She frowned at their joined hands. “You make it sound logical, while I’m not sure this getting-acquainted business is wise. We’re going to have to get thoroughly unacquainted in thirty days, and stay that way.”
“I know, Vivian.” He patted her knuckles with his free hand. “You need have no fear I’ll appear at your balcony, spouting poetry. We have a month, and then, nothing.”
“Right. Nothing, except—possibly—a baby.”
William Longstreet regarded his son over the chess board, knowing the man was only pretending to consider his next move. Able wasn’t an intellectual giant, but he tried to observe the civilities, and he had common sense, for which a father could be grateful.
William stifled a delicate yawn. “My concentration is not what I’d wish it to be. Perhaps I’m still fatigued from traveling.”
“It’s too damned cold for a man of your dignified years to be shut up in that drafty old coach for hours.” Able straightened away from the board. With his lanky frame, brown eyes, and sandy hair, he could have been William forty years past, at least physically. “How about a nightcap?”
William glanced at the clock, wondering idly if Vivian were at that moment bouncing on the sheets with the handsome Mr. Lindsey. William did not envy young Lindsey the effort, which was a sad testament to the effects of great age.
“A drink is in order,” William said. “So tell me, Able, how fares my son?”
“I’m well.” Able poured them each a couple of fingers of brandy. “The estate had a better harvest this year than last, and as bad as this winter is, it hasn’t yet equaled the past two for sheer miserable cold.”
“Have you given any thought to running for the local seat?”
Able smiled thinly and resumed his place across the chessboard. “We’ve had that argument, your lordship. It’s generous of you to offer, but I’m not cut of the same parliamentary cloth as you are.”
“I wasn’t either, the first few years.” William held his drink without taking a sip. Not until Muriel had gotten hold of him had he really started to enjoy his parliamentary work. “But the Lords is going to have to cede some power to the Commons. It’s inevitable, and the longer they put it off, the worse the struggle will be.”
“You’re no doubt right.” Able usually agreed with his father. “I’m surprised Vivian didn’t join you here for the holidays this year.”
“She’ll be down in a few weeks.” William glanced at the clock again. “Her sister, Angela, is expecting a fourth child, and Vivian is a doting aunt. Then too, every couple needs a little breathing room if polite appearances are to be maintained.”
“Portia would have my head were I to suggest such a thing.” Able’s smile was more fatigued than humorous. His drink had disappeared in very short order.
“She seems in good health.” One could not say Portia Springer was in good spirits, ever. The woman had a decidedly pinched view of life despite the embonpoint quality of her frame.
“She’s sturdy, my Portia. How long can you stay?”
The question wasn’t really appropriate, since William owned the home and was technically the host, though Able lived at Longchamps a great deal more than William ever had. Still, the inquiry wasn’t mean, but more likely one Portia required an answer to and hadn’t had the nerve to put to William directly over dinner.
“I’m not sure.” William eyed his drink. “Depends some on Vivian’s preferences, since she doesn’t particularly like Town life.”
“She doesn’t?” Able seemed surprised by this. “All that entertaining, all those titles gathered around at her dinner parties, she doesn’t enjoy that?”
“Rather dreads it.” How was it his wife and his son were no better acquainted? “She’s a good sport though, and now that she’s figured out most who vote their seat are more interested in the Catholic question than in gobbling her up, she’s gotten much better at it.” She’d never be quite the hostess Muriel was, but that comparison was hardly fair.
Able crossed back to the sideboard to refill his drink. “You’d think she’d be here, though, with you, instead of lingering in Town.”
“Meaning?”
Able shrugged. “She’s young and larking around Town without your supervision, but then, she’s not my wife.”
“She is mine.” William sipped his drink placidly, enjoying the heat more than the flavor. “I’ve never had reason to doubt her, Able. Not once, not in the use of her pin money, not in her consumption of spirits, not in her choice of social companions. Vivian is a lady.”
“Of course, she is.”
William saw the comparison with Portia hit its mark. He didn’t envy Able his wife. Nobody would.
“You can douse most of the candles,” William said, settling in a little more comfortably in his reading chair. “I’ll keep my nightcap company here for a bit in solitude.”
“If that’s your preference.” Able dutifully blew out the candelabrum on the table. “I’ll bid you good night, your lordship.”
William lifted a hand. “Thank you for the game, Able. I promise I’ll be in better form tomorrow night.”
Able left, no doubt to be interrogated by his wife, while William had to admit he truly missed Vivian. She would have had a lap robe tucked around him, her chess was interesting and sometimes brilliant, her conversation laced with humor, and her form easy to look upon.
Lindsey, to 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.