Darius: Lord of Pleasures (27 page)

She caressed his cock with her damp sex.

“Vivvie, I won’t survive—”

Her smile as she used the end of her braid to tease his nipples was pure female mischief. “We’ll get through this, Mr. Lindsey. You have my promise on that.”

Her promise in exchange for his hands on her breasts. The bargains were improving.

Her breasts, lovely before, were fuller now. Her figure had gone from perfect to the proportions of a goddess, and most spectacular of all, she was allowing him to gaze his fill, to note each change and all that was so wonderfully familiar.

“I have never, not ever, beheld so much beauty at once, Vivian. You are—”

Words failed. He was new at this, at making love as opposed to having relations. Oh, he’d made love to her before—from the first he’d been making love to her—but now she was to make love to him.

She leaned close enough to kiss his cheek. He used her braid to bring her down onto his chest, where he could hold her for a moment and catch his emotional breath.

He was nervous, as anxious as he was aroused, and yet, there was no reason for it. Vivian wanted only to give to him, and he to her. This was not a realization; rather, it bore the luminosity of revelation.

“You mustn’t be too fierce with me, Vivvie. Be careful and tender. There’s time for unbridled passion later.” He prayed there would be, but a man didn’t presume, not when his name was Darius Lindsey, and Thurgood Ainsworthy was lurking like the bad fairy in a child’s storybook tale.

She levered up to eye him curiously. “Because it’s the first time after the birth?”

He answered a question with a question. “I was your first, wasn’t I, Vivvie? Your very first?”

He dreaded her reply—hadn’t ever wanted to ask her for this truth because either answer was fraught with emotional peril.

“You were, and I’m glad you were. Very glad.”

He loved her, he trusted her, and he’d asked for her trust in return. He shifted to lay his hands on the pillow on either side of his head, to be vulnerable. When she laced her fingers with his, he had to close his eyes. “I’m glad too, because this is my first time. Right now, with you. My very first.”

He did not dare open his eyes for fear she was laughing at him. The notion was ridiculous, that he could be unsullied by his past, but she didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease or mock. Darius felt her hand smoothing over his heart like a benediction. “You have the right of it, Darius. We will be tender with each other.”

As many different ways as he’d made love with her the previous year—every way he’d known how to, and a few he’d stumbled upon only with her—this time was different. Vivian kept him on his back, the position in which he had the least to do, except to use his hands, and mouth, and body as he pleased.

He mapped her treasures with his fingers and palms, then again with his mouth. He gave her all the soft words and silly promises; he teased and even tickled, though that came to a halt when she tickled him back.

They were unhurried, and while shadows lurked in the room, they weren’t the shadows of a permanent parting, or of guilt, remorse, or self-loathing. They were shadows many couples faced: the unknown, the challenges lying between them and a happily ever after, the worry any parents would feel for their child.

Vivian straddled Darius’s hips and took his swollen shaft in her hand. “You’ve stalled long enough, my love. I must have you now.” Her eyes had a feline glitter, determination and tenderness combined.

“Then put me where you want me, Vivian. Put me where I need to be.”

Her control was impressive—also damnably frustrating. She braced herself over him, joining their bodies by the merest lazy increments. Darius watched himself disappearing into her heat and felt his sanity evaporating as they became more and more intimate.

“Faster, Vivvie, please.”

She complied, though not by much. From some reserve of female wisdom, she was going to hold back, and hold back, until—

He did not groan, he
shouted
, the hoarse surrender of a man thrown headlong into pleasures of a nigh terrifying depth. While Vivian rocked and keened with him, Darius felt as if his body were becoming weightless, a pure light that merged with Vivian until they were one incandescent being, without end, without name, without limit.

And very nearly without breath.

As he panted in counterpoint with his lover—his
lover
—Darius had the satisfaction of realizing she was as wrung out as he was. And yet, they’d been tender—excruciatingly, wonderfully, miraculously tender. A whole new variety of tenderness formerly beyond his ken, one he never wanted to lose his grasp of.

He kissed her temple. “Are you all right?”

She swiped her tongue over his nipple—just the once.
Yes.
While Vivian fell asleep on his chest, Darius treated himself to another inventory of her person. Her hair was a wonder, thicker and even softer than it had been a year ago. This was supposedly a function of childbearing, though Darius hoped excellent nutrition and adequate rest had played a role too.

