Vivian herself had nearly forgotten.
She glanced down at her dress, running her hand over the nappy, plain fabric. It was warm, sensible, durable, economical…
And ugly. The same color as calf… diarrhea, he’d said.
A metaphor for her life, maybe.
She wished her sister were on hand to talk with, wished she had anybody to parse with her the dilemma she faced. Darius Lindsey was dangerous, and not just because he loved the child in his care. Vivian glanced out her window to see it was already dark, nigh teatime, when a knock on the door interrupted her musings.
“Are you cavorting with Byron again?” Darius asked as he eyed her sitting on the bed.
“We’re through, Lord Byron and I. He’s fine for a passing amusement, but the man lacks depth.”
“Thus speaketh Polite Society about one of its own,” Darius replied as he lowered himself beside her. “Do you shrink away from me out of habit, or are you afraid I’ll end up sitting in your lap by accident?”
“I don’t…” She stopped and tried for honesty. “You’re very informal. I’m not used to it.”
“Doesn’t William touch you? I thought that was one of the blessings of marriage, that one had permission to touch and be touched, not just in bed.”
“I touch William. I’m forever tucking in his lap robes, holding his jackets for him, tugging off his boots.”
His smile became knowing. “I’ll bet he still has the same valet he had when his first wife was alive.”
“He does. William is frequently required to wear formal attire, and a valet… what?”
“My brother is heir to an earldom, and he sacked his valet as soon as he married. Many men do upon marriage, unless they’re exceedingly toplofty.”
“Muriel was too ill…” Vivian fell silent.
“Even when she was still cutting a dash,” Darius guessed, “her husband had his valet.”
“What is the point of this digression?”
“You are a married spinster,” he accused quietly. “For this, I cannot forgive your dear William, and neither should you.”
“I am not a married…” She closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. “What do you mean?” Though she could guess. She could guess all too easily.
“Come here.” He rose and tugged her to her feet, then slipped his hand around her wrist to pull her over to the full-length mirror. “You’re a beautiful woman, Vivian Longstreet, but look there and tell me what you see.”
She shrugged, unwilling to look in the mirror. “So the dress is unprepossessing.”
“Look.” He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders trapping her before him. “Look, Vivvie, and see.”
Purely to make him hush, she regarded her reflection. “An ugly dress. A serviceable, plain, ugly dress.”
“An atrocious dress,” he rejoined, “an abomination in calf scours yellow that obscures a luscious feminine figure. You’re also sporting a bun my granny would disdain to wear in public, lips pinched with disapproval that should be rosy with kisses and laughter, and eyes dull with boredom that should sparkle with mischief.”
“You’re to give me a child, Mr. Lindsey, not a lecture.”
She’d turned her face, but because he still held her, that only put her cheek against his fingers where they’d settled on her shoulders.
“I will do my damnedest to give you that child, Vivvie.” He turned her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “Consider allowing me to give you a little more than that. Let me give you a few weapons to use when William isn’t there to protect you.”
“What manner of weapons?” And why would she much rather stare at him than her ugly dress?
“The weapons every female needs to know how to use if she’s to move in polite circles safely. You need to see yourself as you could be, as you need to be.”
His thumbs made little circles on her shoulders as he spoke. Impossible-to-ignore little circles. “Need for whom?”
“You’re the Viscountess Longstreet,” Darius said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “If you bear this child, who will be his or her guardian in the event of William’s death?”
“I’m not sure. William will make provision, I know, and he’s in good health, so that day can’t be near at hand.”
“Vivvie.” Darius peered down at her. “You need to have a frank talk with your spouse, but whoever the guardian is, you’re going to have to handle him to your own satisfaction.”
“What do you mean, handle him?” She put the question to him with equal parts dread and curiosity.
“What if he wants to send your son off to public school at age seven?”
Vivian’s brows shot up. “Seven? I thought I’d just get tutors and governors and so forth. Seven?”
“Seven. Little boys go into men’s hands at seven, and for many, that means boarding at public school. What if this guardian wants your son to spend summers and holidays with him, rather than with you?”
“Surely William wouldn’t allow that?” Vivian’s fingers touched her lips. “He could make stipulations, couldn’t he, in his will?”
“Not that anybody would enforce. Unless William lives to be a hundred, you’re going to be the only parent this child has, and between the guardian, the solicitors, and the tutors, your say will count little, unless you make it count.”
Foreboding took up residence in Vivian’s middle. Why hadn’t anybody pointed this out to her? Why hadn’t William told her what the provisions of his will were? Why was she trying to have a child without having thought these considerations through?
“So what would you have me do?” She turned back to the mirror. “Who would you have me be?”
“The mother of my only child,” he said softly. “A lioness no man would tangle with willingly. A lady who isn’t afraid to fight for what she believes in and knows to be right for her child. I can’t be there in any noticeable way. William can’t be there. You’re the child’s only champion, Vivvie, and you need to start now to step into that role.”
She met his gaze in the mirror. “The dress goes.”
“For starters.”
“For starters,” she agreed, standing taller on the strength of the words alone.
Within three days, Vivian knew what it was to hate a man. Oh, she despised her stepfather, but Ainsworthy was simply venal, his schemes and ambitions predictable and mundane. He was evil, but in a sense, he couldn’t help himself.
Darius Lindsey, by comparison, was ruthless, cunning, and relentless. He’d put her through one tribulation after another.
At the modiste’s, he’d dressed her from the inside out, choosing nightgowns, chemises, stockings, everything, from laces and trims to dress fabrics and patterns. He suggested alterations, sketching creations Vivian never would have dreamed of.
“You need to accentuate your height,” he insisted on their way back to the manor, “not try to hide it. William is tall. You’re not going to embarrass him if you dress well at his side. Stop fidgeting.”
“Stop touching me. You handled me in that shop like I was some… prize hound, my conformation and coloring shown off for company.” And thank God the modiste had been French and not the least dismayed by his behavior.
“You’re not a hound, though you’re definitely a prize. A treasure, a gem of surpassing beauty. And I’ve about had it with your bun.”
“My bun? You’ve had it with my bun?” She drew herself up on the seat of the phaeton, prepared to reel with righteous exasperation, when a rut in the road pitched her against him. “Bother.”