door to his bedroom and let her pass through before him. Vivian put aside their argument to take in his most personal surroundings. She was relieved to see the bedroom wasn’t a monk’s cell, which she could have easily seen him inflicting on himself. The room was comfortably masculine, with odd little touches.

“Flowers?”

“They’re made of silk and paper,” he said. “A curiosity, but pretty enough to fool the eye for the months when I can’t afford hothouse flowers.”

“You don’t have a hothouse?”

“I do, but it’s taken up with growing food,” he said, letting her amble around as she chose.

“Why does it smell good in here?”

“There’s cinnamon in that little pot by the hearth.” He shrugged out of his jacket. “Occasionally, I’ll burn a scented candle. Then too, I make lavender and rosemary sachets to sell in Town, and my linens and wardrobe are scented with both.”

“You’re very enterprising,” Vivian said, studying the room rather than the man removing his clothes so casually. The bed was huge, as it would have to be for a fellow of his dimensions, and raised up one step, for warmth. The bed hangings were a rich green velvet, the linens snowy white, and the entire thing looked far too comfy for what was going to happen there.

“If I’m to have any comforts at all”—Darius was pulling his shirt over his head—“then enterprise is necessary. What did you decide about the lawn tent?”

“It’s up to me?”

“It’s up to you.” He sat on the raised hearth to tug off his boots.

“Why are you so casual about disrobing?”

“I don’t think of it as disrobing.” His stockings followed. “I think of it as getting into my livery. The fit is superb.”

She did not want to smack him, never that. “That’s awful.”

“It’s honest.” He rose, wearing only his breeches. “In truth, Vivvie, I want to be naked for you. I want you to desire what you see. I want to please you.”

He was slipping further into his role as seducer, and Vivian wanted to howl at the shift. His eyes became slumberous, the pitch of his voice dropped, and his spine curved a bit, to let him strut rather than walk toward her.

“Stop this immediately.”