Her features were a trifle sharper—he could confirm with his touch what his eyes had suggested—and her breasts were both heavier and more sensitive than they had been before she’d conceived.

What he ought to have done was tuck her in, then leave her alone to catch up on much needed sleep before the nurse brought Will in for a middle-of-the-night feeding. What he ought to have done was blow out all the candles Vivian had left burning—the better to display her wares for him—and slip away.

He was never going to slip away again. If he had the pleasure of sharing her bed again, he would not leave her unless it was after a proper good night. This resolution bore the clarity of a vow, one he made happily to himself and to Vivian—despite all of Ainsworthy’s schemes to the contrary.

He eased their bodies apart, spooned himself around her, and fell asleep holding his lover, the mother of his child.

***

Vivian cocked her head, regarding Darius over her teacup. “You look different to me.” He’d wanted to accompany her to the nursery for both night feedings, but grudgingly agreed to keep the bed warm for her when she pointed out that three footmen and a nursery maid would see him escorting her through the house.

“I am without my clothes,” Darius said. “One hopes that to be a change from my usual condition.”

He sounded—chipper. Not merely brisk and energetic, but eager for the day, which was both novel and intriguing.

“Are you going to leave me any breakfast at all, Mr. Lindsey?”

“I’ll have another tray sent up when I take my leave of you, but, Vivvie, I must know your position on the question of the day.”

He passed her half a buttered scone and—just when she might have taken a bite—snatched it away and slathered it with raspberry jam.

“Which question?” This time, she took the scone from his hand. “I seem to recall refusing your offer of lovemaking last night.”

And the devastation in his eyes when he’d thought she was refusing
him
had been heart wrenching. Soldiers too long at war had eyes with that bleak look, women who grieved for their children… “You are asking for my leave to deal with Ainsworthy, aren’t you? It’s why you must repair to Town before the will is read.”

Darius topped up her teacup—the tray was resting across his thighs—and settled back against the pillows.

And everlasting God, did she like the look of him in her bed.

“I will deal with Ainsworthy, with or without your permission, Vivvie. I’d rather have your permission.”

Deal
with,
when uttered by Darius in those tones, with that light in his eyes, was not a pleasant prospect at all—for Ainsworthy
.
The day was getting off to a lovely start indeed. “Not the pistols or swords sort of ‘deal with,’ Darius. I haven’t budged on that. I cannot condone killing.”

Nor could she condone any notion that lessened the chances she and Darius might eventually share a future with their child.

He slathered butter on yet another scone—one had to wonder if the kitchen weren’t already privy to the number of the bedroom’s occupants—and looked thoughtful. “I can promise you I will not kill him. He has a wife and a stepson, and they are innocent of his schemes.”

Vivian thought back to Darius’s words from the night before, his eyes closed, his hands clasping hers tightly, “…because it’s my first time.”

Her lover was courageous to a fault, dear, and determined—also the father of their child—and he was
asking
for Vivian’s blessing. He could all too easily have sneaked away and proceeded without consulting her.

“You can’t trust him, Darius, but I trust you.” Simple, simple words, but so very well deserved.

The scone was receiving not a dollop of butter—it would hold no more—but some careful, artistic arrangement of the entire pat with flourishes of the knife edge. “And you can accept the means I propose to bring him to heel? This is not honorable, and the people who have supplied me with the necessary information are not highly regarded. I wouldn’t want you to be any more ashamed of me than necessary.”

Vivian forgot to chew. He hadn’t undertaken this scheme, which had required rubbing elbows with all manner of unfortunates and scoundrels, lightly, and he hadn’t shared it with her lightly.

When Darius Lindsey trusted, though, he trusted as fiercely as he cared.

“Darius, you haunt yourself with doubts for no reason. You are the most honorable man I know.” At his startled expression, she went on. “I am not ashamed of you, Darius, I am
proud
of you. You found a way to cut those leech-women loose when another man would have turned to violence. You’re doing the same with Thurgood, and when dealing with such as these, you have to fashion weapons they understand. I am proud of you, do you hear me?”

He studied her for a moment, then his lips turned up. “I think half the house might have heard you.”

She had, indeed, become emphatic in expressing her sentiments. “
Let
them.
To answer your question, I do trust you, Darius. I trust Ainsworthy to be cunning, determined, and self-interested. You will best him, because while you are cunning and determined, your motivation is—continues to be—the regard you have for your loved ones.”

