Portia Springer did not want to return to Longchamps, but William had spoken. Not loudly, for William was a gentleman, and Portia wasn’t stupid. He’d merely suggested London in summer wasn’t healthy and he’d appreciate it if Portia would repair to Longchamps and ensure all was in readiness for Vivian’s confinement.

Portia had never had a child, so the request was a transparent excuse to send her packing. Ainsworthy knew it; Portia knew it. If nothing else, Ainsworthy felt a grudging admiration for old William’s deft maneuvering.

“I don’t want to go.” Portia settled against Ainsworthy in blatant invitation. “You smell ever so much prettier than Able. But then, you’re a gentleman, and Able is a glorified farmer.”

“I don’t want to let you go,” Thurgood crooned. “Though I’m sure your husband must be mad with missing you by now.” He shaped her generous breast lingeringly, and she let out the predictable sigh.

“Love me, Thurgood.” She pushed herself more tightly against him.

“Of course.” Love being the ladies’ preferred euphemism for a jolly good fuck. He opened his falls, rucked her skirts, and obliged her on the closed lid of his wife’s piano. Portia liked to feel naughty, Thurgood liked to swive, so it was a good bargain all around. Five minutes later, Portia was drowsing on his shoulder, their clothing back to rights, and her nimble female mind apparently on other things.

“I have those documents,” she said, kissing the side of his neck. “Thank you ever so much for letting me know whom to go to.”

“The occasion arises where every person of enterprise has need of same.” Thurgood patted her breast, which he truly would miss until his next pigeon came along. “When can you come back to Town?”

“Once William dies.” Portia’s eyes took on a different kind of gleam. “With these documents in hand, we’ll have Longstreet House and all that goes with it. I’ll live here in Town, and we can be together as often as we like.”

Thurgood produced a somewhat honest, rueful smile at the complications inherent in having dear Portia permanently underfoot. “As if you’d limit your attentions to me. When you dwell here in Town, what’s to stop Vivian from simply rusticating at Longchamps? She’ll have a child to raise, and that’s the family seat.”

“I’ll stop her.” Portia’s smile was wicked. “If Able wants the child, he’s welcome to it, but Lady Vivian will be cast into the loving arms of her stepfather, and what you do with her will make no difference whatsoever to me.”

Thurgood beamed at her. “Portia, my love, you are a woman after my own heart.”

He undid his falls again and filled his hand with the soft abundance of her breasts. She truly would be a woman after his own heart, if he had one.

The note made no sense.

My Lady,

You left this behind. I trust, having seen it into your keeping, our paths will not cross again.

Lindsey

The little bottle of scent sat on Vivian’s dressing table, silent and mocking. Darius had been so… loving in the bookstore, and now this. Whatever game he was playing, Vivian wanted no part of it. Maybe he enjoyed the torment, maneuvering, and manipulation he indulged in with those other women, but it left Vivian feeling sick, sad, and heartsore.

The baby shifted, no longer the little fluttering sensation of months ago but a noticeable movement that applied a passing pressure to her innards.

Darius Lindsey was the father of her child, he’d brought her more pleasure and more joy than any other man, and he was hurting her in equal proportions. For the sake of their child, Vivian resolved to forget Darius Lindsey, to put him from her life, her mind, her hopes.

That kiss… and now this.

If he liked playing hot and cold, come here and go away, he could play it with his other women. Vivian had seen him a handful of times in the past five months, and he’d been cool to her on all but two occasions, and now this.

Enough. She had a child to think of, a husband in ailing health, and better things to do than hope she caught Darius Lindsey in an approachable mood.

Darius had felt a moment’s panic when Lucy had accosted him outside the bookshop.

“Portia Springer,” he’d said, thanking a gift for recalling details. “She isn’t up from the country often. Her husband is steward to a large estate.”

“She looks like your type.” Lucy’s frown was thoughtful. “A little used but holding up, and intent on getting what she wants. Can a steward’s wife afford to pay you well?”

She would ask that. Darius turned a frigid stare on her right there in the street. “None of your business, Lucy. I suppose since you’ve taken to following me, you expect me to escort you somewhere? It will give me a chance to tell you I’m off to Averett Hill and wish you a pleasant summer while I’m at it.”

“Why go there now?”

“Because London in the summer is pestilentially hot. Because I need to tend what few acres I have, and it’s almost time for haying. Because I damned well please to go.”

She attached herself to his arm and minced along beside him. “I forbid you to go.”

“Too damned bad,” he muttered, feeling her stiffen with outrage beside him. “Lucy, you do not own me, and my sister is safely married to Bellefonte, so sheathe your claws.”

“You have another sister,” Lucy snarled. “She can be tarred with the same brush.”

He resisted a flood of curses, because this vulnerability had not occurred to him. “Emily is as pure as the driven snow, and Wilton would call you out, did you offer her insult.”

“Wilton is an ass. Maybe Hellerington can be persuaded to take an interest in Emily. He likes little girls.”

Merciful God. “Go to hell, Lucy.” Darius pried her fingers off his arm. “And take Blanche with you.”

He left her there, glaring daggers at his back in broad daylight, but then he’d gone home and written the most difficult note he’d ever penned, and it hadn’t even taken a single rough draft to get it right.

The confrontation solidified a resolve Darius had felt growing ever since he’d tucked Vivian into his traveling coach bound for London. She’d seen clearly what Darius himself only now grasped: The price of disporting with Lucy and Blanche was not his honor, but rather, his soul. Every single person Darius cared for—John, Leah, Trent, Vivian, and even the child she carried—was imperiled by Darius’s association with two women who regarded him as nothing more than an animated toy.

He had the determination; he had the courage; he had the desperation. He lacked only one final resource to see his plan set into motion, and he knew exactly where to find it. The time had come to ransom his soul back from hell.

So vast and varied were London’s commercial offerings that one no longer needed to make with one’s own hands each and every item a baby required. Vivian had embroidered receiving blankets and caps, knitted booties and shawls, and sewn dresses upon dresses for the unborn child, but there were a few things she had yet to procure.

A rattle. Every child needed a rattle, or several rattles.

A baby spoon, something in silver, not too ornate, but sized for a tiny mouth.

A little baby cup, also in silver, so it could be engraved upon the occasion of the child’s birth.

These purchases were of sufficient import to justify delaying a remove to Longchamps—these purchases, a growing concern for William’s health, and a reluctance to share a household again so soon with Portia.

That Darius Lindsey might yet be in Town was of no moment—unless Vivian were alone in her room late at night, sharing her bed with a particular brown scarf.

Vivian’s gaze traveled across a shop she’d patronized frequently to where a gentleman and a clerk were in conversation near a handsome bay hobbyhorse. The hairs on her nape prickled before her mind identified the speaker.