“Walk me to the door, Vivvie,” Darius said, dropping his arms. “Then go upstairs and take a damned nap. You’ll feel worlds better, and the nurse will summon you if Will gets fretful.”

Will, his son, named Wilhelm Fordham. Decent of Lord Longstreet to do that, beyond decent.

Vivian paused before they left the library. “I’m glad you came. More glad than you know. If the baby hadn’t just gotten to sleep—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Darius assured her. He’d see her tonight in his dreams too, of course. “You’ll rest now. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Vivian tried for a smile, but it was a shy effort.

Darius kissed her cheek, only her cheek. “Get as much rest between then and now as you can.”

She leaned in, her forehead on his chest as if she were drawing strength, then straightened and took his proffered arm. Dilquin met them at the door, handing Darius his cane and hat.

Darius eyed the older fellow. “I’m telling your butler you’ve promised to nap. I will trust his discretion to see you keep your word.”

“The housekeeper and Mrs. Ventnor’s nursery maid will abet me in this cause, sir,” the butler volunteered. “Her ladyship will look in the pink tomorrow when she takes the baron about for the first time.”

The baron. Darius’s son already had a courtesy title and was going to sit in the Lords one day. It boggled the mind of a plain mister, it did, but Darius found himself smiling as he walked back to his rooms.

He could afford better now. Wilton’s death not a month past had released some funds in trust, and Averett Hill was turning a steady profit. Then too, all the jewels Darius had been given—had earned—were of good quality and had been sold so the funds could be invested along with the final installment William had provided. All in all, Darius was well on his way to thriving financial health.

So he considered where a man ought to move, if he wanted quarters suitable for the occasional visit from his one and only… godson.

Seventeen

“You are as nervous as a bridegroom,” Valentine Windham said. “Hold still, or you’ll be looking as tumbled as one.”

“Men are not tumbled,” Darius retorted, but he raised his chin so Val could retie the knot in Darius’s cravat. “Nothing elaborate, if you please. This is a sober occasion.”

“You’re not the kind to show it when you fret.” Val finished with the knot, then moved on to reposition the boutonniere gracing Darius’s lapel. “What has you so nervous?”

Darius remained silent until Val had stepped back.

“This will sound… peculiar, but I feel as if I’m the one being christened.” Darius surveyed himself in the mirror, finding a sober, reasonably good-looking fellow staring back at him. If Valentine thought that fellow daft, so be it. “This is the first thing I’ve done to participate in the proper rituals of Polite Society for many years. Maybe since I was a lad squirming in church. It matters to me.”

They took his traveling coach—the only conveyance Darius owned with pretensions to elegance—and all the way to St. George’s, Darius pondered the pleasures of a life where he was free to act on the things that mattered to him.

This morning mattered a great deal.

He would see Vivian again.

And he would meet his godson.

His only child.

His and Vivian’s child.

A feeling not unlike anxiety welled, but Darius considered it as they approached the church. Upon examination, worry was only part of the sentiment. The day was pretty, the air crisp, the sun warm. Not too cold a day for his son to be out greeting society. He spied Vivian holding the baby at the church door, her sister and likely her sister’s husband at her elbow. When Vivian smiled at him, arms around their child, Darius put a name to what he was experiencing.

Joy.

Simple, uncomplicated joy, to be here this day, celebrating this event, particularly with this woman.

And more than joy, love.

He loved Vivian, loved her courage and integrity, her humor and passion, and loved her all the more because she would bring those qualities to being the mother of his child. He loved the child, sight unseen, loved the goodness inherent in all new life, the hope and potential.

He loved his own life, he reflected in some wonder as he made his way through the crowd gathered in anticipation of the service. There were regrets, of course, many and considerable, but right now, the gratitude far outweighed the sorrows.

“Lady Longstreet.” There in front of half the titles in London, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. She beamed up at him, because such behavior was permitted on this most special occasion.

“Mr. Lindsey,” Vivian replied, and while she still looked fatigued, she also looked happy. “May I do the introductions?” She did the pretty for her sister and Mr. Ventnor. Darius greeted the sister, a more matronly version of Vivian, and as for the brother-in-law, Ventnor was a handsome, dapper, dark-haired man in his prime, just a couple of inches shorter than Darius. His eyes were shrewd, but his manner was friendly enough.

“And will you introduce me to the young man in your arms?”