His smile became a shimmering, glowing embodiment of happiness, and then he surged over her like a slow tide, and once again, very tenderly, made love with her. Before it was over, there was raspberry jam in unlikely locations, much laughter, crumbs between the sheets, butter on the tip of Vivian’s nose—Darius licked it away—and a thoroughly agreed-upon plan for dealing with Ainsworthy.

“You might consider warning a man before you have mail delivered to his office.” Worth Kettering passed Darius several letters as he spoke.

“I might.” Darius took an elegant Louis XIV chair and sorted through the missives. “Except I’m a bit at sixes and sevens these days. My thanks, though. I think this one is the one we’ve been waiting for.” He opened the single folded piece of paper and scanned the contents.

“Game, set, and match.” He passed it to Kettering, who took the second seat. “She identifies Ainsworthy right down to the scar on his left earlobe where he tried to pierce himself at the age of sixteen. She says there’s another scar on the tip of his…”

Kettering’s smile was not nice. “I can read it. The lady has a memory for detail.”

“‘Hell hath no fury,’” Darius quoted, feeling the first sense of relief he’d known in days. “That’s two of them, and I’m ready to confront the man.”

“And if he calls you out?” Kettering’s tone could not have been more casual. He crossed his feet at the ankles, making the little chair creak. “One doesn’t like to brag on such a thing, but I make a fine second.”

“I’ve promised Vivvie I won’t meet him over pistols or swords, but if he challenges me, my choice of weapons would be these trusty appendages, and the timing as immediate as I can arrange.” Darius held up two clenched fists and met Kettering’s gaze.

“You would have made a fine barrister, Lindsey.”

“And you mean that as a compliment.” Darius abandoned his seat—it had precious little padding for all its elegance—and helped himself to a drop of Kettering’s brandy. “This is an interesting letter from Able Springer—it arrived to my address this morning and explains some forged marriage lines he found reposing in his wife’s workbasket.” He passed the epistle over to Kettering and sipped his drink, finding it very fine potation, indeed.

When he finished reading, Kettering looked up. “Are you ready to take on Longchamps as well as Averett Hill if the man emigrates to America?”

Darius set his glass down and rolled his shoulders. “One feels for Mr. Springer. William didn’t tell me Springer’s mother was married when she gave birth, which means Able is technically the legitimate issue of some other fellow.”

Kettering refolded the letter and set it aside, his expression suggesting he expected it to sprout eight hairy legs momentarily. “So the unfortunate Mr. Springer is married to a woman who forged marriage lines between Longstreet and Springer’s mother. I suppose the intended effect was to posthumously label Vivian’s son a bastard and visit the viscountcy on Springer.”

For which Portia ought to hang, there having been not one dishonorable bone in William Longstreet’s body. “Portia was also apparently in ignorance of the circumstances of her husband’s birth. The result of her efforts would have been to make Able’s mother the bigamist, any marriage between William and her invalid, and William’s subsequent marriages would have remained entirely legal. I do not envy you your profession, Kettering, if issues like these are your daily bread.”

Kettering spared the letter another chary glance, got up, and made a circuit of the room. While Darius took another sip of brandy, Kettering came to rest with his backside against the windowsill, arms folded. “What will you do?”

He would see that Ainsworthy was effectively silenced, marry Vivvie, and devote himself to raising up their child—their children, God willing.

“I would like to say I’ll manage Longchamps for the baron until he’s in a position to take it on himself, but that decision still rests in his mother’s lovely hands. She has another several weeks to make up her mind about who Will’s guardian will be. In those weeks, I shall deal with Ainsworthy in as decisive a manner as possible.”

***

“Your literary aspirations are threatening Vivian’s peace of mind, Ainsworthy.” Before his guest was seated, Darius closed the parlor-door latch with a soft snick. “Or do we call you Thurmont Ainsward, or perhaps Torvald Ainsely?”

Ainsworthy took a seat amid the comfortable opulence of Wilton House, the London residence of the late, unlamented Earl of Wilton, and present abode of nobody in particular.

“My name is Thurgood Ainsworthy. Says so on my marriage lines, and I’m not threatening anything. I’ve merely been doing some creative writing and attempting to turn a coin or two on it. I’ve a wife and child to support. Surely you can understand how that goes, Lindsey? Or do I forget? You had only yourself to support, and yet you still took coin where you could find it.”

“Prove that,” Darius said easily. “I’m happy to prove you’re a scheming bigamist, whatever your name is.”

