* * *

Pregnancy scrambled a woman’s brains.

Vivian reached this profound conclusion within days of returning to Longchamps. True, London was miserable in summer, but she and William traditionally stayed in the city until Parliament adjourned in August. And William had stayed there, which only proved to Vivian that her wits had gone begging.

William was… failing. Dying. She’d admitted it to herself only as he’d deposited her into their traveling coach and she’d seen the way his shoulders were more stooped, his gaze less clear, his gait slower. She was losing him, and now of all times, she didn’t want to lose the closest thing she had to an ally.

Still, she’d been so intent on putting distance between herself and a certain Darius Lindsey that she’d left William in Town with no one but Dilquin to fuss over him, and hied herself back to Longchamps.

Where Portia’s hovering presence was going to move Vivian to murder. The woman was an atrocity, and Vivian’s sympathy for Able grew with each hour. Portia suggested changes to the house, as if she knew William’s health were precarious and she planned to take over as lady of the manor when William was gone. Able brushed off her plans and schemes and shared the occasional sympathetic look with Vivian.

But worst of all for Vivian was that distance, which she’d intended to help her get some perspective on Darius Lindsey, was only making his presence in her imagination harder to eradicate.

Would the child look like him? Would Darius come to the christening? Was he thinking of her, or was he sauntering around with one of those horrid women on his arm, in his bed, at his side? Had “very soon” come to pass that he’d parted company with them, or were they still commanding his escort when Vivian could not?

That last question hurt. He’d been honest with her, told her exactly who and what he was, but it still… hurt. If Darius were nothing but a cicisbeo, bought and paid for, what did that make Vivian?

She tortured herself with questions like that, even as she took long walks all over the ripening countryside. To see the crops growing, even as she grew, was a comfort, though her ambling became more and more deliberate.

Darius had told her to walk, to resist the urge to become sedentary as well as gravid.

To escape Portia, Vivian frequently took a blanket and a book—Byron was her most frequent choice—out to the stream running behind the orchard a half mile from the house. The roll of the land protected her from the view of the manor and its outbuildings, and the distance was just right to give her a sense of peace.

Which was disturbed past all recall when she felt something tickling her nose. She batted at it, not quite ready to be done with her late-morning nap, but it returned.

“Shall I kiss you awake?”

She opened her eyes, and her mind told her Darius Lindsey, whom she had not seen for weeks, was on the blanket with her, but she refused to accept such a reality.

Pregnancy scrambled a woman’s wits that badly.

“Go away.”

“Soon.” He did ease away, but not before Vivian saw a light dimming in his eyes. This was a good thing, lest he think he was still welcome to kiss her or hold her or take her hand in his.

But what he did was worse. He shifted to sit a foot away from her.

“How are you, Vivvie?”

Vivvie. His name for her, delivered with unmistakable concern. Unmistakable caring.

“I’m fat,” she huffed, making it as far as her elbows, but anything approximating lying on her back was no longer comfortable, so she flailed around until Darius boosted her to sitting, smiling at her shamelessly.

“You’re glorious,” he said. “Your face looks thinner. How are you feeling?”

She glared at him, arranged her skirts, and felt tears welling. She loved his eyes, loved the way he could communicate intimacy without saying a word, and right now, those eyes were tormenting her with the tenderness they offered.

“I feel pregnant. Ungainly, a little worried. What are you doing here?”

“William is taking good care of you?”

“William is doing his best.”

“Vivvie?” He was closer, though she hadn’t seen him move. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She scooted a little away, the better to see him and avoid his scent, because as pregnant as she was, she wanted to make herself drunk on his fragrance.

“You have no business showing up here and accosting me.”

“I’ve done a great deal more than accost you.” The humor was back in his tone. “That gives me the right to at least inquire about your well-being. William stayed back in London, didn’t he?”

She nodded, glancing away.

“What can he be about?” Darius eyed her searchingly. “Leaving you out here among the servants to go into your confinement?”

“You think he meant for you to come and inspect his broodmare?” Even Vivian was shocked by the bitterness in her tone.

“Perhaps.” Darius’s tone gave nothing away. “I was more concerned for the mother of my child. You’re cranky, and that’s to be expected. Shall I hold you?”

“No.”

He shifted, sitting behind her, a leg on either side of her, and drew her against his chest. “I went through this with John’s mother.”

Vivian felt his chin resting on her crown, and the tears constricted her throat. She should fight him off, but it had been so long, and she was weak with longing for just this.

“She was weepy and grouchy, and so worried for her child she could hardly carry on a civil conversation for the last few weeks. Fortunately, Gracie was on hand, and little moods and snits didn’t alarm her in the least.”

“You loved John’s mother?”

“I pitied her. I do not pity you, much.”

“Damn you.” Vivian did try to shove him off, but he held her gently.

“Vivvie, calm yourself.” He propped his cheek against her temple and kept both arms around her. “John resides with Leah and her husband, Bellefonte.”

“You miss him.” Vivian sighed against Darius’s chest. “You miss John, and you can’t pester him to write to you because you want him to be happy.”

“Hush.” He stroked her back in slow circles, and Vivian felt her eyes grow heavy.

“I’m angry with you.”

“I know, love.” He brushed a kiss to her hair. “You’re furious and disappointed. You have every reason to be.”

