The baby shifted, no longer the little fluttering sensation of months ago but a noticeable movement that applied a passing pressure to her innards.

Darius Lindsey was the father of her child, he’d brought her more pleasure and more joy than any other man, and he was hurting her in equal proportions. For the sake of their child, Vivian resolved to forget Darius Lindsey, to put him from her life, her mind, her hopes.

That kiss… and now this.

If he liked playing hot and cold, come here and go away, he could play it with his other women. Vivian had seen him a handful of times in the past five months, and he’d been cool to her on all but two occasions, and now this.

Enough. She had a child to think of, a husband in ailing health, and better things to do than hope she caught Darius Lindsey in an approachable mood.

* * *

Darius had felt a moment’s panic when Lucy had accosted him outside the bookshop.

“Portia Springer,” he’d said, thanking a gift for recalling details. “She isn’t up from the country often. Her husband is steward to a large estate.”

“She looks like your type.” Lucy’s frown was thoughtful. “A little used but holding up, and intent on getting what she wants. Can a steward’s wife afford to pay you well?”

She would ask that. Darius turned a frigid stare on her right there in the street. “None of your business, Lucy. I suppose since you’ve taken to following me, you expect me to escort you somewhere? It will give me a chance to tell you I’m off to Averett Hill and wish you a pleasant summer while I’m at it.”

“Why go there now?”

“Because London in the summer is pestilentially hot. Because I need to tend what few acres I have, and it’s almost time for haying. Because I damned well please to go.”

She attached herself to his arm and minced along beside him. “I forbid you to go.”

“Too damned bad,” he muttered, feeling her stiffen with outrage beside him. “Lucy, you do not own me, and my sister is safely married to Bellefonte, so sheathe your claws.”

“You have another sister,” Lucy snarled. “She can be tarred with the same brush.”

He resisted a flood of curses, because this vulnerability had not occurred to him. “Emily is as pure as the driven snow, and Wilton would call you out, did you offer her insult.”

“Wilton is an ass. Maybe Hellerington can be persuaded to take an interest in Emily. He likes little girls.”

Merciful God. “Go to hell, Lucy.” Darius pried her fingers off his arm. “And take Blanche with you.”

He left her there, glaring daggers at his back in broad daylight, but then he’d gone home and written the most difficult note he’d ever penned, and it hadn’t even taken a single rough draft to get it right.

The confrontation solidified a resolve Darius had felt growing ever since he’d tucked Vivian into his traveling coach bound for London. She’d seen clearly what Darius himself only now grasped: The price of disporting with Lucy and Blanche was not his honor, but rather, his soul. Every single person Darius cared for—John, Leah, Trent, Vivian, and even the child she carried—was imperiled by Darius’s association with two women who regarded him as nothing more than an animated toy.

He had the determination; he had the courage; he had the desperation. He lacked only one final resource to see his plan set into motion, and he knew exactly where to find it. The time had come to ransom his soul back from hell.

* * *

So vast and varied were London’s commercial offerings that one no longer needed to make with one’s own hands each and every item a baby required. Vivian had embroidered receiving blankets and caps, knitted booties and shawls, and sewn dresses upon dresses for the unborn child, but there were a few things she had yet to procure.

A rattle. Every child needed a rattle, or several rattles.

A baby spoon, something in silver, not too ornate, but sized for a tiny mouth.

A little baby cup, also in silver, so it could be engraved upon the occasion of the child’s birth.

These purchases were of sufficient import to justify delaying a remove to Longchamps—these purchases, a growing concern for William’s health, and a reluctance to share a household again so soon with Portia.

That Darius Lindsey might yet be in Town was of no moment—unless Vivian were alone in her room late at night, sharing her bed with a particular brown scarf.

Vivian’s gaze traveled across a shop she’d patronized frequently to where a gentleman and a clerk were in conversation near a handsome bay hobbyhorse. The hairs on her nape prickled before her mind identified the speaker.

“The boy has been riding since I took him up before me as a babe. He needs…”

Vivian spoke up, though clearly Darius hadn’t spotted her yet. “He needs books, full of excellent stories about dragons and witches and trolls. He needs things to draw with, and a basket with a great fluffy pillow for his cat.”

Darius turned to her, expression inscrutable. “Madam?”

Today he was cool-Darius, though not cold-Darius. For an instant, she considered trying to be cold-Vivian.

Then discarded the notion. He looked thin to her, and tired, but not… she didn’t know what, but he was different. “Mr. Lindsey, isn’t it?”

“At your service, Lady Longstreet.” He bowed, and Vivian was very much aware of the shopkeeper watching their exchange.

“How old is the child you’re shopping for, Mr. Lindsey?”

He relaxed at her civil tone, and why not? His harpies were unlikely to accost him in a shop for children. Vivian would skewer them where they stood if they tried to.

Another queer start attributable to her delicate condition.

Darius took a step closer to her then checked himself. “John is rising seven and a curious fellow. I think you’d like him very much. He tries to exhibit the best manners possible under all circumstances.”

Oh, not this. Not veiled innuendos backed up by dark, pleading eyes.

“And does he succeed often enough to merit a lady’s praise?”

“I pray he does, and I’m sure his lapses are all well intended.”

She had no riposte sufficiently clever to convey that the lady’s feelings were slighted regardless of the well-mannered fellow’s intentions. When she might have signaled to her maid to gather up her purchases and complete her transactions, Darius took another step closer, and this was her undoing.