Ainsworthy plucked at some imaginary lint on his sleeve, his self-possession likely the natural by-product of having no conscience. “Names can be very similar. England is a big place, and I’m sure those other fellows don’t look a thing like me. Now, how much are you willing to offer should my writing talents be put aside, Lindsey? I’m sure Ventnor would contribute—the cits are inordinately sensitive about these little social tempests. Then, too, I am loathe to queer Vivian’s marital prospects unnecessarily. One does, after all, feel some familial loyalty, and scandal could perhaps be profitably avoided.”

“Familial loyalty?” Nigh six and a half well-muscled feet of Trenton Lindsey, Earl of Wilton, sauntered into the room. “We understand that, don’t we, Darius? Did I hear this man attempt to blackmail you?”

“You did,” Darius said, “except he alluded to a familial connection with Vivian Longstreet, with whom it has not yet been my privilege to form a legal union. Unfortunately for Thoroughgoing Arsewipe here, he was married when he took his vows with Vivian and Angela’s widowed mother. This makes his marriage to the countess invalid, his use of her funds fraudulent, his contracting marriage on Angela’s behalf equally fraudulent, and the farthest thing from a display of family loyalty.”

“Unfortunate,” Trent mused. “You know, the magistrate might have caught wind of this. I understand he’s signing warrants for the arrest of one… what were all those names you said? I happened to glance at the documents when information was laid, and there were at least five names on them.”

“Who is this?” Ainsworthy’s tone was dismissive, but his eyes betrayed the first hint of uncertainty.

“Wilton.” Trent bowed graciously. “Earl of, at your service, whoever you are. Are you going to call him out, Dare?”

Darius cocked his head. “He’s got literary aspirations. I might accidentally blow off his fingers and damage his writing hand rather than put a ball through his black heart.”

Ainsworthy rose. “There’s no need for violence. This is all a simple misunderstanding, probably the work of some jilted wife who married a man with a name like mine. Or several wives, getting up to nonsense because they aren’t properly supervised.”

“Is that so?” Nicholas Haddonfield emerged from the hallway. “Several wives, acting in concert, all with husbands who have names like yours?”

“Right.” Ainsworthy swallowed audibly at the sight of Nick, who topped Trent by a couple of inches of height and at least two stone of brawn. “If you get descriptions, you’ll see the error of your conclusions.”

“Nicholas, Earl of Bellefonte.” Nick grinned menacingly. “Perhaps the man has a point, Darius. You can’t be calling a fellow out on mere whim and speculation.”

“Heaven forefend,” Trent added, “that any brother of mine react so cavalierly when a man’s good name, much less the arrangement of his face, his ability to walk, and possibly his ability to sire children hang in the balance.”

“Well, then.” Darius lifted a document from the sideboard. “Nick, perhaps you’d assist the man out of his breeches? We can clear this up easily enough.”

“Out of my breeches?”

“Rhymes with screeches,” Nick said, approaching Ainsworthy. “Interestingly enough. We’ll settle this right now, and I’m sure Mr. Lindsey will offer apologies all around if he’s wrong.”

Trent grimaced, taking Ainsworthy’s other arm. “One does wonder how a man would acquire such a scar.”

“His wife says”—Darius peered at the document—“his current wife and two previous wives, anyway, say he has a scar on the tip of his cock in the shape of the letter L, running from… what?” He looked over at Ainsworthy, who’d blanched white as ghost.

“Who said I have such a scar?”

“Your present wife, for starters,” Darius said slowly, as if the man were simple. “Bellefonte chatted her up with an officer of the court on hand to take her statement. Sweet woman, if a little too trusting, though Bellefonte’s charm is legendary. She described your scars, the exact shape of various intimate attributes, and a few other details only a wife would know. And by sheerest coincidence, two other women describe their husbands having precisely the same characteristics. Moreover, we went to the trouble of bringing witnesses to those marriages up to Town, Ainsworthy, and they each identified you by sight as the errant husband.

“Now the strangest coincidence of all.” Darius paused, and his tone became flat. “Each woman was well set up until she married you. Her fortune, or as much as she turned over to your keeping, disappeared with you.”

“And correct me if I’m wrong,” Trent said, “but didn’t those women have children to support?”

Nick gave Ainsworthy’s arm a nasty little shake. “And wasn’t one of them expecting when her dear spouse accompanied the entire harvest of wool into London, never to be seen again?”

