his credit, hadn’t even asked about her appearance, though he’d asked a damned lot of other questions—when were her menses due, had she ever miscarried, what had her sister’s deliveries been like, what about her mother’s? They were the questions of a surprisingly shrewd man, but also the questions of a man who cared about his womenfolk.
With any luck, that number would someday include Vivian. On that cheering thought, Lord Longstreet let himself doze off, because he hadn’t lied: he was utterly worn out.
***
Vivian looked up from her book—a volume of Byron, whom William declared a disgrace on countless levels—when a single knock landed on her door.
“You still awake?” Darius Lindsey strolled into her room, stopping a few feet from the bed. “Now, now, none of that. You look at me like I’m the invading French army. I brought you a nightcap.”
“Did you ever consider buying your colors?” Vivian asked, only a little alarmed when he sat on the end of her bed and lounged back against the bedpost. She accepted the drink he passed her, but didn’t sip it just yet.
“I did not.” He scooted to scratch a shoulder blade on the bedpost, an informality if ever there was one. “My father was not kindly disposed toward my sister Leah. If you’re of an age, you probably know that much, so I considered it my responsibility to stick close to her rather than defend King and Country. Then too, until my nephew Ford was born, I was the Wilton spare and obligated to keep body and soul together as a result. Don’t forget your drink.”
She dutifully sipped but couldn’t think of a thing to say to the handsome man regarding her from the foot of her bed.
“What are you reading?”
She eyed the book. “Byron. William would snort with derision.”
“Byron himself does a good job of deriding just about everything. Shall I read to you?” He picked up the book where it lay facedown on the counterpane and ran his finger down the page. When he started in reading, Vivian realized the poetry was better for being rendered in the voice of a young man, one jaded, but not quite bitter, and just as unimpressed with Polite Society as the poet was.
“You read well,” she offered between verses.
“Better than you finish a nightcap,” he said with a slight smile. Vivian took another sip. It was potent stuff, burning a trail down her throat to her innards.
She eyed the little glass dubiously. “What is this?”
“Cognac.” He set the book aside. “I favor it in winter. I had another purpose for coming up here.”
“You’re going to pounce?” She had to ask. He was without cravat or coat—in dishabille by polite standards—and by candlelight, at his ease on her bed, he looked even larger than he had at dinner.
Also… handsomer, plague take him.
“No pouncing for me, delightful as the prospect might be. I haven’t been given permission.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” She set the drink aside, only to have him move up the bed and take a sip of it himself—from the same place on the rim she’d just put her lips to.
“Do what?”
“Be so… considerate. I’ll manage. Earlier, downstairs, it was just a weak moment. If our good queen could bear fifteen children to a man she’d never met before her wedding day, I’ll manage.”
“I’m not offering a kingdom in return,” Darius said. “Not in the traditional sense.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can offer you pleasure, Vivian, or I can be as perfunctory and undemanding as you wish.”
“This is an increasingly uncomfortable discussion.” Vivian tucked the covers more tightly around her. “Not one I am prepared to have.”
“Consider this a discussion of how you want to be pounced upon. You need to decide whether pleasure and duty are mutually exclusive, Vivian. If they are, I’ll come to you only when the candles are out and you’re under the covers. We need not see each other, in fact, for the duration of this
With any luck, that number would someday include Vivian. On that cheering thought, Lord Longstreet let himself doze off, because he hadn’t lied: he was utterly worn out.
***
Vivian looked up from her book—a volume of Byron, whom William declared a disgrace on countless levels—when a single knock landed on her door.
“You still awake?” Darius Lindsey strolled into her room, stopping a few feet from the bed. “Now, now, none of that. You look at me like I’m the invading French army. I brought you a nightcap.”
“Did you ever consider buying your colors?” Vivian asked, only a little alarmed when he sat on the end of her bed and lounged back against the bedpost. She accepted the drink he passed her, but didn’t sip it just yet.
“I did not.” He scooted to scratch a shoulder blade on the bedpost, an informality if ever there was one. “My father was not kindly disposed toward my sister Leah. If you’re of an age, you probably know that much, so I considered it my responsibility to stick close to her rather than defend King and Country. Then too, until my nephew Ford was born, I was the Wilton spare and obligated to keep body and soul together as a result. Don’t forget your drink.”
She dutifully sipped but couldn’t think of a thing to say to the handsome man regarding her from the foot of her bed.
“What are you reading?”
She eyed the book. “Byron. William would snort with derision.”
“Byron himself does a good job of deriding just about everything. Shall I read to you?” He picked up the book where it lay facedown on the counterpane and ran his finger down the page. When he started in reading, Vivian realized the poetry was better for being rendered in the voice of a young man, one jaded, but not quite bitter, and just as unimpressed with Polite Society as the poet was.
“You read well,” she offered between verses.
“Better than you finish a nightcap,” he said with a slight smile. Vivian took another sip. It was potent stuff, burning a trail down her throat to her innards.
She eyed the little glass dubiously. “What is this?”
“Cognac.” He set the book aside. “I favor it in winter. I had another purpose for coming up here.”
“You’re going to pounce?” She had to ask. He was without cravat or coat—in dishabille by polite standards—and by candlelight, at his ease on her bed, he looked even larger than he had at dinner.
Also… handsomer, plague take him.
“No pouncing for me, delightful as the prospect might be. I haven’t been given permission.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” She set the drink aside, only to have him move up the bed and take a sip of it himself—from the same place on the rim she’d just put her lips to.
“Do what?”
“Be so… considerate. I’ll manage. Earlier, downstairs, it was just a weak moment. If our good queen could bear fifteen children to a man she’d never met before her wedding day, I’ll manage.”
“I’m not offering a kingdom in return,” Darius said. “Not in the traditional sense.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can offer you pleasure, Vivian, or I can be as perfunctory and undemanding as you wish.”
“This is an increasingly uncomfortable discussion.” Vivian tucked the covers more tightly around her. “Not one I am prepared to have.”
“Consider this a discussion of how you want to be pounced upon. You need to decide whether pleasure and duty are mutually exclusive, Vivian. If they are, I’ll come to you only when the candles are out and you’re under the covers. We need not see each other, in fact, for the duration of this
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