Carrying a child caused all manner of havoc with a lady’s sensibilities. She might be queasy, light-headed, fatigued, or unduly energized, wear a path to the necessary, and wake up at all hours with odd cravings.

In Vivian’s case, she had also acquired an astonishingly acute sense of smell. Darius’s unique scent came to her, promising pleasure, comfort, and passion in the middle of a children’s shop.

I’m fat, she’d said, quite proud of the fact several months ago. She had the proportions and maneuverability of a coal barge now, and in the space of a moment, she was seized with belated self-consciousness. That he, the only man to see her unclothed, should regard her in this state…

“My lady, are you well?” He took the last step to her side and slipped an arm around where her waist used to be. “When did you last eat, Lady Longstreet?”

Darius as a paramour was a force of nature, an overwhelmingly skilled and astute bed partner who could swamp a woman’s sense completely by conjuring pleasure upon pleasure. Darius as the worried father of her child had Vivian wishing she could manufacture a convincing swoon just to keep the potent concern simmering in his dark eyes.

“I had a proper breakfast.” A light breakfast, the most prudent way to start her day when the very scent of William’s bacon still made her queasy.

“You nibbled dry toast hours ago and washed it down with weak tea. You.” Darius waved a hand at the maid. “Her ladyship and I are going for an ice. Take her purchases back to Longstreet House and meet us at Gunter’s.” He passed the girl enough coin for hackney fare halfway to Paris, and paused to inspect Vivian.

“You’re not arguing with me, Lady Longstreet. One is encouraged to think impending motherhood might have turned you up biddable.”

He did not sound as if he were entirely teasing, but an ice… she’d been longing for a nice tart barberry ice, craving one, and she hadn’t even known it. “An ice would be acceptable.”

He escorted her from the shop, the picture of a young man performing a friendly courtesy, while Vivian tried to put a label on what she was feeling.

“Cheated.”

“Viv—I beg your pardon, Lady Longstreet?”

As they sauntered toward Berkeley Square, the street was not particularly busy, and for some reason Darius appeared willing to stroll along, arm in arm, despite any harpies who might pop out of doorways or passing coaches.

“I feel cheated.”

No immediate reply, though Vivian could feel Darius thinking. Then, very softly, “By me, Vivvie?”

He would leap to that conclusion. “Not by you, by the circumstances. I should have gone to that shop with you, to choose something for John, to find a baby spoon, rattle, and a silver cup. I should be complaining to you about not being able to see my feet, and I should be wrinkling my nose at your bacon every morning.”

He gave her an odd smile as they walked along, suggesting this was not a queer start, it was something else, something dear to him.

“Don’t stop there,” he said, patting her knuckles. “I should be rubbing your feet and your aching back at the end of the day. You should curse me roundly for costing you your figure and then ask me if you’re still beautiful—you are, you know. More beautiful than ever, which shouldn’t be possible.”

They got the entire way to Berkeley Square, cataloging her inconveniences and insecurities, and the listing of them—to him, only to him—eased something in Vivian’s soul even as the entire conversation made her ache terribly for what would never be.

“I positively loathe the scent of William’s bacon, but he’s gotten so thin I can hardly deny him what sustenance he takes.”

“Take a tray in your room before you come down to breakfast, Vivvie. Join him for tea, and he probably won’t notice you’re not eating.”

Good advice. Over two ices served under the maples—one barberry and one vanilla for her, from which Darius poached not a single bite, and one raspberry for him—Vivian learned to put her feet up as much as possible, to use pillows creatively to assist her to more comfortable sleep, and to walk as much as possible to prepare for the birth.

“How do you know these things, Darius? Did you learn them with John’s mother?”

His expression shifted, becoming sad.

Why had it never occurred to Vivian that Darius might have been in love with the boy’s mother? And yet… something he’d said about Vivian’s child being the only child he’d sire came back to her.

“The Continent is a more enlightened place regarding childbirth.” He held up a forkful of his raspberry ice. “One bite, Vivvie, to bring the color back to your cheeks.”

She obliged, knowing he was distracting her. By the look in his eyes, he knew she knew. For a few minutes, he pushed raspberry ice around with his fork.

“John has gone to spend the summer with Leah and Bellefonte.”

The way he said it, softly, as if the words hurt to even speak, broke Vivian’s heart.

“Darius, I am so sorry. To send your own—”

He shook his head and set the little bowl of ice from him. “He’s not my son, which is what you were about to say, and he’s not Leah’s or Trent’s either.” He glanced around, maybe taking inventory of the other customers, maybe looking for courage. “John is a half brother. Wilton mustn’t know that, not ever, and Reston—or rather, Bellefonte, now that his father has died—can keep him safer than I can. I did what I thought was best for the boy, at least for now.”

He’d no doubt repeated that litany to himself endlessly. The only person he’d allowed close, the person he seemed to love most in the whole world, and now this.

“I need your handkerchief, Mr. Lindsey.”

He smiled a sweet smile and waved a little square of linen at her. “You are the dearest woman. John is very happy. Trent is sending his children out to Belle Maison for a summer outing too. I’m promised regular letters.”

“But you’re alone,” she said, blotting at her eyes even as the scent on the handkerchief ripped at her composure further. “I hate being in this condition. I have no dignity, I have no airs and graces, I have—”