She dozed off, and he held her, and when she woke up, he was still there, and when she’d managed not to cry for weeks, that made Vivian cry.

* * *

Had God in all His wisdom created a sweeter experience than to allow a man to simply hold the mother of his child? Darius hoped Vivian would sleep for hours, but in fact she dozed only for a few minutes.

She was angry with him, but all trust hadn’t been destroyed, or she would never have let down her guard to rest in his arms this way. He assured himself this was true, and assured himself she was in blooming good health as he took a cautious inventory of her appearance.

Her face was thinner, more mature, and more lovely than ever.

Her pregnancy was advancing visibly, and the sight was dear and erotic and amazing to him. He locked the eroticism away behind high walls of respect and guilt.

Her breasts were magnificent, her hips voluptuous, and her shape… Slowly, Darius slid a hand over her belly, his patience rewarded when the child shifted slightly, causing Vivian to move in his arms.

Ye gods, ye gods. A child, their child, alive and safe under his hand, under her heart. He had to blink and swallow and blink some more as he prayed Vivian didn’t choose that moment to wake up.

He wasn’t going to rush his fences this time. Vivian had been hurt enough by all his vacillation, and she wasn’t going to give up ground easily. But just to hold her… to hold her and know she was confiding in him and at least allowing herself the comfort of his embrace, it was enough.

It would have to be enough.

Vivian stirred, rubbed her cheek against his chest, then sat up and speared him with a look.

“You have to leave, Darius.” She tried to wiggle away. “I can’t tolerate any more of your hot-and-cold, here-and-gone treatment. It’s good of you to inquire about the child, but I’d appreciate it if you’d take yourself off now.”

* * *

“Able, not now.” Portia shoved him away and slid the letter she’d been writing off to the side—since coming home from London, Portia was doing a prodigious amount of letter writing. “You smell like a stable.”

“And here I thought breeding women were supposed to be affectionate.” Able obligingly withdrew, but he’d bothered to wash thoroughly before presuming to kiss his wife’s cheek, and the rebuke disappointed.

Portia gave him an exasperated look as she recapped the inkwell. “What do you mean, breeding women? Go maul Vivian if you’re attracted to breeding heifers.”

Able lowered himself into one of the chairs facing the desk, since Portia appeared unwilling to yield his proper place to him. “I’m not talking about Vivian. How far along are you, Portia?”

Her mouth opened as if to deliver another broadside then snapped shut with a click, and Able realized his wife hadn’t been being coy about her condition; she simply hadn’t known.

And now that she did, she wasn’t pleased.

“This is your fault.”

At least she was predictable. “I certainly hope so. The date of the child’s arrival will likely shed light on those particulars.”

She tidied a stack of green ledgers that needed no tidying. “And just what do you mean by that?”

“We’ve been married for years, Portia, and you’ve never caught before. A little trip up to Town, and there’s a blessed event in the offing. You don’t know how far along you are, do you?”

“I’m not… regular,” she hedged. “It’s hard to tell.”

She wasn’t ir-regular, but Able saw she was worried, and knew a moment of exasperation with the Almighty. Managing, scheming, grasping Portia might be, but she wasn’t enough of a steward’s wife to have timed her indiscretion so there was at least some possibility the child was Able’s.

“It’s all right, Portia,” he said tiredly. “Children are easy to love, and Vivian’s baby will have someone to call family. That’s for the best.”

“Vivian’s…” Portia’s hand went to her throat, then her expression shuttered. “This is for the best, you’re right, and the child is yours, Able.”

He considered her and recalled she’d permitted him intimacies just before they’d left for London, but not since. If the child were his, she’d be better than three months along, and the signs Able had seen were as much behavioral as visible. She was rounder, in certain places particularly, but that was hardly conclusive.

This child was not likely his. In his life, in his marriage, with his Portia, such a happy occasion was improbable.

“You’ll want to warn whomever you dallied with,” he said, rising and moving toward the door. “If the child were mine, I’d want to know, even if some other man would have the raising of it.”

He left her sitting at his desk, for once silent, the expression on her face detached and calculating. Disappointingly so.

* * *

“What if I said I’m not going to leave you?” Darius let Vivian go and shifted to sit beside her. The question was only half in jest. “Would you have William summon the King’s man to take me off your property?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Vivian glared at him but ruined the effect entirely when she reached out to brush his hair off his forehead. “You’ve been in the sun.”

Her touch, freely given, eased something miserable and desperate in Darius’s chest. “I’m spending the summer at the Markham estate, which Valentine Windham is hell-bent on restoring to its former glory.”

“Markham?” Vivian’s brow puckered. “I thought nobody lived there.”

“Bats live there. When we started it was barely habitable, but it’s coming along.”

She plucked clover from the grass and began threading a chain. “So you thought you’d just pop over and see how I’m doing?”

“No.” He’d thought he’d lose his mind if he had to face never seeing her again. “I thought I’d beg a berth with Windham so I could make amends for how I treated you this spring.”

“I’m a married woman,” Vivian reminded him, staring at her clover. “And I love my husband.”

They needed to air this linen, of course, but not at length. “I am not seeking favors from you, Vivvie.”

“You’re not?” The little note of wistfulness in her voice had him smiling again, though he was gentleman enough to try to hide it.