Grace Burrowes - Darius - Lord of Pleasures

Vivian sipped her tea and presented a placid exterior. “I’m all ears, Steppapa.”

“William is a good man,” Thurgood began, the soul of earnest concern, “but he’s going to shuffle off this mortal coil, Vivian, and you must think of what awaits you then. His parliamentary cronies and titled confreres aren’t your friends, and they’ll do nothing to look after you when William’s gone. You need to assure me now you’ll not try to manage on your own through those unhappy days. Your mother would turn over in her grave were you to live anywhere but with Ariadne and me, letting us protect and guide you in the time to come.”

I must not toss my tea into the face of my guest. “That’s kind of you, and generous, but I couldn’t possibly make that sort of decision without consulting William, and then too, Angela and Jared might be able to use my help with the children.”

Thurgood’s face lit with a credible rendition of indignation. “You must not consider it! That Jared Ventnor would have you as some kind of unpaid nanny for Angela’s pack of brats, and you an earl’s daughter.”

“That pack of brats has an earl’s daughter for a mother.”

“But you could do so much better,” Thurgood insisted. “Angela hadn’t your looks or your poise or your grasp of political affairs. For you, we could aim much higher.”

Just as Vivian’s patience was threatening to snap, Dilquin’s discreet rap sounded on the door.

“Beg pardon, your ladyship, but Mrs. Weir is insistent that you come to the kitchen to supervise the sorting of the linens and spices. Cook claims Longchamps’s inventory is lacking, but the matter requires your attention if she and Mrs. Weir aren’t to come to blows.”

“I’ll be right there.” Vivian rose, while her stepfather tried to hold his ground by staying seated—a subtle betrayal of his upbringing and his true agenda.

“Give me your word, Vivian, that you’ll let me be your haven when grief comes calling. You and I have grieved together before, and you know I’ll have only your best interests at heart.”

His thespian talents should have made him a fortune. “As I said, Thurgood, I can’t make such a decision without consulting my very much alive and well husband. It’s good of you to call, but I must leave you for my domestic responsibilities.”

He affected his Wounded Look, which meant his You’ll-Regret-This speech was not far behind, and his frustrated rage not far behind that. Vivian ducked out, directing that Thurgood’s hat and coat be brought to him.

There was no squabble in the kitchen, of course, just as Thurgood hadn’t grieved the loss of Vivian’s mother for more than a few weeks before he’d been busy courting Ariadne’s predecessor up in Cumbria and trying to pawn Vivian off on some wealthy, desperate old lecher with no sons and fewer wits. Thank God, Muriel had offered employment, and thank God, William had a protective streak.

Which he seemed to have misplaced, or at least allowed to take an eccentric twist. Vivian reflected on that conundrum all the way down to Kent the next morning, wondering if William hadn’t concocted this scheme not for the continued glory of the House of Longstreet, but for her , to prevent her from becoming that poor relation at the mercy of Angie’s nursery or Thurgood’s next moneymaking project.

All too soon, she was being handed out of the coach by the object of her musings. Mr. Lindsey seemed larger than ever, but perhaps not quite as serious.

“My lady.” He bowed over her hand. “Welcome to Averett Hill. I hope your journey was uneventful?”

“Considering the roads are frozen and we could have snapped an axle at least a half dozen times, yes, it was uneventful.”

“Let’s get you out of this cold.” Mr. Lindsey drew her toward a tidy Tudor manor. “I have food and drink waiting, unless you’d like to see your rooms first?”

Vivian opted for the truth—several truths. “Something hot to drink sounds good. I sent William to Longchamps in the traveling coach, which means he got the hot bricks while I got the lap robes.”

“We can send you back to him in the relative comfort of my traveling coach,” her host replied.

She halted in her tracks. “Not if it’s recognizable, we won’t.”

His expression remained… genial. “There’s no coat of arms. I wouldn’t have made the offer of it if there were.”

Vivian had the grace to know she’d been abrupt. “My apologies, I’m just…”

He waited, while she cast around for a way to not make an awkward situation even worse.

She met his gaze and knew she was blushing. “I’m at sea here, Mr. Lindsey. Are we going to enjoy a spot of tea and then repair above stairs, there to…?”

“We can,” he said, amusement lighting his dark eyes, “or we can get out of this cold, and while we get you that something hot to drink, discuss how you’d like to go on.” He offered her his arm, and Vivian realized he was standing around in the bitter cold without a proper winter coat on. His fingers were ink stained, and his dark hair was riffling in the breeze.

She took his arm, unable to quell the thought that poor William would have been wrapped up to his wrinkled brow in such weather, while on Mr. Lindsey, the cold hardly seemed to make any impression at all.

Darius led his guest into the sturdy, unprepossessing manor house he called home, a little surprised Vivian hadn’t cried off. She was nervous, maybe still scared—as he was—and her discomfort sparked some sympathy for her.

A little sympathy, though she was even prettier by day than she had been in the candlelight of her husband’s townhouse. Or maybe she was prettier when her natural curiosity had her looking all around at new surroundings rather than listening for the sound of her husband’s tread on the floor above.

A long month awaited, for Darius and his guest.

“May I make you a toddy?” Darius asked when they reached his study.

“You burn wood.” She approached the hearth, sniffing the air as she pulled off her gloves and extended her hands toward the fire. “I don’t know what’s worse, the stench of London in winter or in summer. A toddy would be lovely, especially if you’ll join me.”

“Be happy to.” Darius started pouring and mixing at the sideboard, having made sure the fixings were to hand. “How did you leave Lord Longstreet?”

“Reluctantly.”

When Darius interrupted his concocting to approach her, she shrank back against the fire screen then turned her head to the side.

He frowned down at her, feeling a blend of amusement and exasperation. “I am not in the habit of pouncing on unwilling women.” He unfastened the frogs of her cloak, which she’d claimed to have kept on in deference to the cold. When he stepped back he heard her exhale and knew a moment’s consternation. With Lucy, Blanche, and their ilk, a man had to be the one to pull away, to long for a little more finesse and consideration.

“Do you prefer nutmeg, cloves, or cinnamon?” He laid her cloak on a chair and spoke to her over his shoulder.

“A little of all three?” He heard her rubbing her hands together near the fire.

“My own preference.” Darius poured his recipe into a pot and hung it on the pot swing to heat. Beside him, Vivian was staring at the fire as if she could divine the future in its depths.

He laid the backs of his fingers against his guest’s cheek. “You are chilled. Shall I order you a bath?”

She flinched at his touch then shook her head. “Mr. Lindsey.” She took in a breath and still didn’t face him. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“This?” He used a wooden spoon to stir the butter into the toddies, seeing no reason to give up his place right beside her before the fire.