“All right!” Ainsworthy glanced nervously from one man to another. “I’ve been unlucky in love. It’s not a crime to leave your wife.”

“It isn’t,” Darius agreed, “though whether you leave or not, she’s still your wife, and it is a crime to marry again while the first wife is extant. Moreover, you owe your deserted wife support at all times during the marriage, and you surely owe your own child the same.”

“You cannot expect me to sit here and listen to this nonsense,” Ainsworthy sputtered.

“You can read the sworn statements,” Darius said, “but you won’t convince us we’re in error without dropping your breeches. You can let him go, gentlemen, though I’d guard the exits.”

Nick took one doorway, Trent the other.

Ainsworthy rose, tugging down his waistcoat with a righteous jerk. “Name your seconds, Lindsey. I am at your service.”

“Present company. Yours?”

Ainsworthy’s chin came up. “That will take some time. Honorable challenges must be handled delicately.”

“Well, then, the choice of weapons is mine, I believe. But then, perhaps you’d know more about this than I would?”

“I know about it,” Nick said cheerfully. “Choice of weapons goes to the challenged. Time and date at the mutual convenience of the parties, location generally chosen by the seconds for discretion. I’m feeling very discreet right here and now.”

“This is a premeditated assault, nothing more,” Ainsworthy spat. “Three against one, and the two of you titled and immune from prosecution.”

“We’re not immune, are we?” Nick looked adorably confused to ponder such a thing.

“Why, no,” Trent replied. “We’re prosecuted in the Lords, if we’re caught, except I’m not sure what our crime would be, since we’re not touching the man, are we?”

“I’m not.” Nick shrugged massive shoulders. “Darius, what’s your pleasure?”

“Either wave the goods before witnesses, Ainsworthy, or name your seconds. Makes no difference to me.”

It took another hour, but two men eventually posted from the nearest club, and the matter was taken out to the mews.

“Rules of engagement?” one of Ainsworthy’s reluctant seconds asked.

“I won’t kill him,” Darius said. “Trent, you’ll make sure I don’t?”

Trent’s expression became considering. “You might regret letting him live,” he said quietly. “He preys on women and children.”

“Don’t let me kill him,” Darius said, his gaze going from Nick to Trent and back. “Vivvie deserves better than a man who kills with his bare hands, whatever other crimes I’ve committed.”

“All right,” Ainsworthy’s man said. “You fight until one man is done in, by agreement of the seconds. I have to say, I can’t like this.”

“You think I’d give him a chance to tamper with my guns?” Darius asked as he began to strip from the waist up. “Or disappear with his present wife’s remaining funds? She has a child, by the way, much like her predecessors, though the boy isn’t Ainsworthy’s get.”

“One hopes it wouldn’t come to that,” the man replied.

“And one hopes it needn’t be said,” Darius added, “but this is a bare-knuckle fight, no weapons. Not knives, not cravats used to strangle, not rings used to cut.”

“A clean fight.” The fellow hustled over to Ainsworthy and gestured for Darius’s opponent to remove his several rings.

The circle was drawn in the cold dirt, and as will happen, the stable boys from the nearby mews soon gathered, then some other men coming to fetch their horses, until the circle was ringed with male spectators. Oddly enough, no one was willing to bet against Darius, and the crowd became strangely silent as Nick and one of Ainsworthy’s seconds gave the signal to come out swinging.

Darius toyed with his opponent silently, letting Ainsworthy start with a glancing blow to Darius’s ribs. The pain was a trifling thing, not enough to make a man intent on his objective blink.

A series of blows in rapid succession all over Ainsworthy’s lily-white midsection conveyed Darius’s initial sentiments.

“Damn, he’s quick.”

“Accurate too.”

“Blighter’s mad,” another man said. “Look at them eyes. Barkin’ bloody mad.”

Nick and Trent exchanged a look at that comment. Darius’s response was to land a single blow to the jaw that left Ainsworthy staggering. Darius backed away, despite all instinct screaming to the contrary, until the man was righted by the spectators and turned back into the circle.

When Ainsworthy was pawing the air with his fists again, Darius started in once more. For Vivvie, for the baron, for Angela, for the wives, their children, for William… Blow after blow fell, the sound and feel of each reverberating through Darius’s soul like a tocsin.

“Relentless as a mill wheel, that one.”

“A damned maniac.”