“Appears that’s the case.” Darius patted her hand as they approached the front door. A footman opened it, and they were in the shade of the front terrace. “I’ve missed all of you.”

He’d kept that admission for when they had the privacy of the out of doors, and for his restraint, he was rewarded with another of Vivian’s shy smiles.

“You barely know me,” she murmured, but he noticed she wasn’t in any hurry to get him to the stables.

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to call again. I’m without much civilized company at the Markham estate, and without civilized victuals entirely.”

Her steps slowed as they approached the stable yard, and she did not turn loose of his arm. “Your sister would expect me to extend some hospitality to you, so you must not be a stranger.”

“Gracious of you.” Darius kept his relief at this victory off his face. “And what’s this?”

“Some civilized victuals.” Vivian eased away from his arm and took the bag from the footman who’d come around from the back of the house. “For sons of the nobility forced to rusticate in primitive surrounds. Is this your horse?”

She patted Skunk with a convincing show of interest.

“Skunk, by name.” Darius took the reins from the groom and checked the tightness of the girth.

“Is he from America, then?” She ran a hand down the horse’s neck, a slow, gentle caress that Darius felt in low and lonely places.

“Just his name.” He checked the length of his stirrup leathers, which the grooms would have had no reason whatsoever to fuss with. “You might consider calling on Mrs. Belmont. She’s been accepting callers since her remarriage.”

“I know the Belmont estate. It’s very pretty.” She stroked the horse again, and Darius told himself to stop dawdling, for God’s sake. He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“You’re very pretty.” He murmured the words in the moment his mouth was near her ear, and was rewarded with her blush.

“Lady Leah never told me what a flirt you are.” Vivian touched her cheek. “I am going to tattle on you, sir.”

“Vivian?” Portia’s voice caroled from the direction of the garden, from which she was marching forth, a basket of blooms in hand. “Do we have a visitor?”

Of course they did not. The steward’s wife might have visitors, but Vivian’s visitors were not Portia’s. Darius did not remark the distinction, but rather, exerted himself to bow and smile and give a convincing impression to Portia of a younger son avoiding work on a hot summer morning.

He made liberal mention of his sister, and batted his eyes at Portia until she was simpering. Vivian took her revenge by stroking Skunk, fiddling with his mane, and scratching gently behind the beast’s hairy damned ears.

“I’ll take my leave of you both.” Darius swung into the saddle. “My thanks for the provisions. You may be assured a letter reporting all to the Countess of Bellefonte will be in the next post.” He touched his hat brim and trotted off before Vivian could run her hand over the horse’s flank one more time.

Vivian, for her part, did not watch him go, because Portia was a shrewd observer.

Portia’s eyes narrowed on Skunk’s retreating quarters. “The man no doubt has haunted Town since coming down from university. He could have called on you there. He’s a good-looking devil, if you don’t mind all that height and muscle.”

“Wilton is tall.” Vivian picked up the basket of flowers—forget-me-nots among them, of course. “Lady Leah has the same height and was quite graceful on the dance floor.”

“And she’s caught an earl.”

“You’ve a good man, Portia,” Vivian chided. “We both have good men.”

“I suppose.” Portia linked arms with Vivian. “This heat makes me peckish. Shall we have a plate to tide us over?”

“Nothing for me, thank you. Mr. Lindsey brought with him a spectacular, if politely indulged, appetite.” She lifted the basket. “I’ll put these in water. They’re very pretty.”

Portia’s lips thinned. “That Mr. Lindsey was pretty, too. Speaking of attractive men, have you heard anything from your dear steppapa?”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Of course. He dutifully writes once a month and conveys that all is well in his household.” He also conveyed that William was rumored to be in declining health, and Vivian must resolve to join the Ainsworthy household when the inevitable occurred.

A carriage clattering up the drive interrupted her unhappy musing, and both women stopped to regard the Longstreet traveling coach as it pulled into the stable yard. Vivian set the basket down and cocked a questioning glance at Portia, who merely shook her head.

“William?” Vivian’s husband emerged slowly, blinking at the sunshine heating up the humid air.

“Greetings, dear wife.” He crossed the few steps between them to kiss her forehead, and Vivian accepted his embrace easily. “I know I should have sent a note, but I bring the best news. Portia, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know as well that Mrs. Ventnor has been safely delivered of a daughter. Mother and child are thriving, as is Mr. Ventnor, truth be told.”

“Oh, William.” Vivian hugged him in fierce joy and profound gratitude for her sister’s continued wellbeing. “You are dear to bring me this news in person, and I have missed you so.”

William smiled down at her. “You flatter an old man. I’m a tired old man, too. Come sit with me on the terrace, and I’ll catch you up on all the gossip from Town.” He did not include Portia in the invitation, which was likely what prompted her to speak up.

“We’ve some gossip of our own. Vivian just had a caller, an earl’s son, no less.”

“Vivian has occasionally entertained dukes, no less.” William offered his wife his arm, his tone deceptively pleasant. “If there’s a title visiting in the area, it was simply protocol for him to look in on my dear wife.”

“But Mr. Lindsey hasn’t a title,” Portia went on, “though I gather his sister and Vivian were acquainted in her youth.”

“Vivian is still very much in her youth.” William’s tone cooled a trifle at Portia’s persistence. “My eyesight, thankfully being undiminished, I can attest to this. Portia, would you be good enough to relieve Vivian of these flowers?” He passed her the basket, and a look even Portia should have been able to interpret. “I’ve missed my wife and would beg a moment to enjoy her all to myself.”

