It wasn’t something he’d been able to say before, not about the puppies who had sniffed about her skirts five years ago, not about her would-be elopement partner, not about the few men who’d shown an interest so far this year.

“Don’t tell him that,” Leah said on a weary sigh. “He’s arrogant enough as it is.”

“Not arrogant,” Darius said, almost to himself. “Reston is self-assured, and that’s a different thing entirely.”

When Leah was dozing on his shoulder, he let the conversation lapse but sent a prayer up to whatever God listened to creatures such as he that Reston took on the problem that was Leah and her situation, and please, heaven, let it be soon.

“You are kind to think of me.” Vivian accepted a cup of tea from Portia, knowing it would lack sugar, for Portia deemed sugared tea unfit for breeding women. Since learning of Vivian’s pregnancy, Portia was a veritable font of odd ideas regarding childbearing, and even child rearing.

“Public school builds the character,” Portia announced. “Look at Able, and he’s a product of Rugby.”

Look at Able? One could barely see the man for the way he avoided his wife’s company. Able had stayed about a week then hared back to the country, there to plough and plant and enjoy his wife’s absence, no doubt.

“And what will you name this child?” Portia inquired as she sipped her own tea—heavily sugared.

Lindsey Longstreet had a nice sound and would fit either gender—she’d yet to suggest this to William. “I assume William will want a family name.”

“And good heavens, what if it’s a girl?”

Portia’s own gender must have temporarily escaped her notice, so great was her dismay at this possibility. “We’ll love any child God sees fit to give us, Portia.”

“But a girl can’t inherit the viscountcy, and then where will we be?”

“We’ll manage, Portia.”

Except Vivian wasn’t going to manage another minute of the woman’s conversation.

“I’m for a little shopping,” she decided, though what she’d shop for was a mystery. “How about you?”

“Shopping?” Portia’s eyes took on a gleam, and Vivian realized she should have been more devious. “I might need to pick up a few things.”

“You must accompany me then.” Though invariably, Portia needed something at every shop they browsed, and somehow, Vivian ended up paying for it. Portia’s maid forgot her pin money, or her reticule, or didn’t think to bring quite that much with her. The excuses were as endless as they were lame.

No matter, every outing was a potential opportunity to cross paths with Darius.

Vivian recalled shopping with him, the way he’d managed the proprietors and clerks, the eye he had for quality, and the way he’d teased, reasoned, and cajoled her into everything from embroidered underthings to new gloves. His name stood for the ache in her heart and the empty place in her bed and the life growing in her womb. She missed him and missed him and missed him, and worse, she sensed William knew it.

She’d see Darius at the christening, and for more than the space of a single moonrise. He’d said as much, and if there was one thing she’d believe about Darius Lindsey, it was that he’d keep his word.

Thoughts of him had her nipping up to her bedroom to retrieve a little slip of paper from her vanity. She was still kept waiting a good ten minutes before Portia joined her at the foot of the stairs.

“Shouldn’t we take a footman or two with us?”

So Portia could collect more purchases? “They have enough work. It’s a pretty day, and I can use the exercise.”

“We’re not taking the carriage?”

“I need to stretch my legs. Shall we be off?”

Portia gave her a peevish look but linked arms and marched off with Vivian into a lovely spring day.

“Well, Vivian,” a male voice called out when they were nearing Green Park, “won’t you introduce me to your pretty companion?”

The benevolence of the spring day muted. “Thurgood.” Vivian stopped abruptly, so lost in her ruminations she hadn’t seen him on the sidewalk before them until he’d spoken. “A pleasure. Portia Springer, may I make known to you the gentleman who used to be my stepfather, Thurgood Ainsworthy. Thurgood, Mrs. Portia Springer, late of Longchamps, Oxfordshire, where she is the wife of William’s hardworking steward.”

Hell would freeze over before Vivian would discuss her husband’s illegitimate son with the likes of Thurgood.

“Ladies.” He bowed low over each of their hands, holding Portia’s—of course—a moment too long. “May I escort you somewhere, or are you returning home?”

“We’re off to Bond Street,” Portia caroled, batting her lashes.

“All the way to Ludgate, actually,” Vivian said. “I need to pick up a bottle of scent made to order. But it’s kind of you to offer.”

“Nonsense.” Thurgood slipped his arm through Portia’s, and Vivian wasn’t at all surprised to note Portia had turned loose of Vivian without a second thought. “Lead on, Viv, and let me be your gallant escort.”

There would be no getting rid of him, not when he was having such a good flirt with Portia, and Lord, wouldn’t William laugh to hear of this. Portia was handsome, true enough, but girlish coquetry on her looked about as believable as spectacles on a flying pig.

Thurgood insisted on fetching a hackney, so they arrived to their destination shortly where, thank a merciful deity, Thurgood made his excuses.

“Mr. Ainsworthy.” Portia held out her hand again. “It has been the most sincere pleasure. You must call on us at Longstreet House.”

Heaven help me, I shall kill her. Portia had no business extending such an invitation.

“I’d be delighted. My dear daughter and I always have a great deal to talk about.” Thurgood gave Vivian one of his indulgent smiles, and Vivian smiled back, trying not to choke. He’d been enough of a pest lately, with his carping about grieving together and William’s failing health. Everlasting God, the man was a disgrace.

Once in the shop, surrounded by a blend of lovely scents, Vivian was possessed of an immediate sense of well-being. She felt closer to Darius here. He’d had this shop mix up her personal scent for her. She’d come here only once since Christmas, but she wore the scent every day and never wanted to run out.

“What a handsome specimen you have for a steppapa.” Portia took Vivian’s arm as they strolled the shop. “You never said, Vivian.”

“I don’t think of him as handsome or ugly,” Vivian said, though she did—he was as ugly as a week-old sheep carcass in high summer. “He’s a terrible flirt, Portia, so mind yourself around him.”

Portia’s nose tipped up. “He’s not a flirt. He’s gallant, and that’s something else altogether.”

Vivian gave her order to the clerk then started on a round of the shop, sniffing idly at this and that scent. She was hunting for the one Darius used, but suspected he had his custom-made as well. And then she caught it, a little hint of his scent, as a woman’s voice drifted across the shop.

“Really, Darius,” the lady drawled, “rose is too juvenile, and lavender doddering. You can’t expect me to wear those in public.”

He was there, leaning in to say something quietly to the woman, speaking right into her ear. She laughed softly in response, and her bosom was positively mashed against his arm.

Vivian had ached over Darius Lindsey, and cried a bit, and sighed and wished and wished. Those tender sentiments paled to nothing when between one heartbeat and the next, her heart broke, leaving both anger and sorrow to flood into the breach.

“Perhaps in private then,” the woman said, loud enough that others could overhear. Darius straightened, and whatever he’d been intending to say died on his lips as he realized Vivian was standing only a few feet away.

Gaping, like a stupid cow. She shut her mouth and turned with brittle dignity. From behind the woman’s shoulder, though, she caught Darius mouthing the words, “cut direct.”