“The ladies who pay for your favors? Do they pay you for the pleasure of cuddling?”

“They do not,” he replied, sounding displeased. “Nor would I allow it. Now hush.” He settled his chin on her temple, and Vivian was all too willing to hush. She hurt for him. Hurt that he had nobody to cuddle with, that the only child in his life was likely his brother’s by-blow, and he must sell even his kisses to keep his household intact.

She resolved to ask William why this should be so. Most earldoms came with fat, old estates, capable of supporting younger sons to at least some modest extent. But as her body went boneless in Darius’s arms, and sleep seeped into her brain, Vivian considered she might not bring this up with William, ever, for what passed between her and Darius was somehow precious and private, business arrangement or not.

Darius knew the moment Vivian gave up and let sleep claim her. He’d been prepared for her to fire off more of her pithy observations about his lifestyle, if not his lovemaking, but she’d succumbed, and now he could wallow in the pleasure of simply holding her.

How long had it been since he’d held a woman for the uncomplicated pleasure of it? He could tell himself he wanted to swive her again in the morning—increase the chance of conception, that is—but right now, all he wanted was to hold her, to keep her and her tender, inexperienced sensibilities safe for as long as he could.

He missed Italy, where the women understood what a cicisbeo was and what he was not. He was a friend, an appreciated friend. And he missed the way Italian men were demonstrative with their ladies. They didn’t show they cared for a woman by blowing another fellow’s brains out on some foggy meadow strewn with sheep dung. They wrote poetry to women and sang to them and toasted them before open company. And the ladies blew them kisses in return.

In England, the last thing Darius could be was a friend to the likes of Lucy or Blanche. They took their power too seriously, dealt too much from weakness and need, not generosity and pleasure.

He hadn’t been willing to let himself think this way, not until the prospect of Lord Longstreet’s coin loomed closely enough at hand that Darius could consider becoming a gentleman farmer in truth.

And how nice it was going to be, to have another three weeks to toss ideas back and forth with Vivian over the breakfast table. To see her dressed appropriately to her station, and to know of all men, he—without coin to speak of, or expectations—had given her her heart’s desire.

In sleep, Vivian stirred then settled, but her hand had slipped lower, from Darius’s waist to rest over his groin. Her fingers flexed, brushing his cock—forbidden territory to all other women—and he went still then shifted slightly under her hand. She brushed her fingers over him again, patted him sleepily, then subsided.

And for that, for that simple, sleepy, affectionate little pat on his soft cock, he gave up another piece of his heart to her.

Eight

Able regarded his father, who sat in the stifling library swaddled in blankets and scarves. “I never should have put you up to riding out with me. You’ve been ailing ever since.”

“Ah, but it did me good, my boy.” William’s eyes held a twinkle. “To treat myself to a hot scone or two, a nip from the flask, a trot through the village. It reminds me what it’s all for, you know?”

“All what?”

“The scrapping about in the Lords, for one thing. You think it’s fun, to listen to the same old arguments over the Catholic question? To hear Prinny whining for yet still more money while the streets of London are littered with men who gave limbs and eyes in defense of King and Country?”

“You’re sounding suspiciously liberal, your lordship.” Able drew up a chair before the blazing fire, because it wasn’t often he and his father just talked.

“Not liberal, exactly. I believe the monarchy in the hands of a wise and just ruler is still government as God intended,” William said, setting aside some faded correspondence. “But the people aren’t sheep, and we’ve seen what they can do when they decide revolution is their only recourse.”

“England isn’t France.”

“Hunger is hunger,” William countered, sitting up straighter. “Bad harvests can happen anywhere, and Louis was ruling an abundantly blessed and happy nation, and then, in just a few decades, all is chaos and murder.”

“I suppose you’re in a better position to appreciate that than most. Not many have your perspective.”

William smiled thinly. “I’m too damned old, you mean. God knows I feel it.”

Able did not argue the point, for William was venerable indeed. “We should send word to Vivian that you’re ailing. I can put a note in the post tomorrow.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” William said with a touch of asperity. “She’ll be galloping down here, wielding vile concoctions, putting plasters on my feet, and clucking and fussing until a man can’t get any rest. I have a little cold, is all, and there’s no better place for me to be recovering than in the company of my family, at my ancestral home.”

Able smiled at the reference to family. It wasn’t much, but they weren’t demonstrative men. Coming from William Longstreet, it was something, to be called family—as clearly, whatever she was, Vivian wasn’t included in that designation.

Darius grinned down at Vivian. “I made it to Edward the Martyr that time.”

“I beg your pardon?” Vivian thought her tone was impressively crisp, but she spoiled the effect entirely by brushing his hair back from his forehead and slipping her fingers over the curve of his ear. She knew he liked her to touch his ears, and his hair, and his…

“You know, Alfred the Great, Edward the Elder, Athelstan, Edmund, Edred… when you tempt me to lose control, I recite them in my head.”

“And all the past kings of the realm help you withstand my charms. I’m impressed.” She was impressed that she could have this discussion—any discussion—when her body was still throbbing with the pleasure Darius visited upon her.

“I’ve never even gotten as far as Canute,” he confessed, still clearly pleased with himself. “You’re a siren, Vivvie.”

And didn’t that just prompt a woman to be pleased with herself, too? “I’m a hungry siren.” She stroked his ear again.

“It’s been a taxing week. Undo us, sweetheart.”

“Why is it my job?” she groused, but she carefully extricated his waning erection from her body, because he preferred she be the one to do it. Vivian suspected Darius just wanted her to become at ease handling him, as God knew, he was at ease handling her. In a week’s time, she’d learned all manner of naughty, wonderful things from him, and she suspected he was only bringing her along slowly so as not to shock her.

“You like having your hands on me,” Darius said as he shifted off of her. “I’m humoring you.”

“Of course, you are.” She pushed him to his back and rolled off the bed to fetch a damp cloth from the basin on the washstand. “Every proper English schoolboy learns the royal succession so he can humor the ladies.” She swabbed off his cock, comfortable now moving him this way and that. He hiked his knees and spread his legs so she could make a pass at the inside of his thighs, his belly, and groin, and then the part she suspected he liked best, when she’d carefully tend to his balls.

“You are like that tomcat.” She dabbed at herself, set the cloth aside, and climbed back on the bed. “Your physical pleasures are dear to you.”

“All of God’s creatures like to feel cared for.” Darius ran a hand down the side of her face, a caress that had her nigh purring. “It’s how you show your appreciation for all the care I lavish on you.”

“Forcing me into new gowns, slippers, gloves, and bonnets isn’t care, Darius Lindsey, it’s your idea of entertainment.”