Fifteen

Darius passed a card to the dignified little person who served as the Longchamps butler.

“The Honorable Darius Lindsey?”

“Lady Longstreet came out with my sister, Lady Leah Lindsey, now Countess of Bellefonte.” Darius smiled the smile of a man who doesn’t owe his inferiors an explanation but might be entitled to sympathy from them in any case. “Women must keep up their gossip, and I am a dutiful brother.”

“Very good, sir.” The man bowed himself out the door and left Darius listening to the rain on the mullioned windows. He’d ridden the length and breadth of Longchamps in recent days and had seen it was a well-run, old-fashioned estate. Whoever had been tending it for William had done a good job and had been doing a good job for some years. The house was well kept too, not a speck of dust, not a wilted flower, not a dingy window to be seen.

The door opened, and there Vivian stood in her gravid glory, her expression conveying both reluctant pleasure at seeing him and exasperation.

“Lady Longstreet.” Darius bowed, not even taking her hand. He had to do this by the rules or he’d lose his nerve—and Vivvie would toss him out on his ear.

“Mr. Lindsey?” She advanced into the room, leaving the door open—of course—and extending her bare hand to him. He bowed over it, resisting the urge to lay his cheek against her knuckles, and straightened.

“I bring felicitations from Lady Leah, now Countess of Bellefonte.” He assayed a smile, a cordial smile. “And I can pass along to her the news that you are in great good looks. Greetings as well from Lord Valentine Windham’s summer abode, where I am a guest for the season.”

Vivian’s lips quirked at his formality, but she sailed on, lady that she was. “Please have a seat. I’ll ring for tea.”

“Tea would be lovely.” He gave the last word the barest hint of an emphasis, and added a discreet look at his hostess’s person that conveyed what or who, exactly, he thought was lovely. “Is his lordship in residence?”

“No. He remains in London until Parliament adjourns, but I’ll pass your greetings along to him. How is your sister, and when did she wed?”

Darius offered a brief and somewhat edited recounting of the odd courtship of Nick and Leah Haddonfield. “There is suspicion that Leah might already be in anticipation of a happy event. May I tell my sister you’re well, my lady?”

Vivian dipped her chin, abruptly shy. “You may.”

“Vivvie”—he dropped his voice—“we’ve had this discussion.”

“But not”—she glanced around—“not inside, with walls and carpets and a tea tray on the way. What can you be thinking, Darius?”

He’d been thinking that friends called on each other, a precious, prosaic thought. “If I’m not a stranger on the day of the christening, it will be easier to explain my interest in the child.” Her eyebrows rose at that, but he wasn’t done. “Besides, Leah and Emily have both asked after you. Do you know Mrs. Stoneleigh?”

“The late colonel’s widow?”

“She’s Axel Belmont’s wife now, and not an hour distant in the direction of Town. She’s similarly anticipating a happy event.”

Vivian studied her hands, upon which, Darius noted, she no longer wore rings. “You know a prodigious number of expecting women.”

He could sense the speculation in her observation—a penance he’d serve until he’d regained her trust. He rose and spoke barely above a whisper. “You’re the only one expecting my child, Vivian.”

“You’re certain?”

“Positive.” And what a fine thing it was to be able to say that to her with absolute sincerity.

She chewed on his assurances while the tea tray arrived, piled high with scones, butter, jam, cheese, and fruit. The look he gave the tray must have communicated easily.

“Don’t stand on ceremony.” She passed him a cup of tea. “The kitchen cooks for Able, me, and Portia, but guests are a rarity.”

“Because you require peace and quiet.”

While he watched, she split him a scone, spread a thick layer of butter on one half and jam on the other, and arranged it on a plate with strawberries and cherries.

“I can pass on the cheese,” he said, putting his hand over hers when she’d reached for a few slices. “It figures prominently in our camp fare.”

“Camp fare, Mr. Lindsey?” She eyed him up and down, rose, and went to the door to speak with a footman. As she resumed her seat, she aimed a question at him. “What are a duke’s son and an earl’s son doing subsisting on camp fare?”

He overstayed the requisite social call by half an hour, which a man might do when bringing news from a long-out-of-touch acquaintance, and the same man was intent on demolishing the flaky pastries and fresh fruit before him. In that time, he told Vivvie about his brother’s progress down in Surrey, and about Valentine Windham’s struggles with the Markham estate, and with the widow Markham as well.

Vivian’s brow knitted. “I don’t know her. She’s a baroness?”

“She keeps a very circumspect existence, for reasons known to her.” Darius surveyed the crumbs on his plate. “Valentine will get her sorted out, and she’ll sort him out too, unless I miss my guess.”

“A summer idyll.” Vivian’s tone was wistful, and Darius knew he had to take his leave of her before he put his arms around her and offered the kind of comfort an acquaintance would never offer.

Though a friend… “Walk me to my horse?”

“Of course.”

He could not resist putting a hand under her elbow and assisting her to her feet. It was dear, sweet, and vaguely worrisome that in her condition such assistance was genuinely appropriate.

“I miss my feet,” Vivian said as she took his arm and progressed through the house. “I recall them, though, and trust they are still in their assigned location.”

“Appears that’s the case.” Darius patted her hand as they approached the front door. A footman opened it, and they were in the shade of the front terrace. “I’ve missed all of you.”

He’d kept that admission for when they had the privacy of the out of doors, and for his restraint, he was rewarded with another of Vivian’s shy smiles.

“You barely know me,” she murmured, but he noticed she wasn’t in any hurry to get him to the stables.

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to call again. I’m without much civilized company at the Markham estate, and without civilized victuals entirely.”

Her steps slowed as they approached the stable yard, and she did not turn loose of his arm. “Your sister would expect me to extend some hospitality to you, so you must not be a stranger.”

“Gracious of you.” Darius kept his relief at this victory off his face. “And what’s this?”

“Some civilized victuals.” Vivian eased away from his arm and took the bag from the footman who’d come around from the back of the house. “For sons of the nobility forced to rusticate in primitive surrounds. Is this your horse?”

She patted Skunk with a convincing show of interest.

“Skunk, by name.” Darius took the reins from the groom and checked the tightness of the girth.

“Is he from America, then?” She ran a hand down the horse’s neck, a slow, gentle caress that Darius felt in low and lonely places.

“Just his name.” He checked the length of his stirrup leathers, which the grooms would have had no reason whatsoever to fuss with. “You might consider calling on Mrs. Belmont. She’s been accepting callers since her remarriage.”

“I know the Belmont estate. It’s very pretty.” She stroked the horse again, and Darius told himself to stop dawdling, for God’s sake. He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“You’re very pretty.” He murmured the words in the moment his mouth was near her ear, and was rewarded with her blush.

“Lady Leah never told me what a flirt you are.” Vivian touched her cheek. “I am going to tattle on you, sir.”

“Vivian?” Portia’s voice caroled from the direction of the garden, from which she was marching forth, a basket of blooms in hand. “Do we have a visitor?”