He ran a hand over Ariadne’s plump breast. “Would you mind if Vivian came to stay with us for a bit once William’s will has been read? She’s a new widow, and all the Longstreet properties hold sad memories for her. The boy will likely be in Able Springer’s keeping, and Vivian will be at loose ends.”

“Vivian?” Another blink. “Whatever you say, Good. You’re decent to look out for her this way.”

“She’s family,” Thurgood said, giving Ariadne’s nipple a tweak. “Our duty is clear, and I wouldn’t think of turning my back on her. Now, roll over, love, get that pillow under you, and spread your legs for me.”

“My stomach, Good?” There was a hint of peevishness in her tone, just a hint.

“Unless you want more children to spoil your lovely figure, my sweet.”

He’d realized long ago that his wife looked a little like Vivian, though Ariadne was afflicted with neither Vivian’s independence of spirit nor much native intelligence. She could bear a prodigious grudge, though, which meant the marriage offered at least a nominal challenge to a man of broad and varied amorous interests.

Thurgood passed her a pillow, closed his eyes, pictured his stepdaughter’s lush figure, and envisioned a pleasant and well-heeled future drawing ever closer—for him.

Eighteen

A tap on Vivian’s door interrupted her midpace before her fire.

“Vivvie?” Very softly.

She went to the door and drew Darius into her sitting room by the wrist when he would have malingered in the corridor. For the three days since William’s interment, the dratted man had lurked at Longchamps like a curate in training, barely addressing her and never lingering in the same room with her. She had stooped to desperate measures and put a note in his hand before retiring after dinner.

“I wasn’t sure you would come, blast you and all your decorum.” Perhaps a widow ought not to speak thus, and perhaps a widow ought not to plaster herself against a man with whom she was wroth.

His arms tightened around her with comforting speed. “Are you well, Vivvie? You barely said a word at tea. Is the baby all right?”

She put her hand over his mouth and resumed clinging to him. “You’re leaving tomorrow. Were you simply going to bow over my hand and condole me on my loss again, Darius?”

In her own voice, Vivian heard exasperation bordering on panic. Even lionesses were entitled to exasperation.

He stepped back and kept his hands on her shoulders. “My condolences are sincere. You’re up and down all night with the baby, you have my sister and her husband underfoot as guests, Thurgood lurks we know not where, and I would not trespass on your bereavement.”

She searched his gaze, but he enfolded her against him before her scrutiny revealed any new insights. “You spend a great deal of time in the nursery, Darius.”

“Nicholas does too. He likes babies.” There was bemusement in this observation, suggesting the baby enjoyed having two grown men fuss at him.

“Will is sleeping more, going longer without waking at night.”

Darius turned her under his arm and walked her toward her bedroom. “He’s growing, so he can take more at a feeding, but you did not summon me here to brag about your son, Vivvie.”

“You called him our son, not long ago.”

Without her quite intending it, they ended up sitting on the bed. Or maybe she had intended, had wished for it—for almost a year.

Darius laced his fingers with hers. “In my heart, he is our son. He’s William’s son too, and yours. I have not yet put Thurgood to rout, Vivvie, if that’s the point of this interview. I have plans in train, and I’m repairing to Town to see to their completion.”

“I do not want a status report, Darius.” She was being cranky, like a teething baby, turning away every attempt at solace.

He pushed her braid back over her shoulder, not a caress, more of a comfort. “What do you want, Vivian?”

You.

She didn’t apologize for the notion. William was gone, and while she had loved him, she’d never loved him the way a wife loved a husband. William—so devoted to his Muriel—was the last person who’d castigate her for her feelings.

“I want to see something in your eyes other than concern, Darius. I don’t want you watching me carefully, as if I might lapse into strong hysterics over my tea.” And damn the catch in her voice that said his concern wasn’t misplaced. If Darius could not silence Thurgood and his threats, strong hysterics were a certainty.

“Your room is chilly, Vivvie. Let’s get you under the covers.” He rose off the bed all too easily.

He was attempting to cosset her. She was going to wallop him. “I’m not getting under these covers without you.”

He paused in the act of lifting her covers. Paused and swallowed, then swung his gaze back to her face, carefully, as if not sure what he’d find there. “You’re bereaved, Vivian. I would not want to take advantage.”

His gaze moved over her, a blink-and-she’d-miss-it inventory that for just two consecutive instants revealed banked longing.

“You’re grieving, too.” That longing—so stark and sincere—had been a balm to Vivian’s soul and restored to her heaps of patience and understanding she hadn’t been able to locate a minute earlier. “All I’m asking is that you hold me, Darius.”

She had the sense that was all she could ask, that if she begged him to take off his clothes, to bring the candles closer to the bed, to make passionate love to her, she would exceed the fragile limits of his self-imposed standards of… something.

Decency? For he was decent.

Or perhaps they were the standards of martyrdom—which thought made her ill on his behalf.

He moved around the room, dousing candles, banking the fire, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher and setting it on the night table while Vivian watched him.

Darius Lindsey was a man like any other, one whom exigencies had forced into indecent bargains, but underneath it all, a highly decent man, a painfully decent man. Maybe that was why she’d given her heart, her happiness, and the well-being of her child into his keeping.

“Come to bed, Darius. I will think you have taken me into dislike now that I am no longer married to another.” The jest fell utterly flat, an occasion when bald truth arrived uninvited to the middle of a conversation.

He paused, two buttons away from removing his waistcoat. “Is that what you think? You think because I attempt to demonstrate my respect for your loss that my regard has changed?”

The idea intrigued him, clearly.

“I think I have lost William, and he was ready to go and deserving of a peaceful end, but I do not want—”

Oh, damn. Damn, and damn, and if she’d known any worse words, she would have thought them too. Bad enough when truth appeared uninvited in a conversation, how much worse when it popped up in the middle of a very sentence.

“Vivvie?” He was there next to her, that fear-of-strong-hysterics look replaced by simple, tender concern. “You can tell me, Vivvie. You can tell me anything.”

She could. She could bear his child; she could put herself under his protection; she could give him her truths. “I do not want to lose you too. Not for anything, and yet Thurgood will ruin Will’s life unless I give you up—unless we give each other up.”

His reply was gratifyingly swift and certain. “You won’t lose me.” He lifted his waistcoat over his head, tossed it toward the clothespress, and started on his shirt buttons. “You will never, ever lose me. Even if you tried, you could not lose me. You shall not lose me.”

Vows. He was spouting vows and tossing his clothing in all directions, both of which reassured Vivian mightily. “You should have a care for your clothing, Darius.”

His stockings went sailing. One caught on a chair; the other landed on her vanity. “Hang the bloody clothing, Vivvie. I can afford new now. That dressing gown can go. Shall I help you with it?”