Portia took herself off, and William sighed gustily as he and Vivian made their way around to the back terrace.

Vivian peered up at him as they made a slow progress down the walk. “You look in need of a rest and some cosseting, William. You’ve been working too hard.”

“I’ve been getting too old,” he countered good-naturedly. “Clever of Lindsey to recall the connection with his sister.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Mind?” William took a minute to lower himself onto a cushioned wrought iron chair. “I should have thought of it, but if he’s bothering you, Vivian, I’ll wave him off. I think it’s… sweet, I suppose, that he’s doing the pretty.”

Vivian signaled a footman for a tea tray, hoping there was still a scone or two in the larder.

“I think it’s cheeky,” Vivian said, meeting her husband’s gaze.

William’s expression became thoughtful. “You’re going to need allies, Vivian, and Lindsey is motivated to champion your causes, so to speak. You’d be silly to take umbrage at a perfectly respectable social call. Now, I did not have time to write you and fill you in properly on the fate of Havisham’s little bill regarding French soap.”

He patted her hand, and launched into a juicy recounting of the maneuvering necessary to distinguish legislatively between French soap and English soap. Vivian listened dutifully, and could probably have repeated much of what William had said verbatim, though her mind was elsewhere. First, she was concerned, for William looked like death, for all his spirits seemed sanguine, and he was actually eating a little of the food before him.

Second, William was not the least perturbed that Darius had called on her. In fact, he’d seemed almost to have expected it.

* * *

Darius had nigh expired from surprise when William Longstreet signaled his coach to stop and poked his head out the window to offer a cheerful greeting.

“Lindsey, what a unique mount you have.”

“My lord.” Darius nodded as a sort of mounted bow. “I bid you good day, having just had the pleasure of doing likewise to your lady wife.”

“And how is Vivian?” William’s smile became mischievous. “Did she threaten to have you forcibly ejected from the premises?”

“She was all that is gracious.” Darius straightened a lock of Skunk’s mane that had fallen to the off side. “Mostly. You don’t mind?”

“My dear young man, you think I’d mind a social call after what has transpired previously—and at my request? Call all you like. It will be a nice change from all that parliamentary whining, and make your occasional presence at Longchamps in future less of an oddity. You’re summering with Moreland’s youngest, aren’t you? You must come calling when bivouacking with the primitives palls.”

He’d thumped his cane on the coach roof and departed with a wave of his hand, leaving Darius to stare at the retreating coach in puzzlement.

He tried to put a name to the expression on Lord Longstreet’s face: mischievous, yes, but also amused and even pleased. And of course, Valentine Windham’s father, His Grace the Duke of Moreland, would be rubbing shoulders with Lord Longstreet and passing along the occasional piece of family gossip.

Hence, William had known Darius would be in Oxfordshire.

Had William foreseen Vivian’s proximity to Darius?

He discarded that notion as patently absurd but had to admit William had seemed blasé about Darius calling on his wife. Blasé, and tired—weary to the bone, perhaps even ill. Vivian had warned Darius it was so, but still, seeing the man was a shock. Realizing Darius would genuinely mourn the old man’s passing was a greater surprise yet.

* * *

“The Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey, come to call.”

William glanced up from Muriel’s 1805 diary—and wasn’t that an exciting year?—to find young Lindsey standing in the doorway looking handsome, bashful, and determined.

Relief at seeing that Vivian’s doting swain remained well and truly interested vied with an old schemer’s pleasure at plans coming nicely to fruition. Lindsey would do—for Vivian and for the child; Lindsey would do well.

“Mr. Lindsey. I see you took me at my word, which is more than I can say for most of the damned Commons.” William creaked to his feet and extended a hand toward his guest. “Vivian has abandoned me to make the acquaintance of Professor Belmont’s new wife.”

Lindsey accepted the handshake, glancing around the study William considered his retreat at Longchamps. The furniture was heavy, worn, and comfortable, and Portia knew better than to trespass in here.

“I wasn’t sure you’d receive me in Vivian’s absence.”

Young men were so relentlessly afflicted with bravery. William glanced at Muriel’s diary and hoped she was enjoying the little drama playing out in their home.

“I’m the friendly sort,” he assured his guest. “Or perhaps I’m merely bored, as country life is abysmally quiet. Let’s find some shade out back. I’ve been wanting to know how your sister ended up wedded to Bellefonte’s heir.”

He led Lindsey through the house as he spoke, wanting the fellow to see that Vivian’s surrounds were commodious and well cared for. They reached a side door, and William turned to aim a conspiratorial wink at Mr. Lindsey. “We’ll have more privacy back here.”

To William’s delight, thirty minutes later, young Lindsey was deep in explanations of the Lindsey family’s secrets.

“I haven’t shared this with anybody.” Lindsey looked puzzled as he took a sip of sangria—the man had lived in Italy for a time, and William had chosen their refreshment accordingly.

“It isn’t as if I’ll be repeating it,” William replied.

Lindsey studied him for a long moment while a lovely fresh breeze stirred the leafy branches above them. From the look in the man’s eyes, William had the sense Lindsey hadn’t had the benefit of much plain speaking regarding his family, certainly not from those whose opinions were unassailably well informed.

When William picked up his drink, his hand shook slightly, so the ice clattered against the side of the glass. His guest ignored that indignity, for which William accorded him points.

Muriel would have said Lindsey had possibilities, and she would have been right, though Lindsey himself might not agree. Fatigue dragged at William, and a touch of regret that he would not see all of Lindsey’s potential bear fruit.