Vivian glanced down at the baby then up at Darius, her expression full of emotions shifting too quickly for him to read.

“I’ll do better than that,” she said, tucking up the child’s receiving blankets. “He’s a right little porker, in Dilquin’s estimation, so you can relieve me of the burden of his weight. Darius Lindsey, may I make known to you Baron Longchamps, Master Wilhelm Fordham Zacharias Josef Longstreet.” She passed the child to Darius, who received the little burden as carefully as he would the most precious of gifts.

Darius blinked down at the child, who was gurgling happily in his arms. He snugged the blankets around that cherubic little face and resisted mightily the urge to hug the infant in a crushing embrace. When he looked up, he saw Val Windham grinning at him from across the church’s front terrace, and the sight was bracing.

“Greetings,” Darius addressed the baby. Welcome to life. I’m your father, and the luckiest, most blessed man alive. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You look to be in good spirits today, my lord.”

The baby caught Darius’s nose in a little mitt, and while the other adults babbled on about God knew what, Darius stood there, falling in love and loving it.

Which, before such a crowd, would not do.

“He’s strong,” Darius said while Vivian reached over and removed the baby’s hand.

“He’s a little beast,” Mrs. Ventnor agreed. “Viv spoils him terribly, but if we’re not to while away the day on these steps, we’d best put the baron in his christening gown.”

“We’ll be along shortly,” Ventnor promised. “Mind you don’t rile the boy, as it will be a long day for him.”

Mrs. Ventnor took the baby from Darius, and it was all he could do not to knock her aside and clutch the child to his chest. “Come, Viv,” Mrs. Ventnor said. “We’ll explain to the guest of honor he’s not to cast his accounts all over Mr. Lindsey’s lovely attire.”

The women moved off, while Darius wondered how much of being a parent to Wilhelm Fordham was going to be about partings—from the boy, from his mother, from dreams and other possibilities.

For the service, Will was a little saint, going to sleep in his father’s arms, the trust of such a thing being enough to fell Darius all over with its sweetness and gravity. Mrs. Ventnor had to nudge Darius to say his little parts, so fascinated was he by the baby he held. Vivvie had been right; the child was perfect.

Perfect, healthy, adorable, and asleep.

And so small. When it was over, Mrs. Ventnor excused herself to find her husband and sister, leaving Darius, lucky, lucky Darius, holding the baby.

“Makes a fellow pause,” Val Windham said, peering down at the child. “To think you and I were once that small, that vulnerable.”

“That innocent,” Darius said. “That precious.”

“I’m still precious,” Val said, looking oddly sober. “To Their Graces, my siblings, their spouses and children, I’m precious to them, and they are to me.”

This child and his mother were precious to Darius, and if God were merciful, Darius would have a chance to be a meaningful, if minor, presence in his child’s life as well.

Precious. He could be a little precious to someone else, and even the idea was enough to make his chest hurt.

“Mr. Lindsey?” Angela Ventnor bustled up to him. “We’re off to host the breakfast for the nearest and dearest at our townhouse. If you would see Viv and the baron back to Longstreet House, Viv said she’d try to convince the baby to nap so she could spend a little time off her feet with friends and family.”

“I’d be happy to,” Darius said. “Lord Val, will you accompany us?”

Val gave him a fleeting look of puzzlement, but nodded. “You carry Himself. He’s been too good for too long, and there will be consequences.”

“Viv brought extra nappies for the baron,” Angela said, patting the baby’s blanket. “You two gentlemen must come along with her and put your appetites to the test. Mr. Ventnor has laid in sufficient provisions for a campaigning army.”

“It’s always my fault.” Ventnor smiled at his wife, a man in love ten years after speaking his vows. “Come along, my dear. Christenings work up an appetite.”

Such casual domesticity, and yet to hear it and know these people would be part of Will’s life was comforting. Darius lifted his gaze from the baby in his arms to see Val regarding him with a curious smile.

“Do not smirk at me, Windham. Go fetch my coach, and I’ll retrieve Vivvie.”

“Vivvie?” The smile turned into a grin, while Darius grimaced at his mistake.

“Her ladyship. We’ll meet you outside.”

Val peered down at the baby and back up at Darius, as if looking for resemblance. Darius bore the scrutiny, both dreading and hoping Val might see some.

“On second thought, give me the baron,” Val said. “He and I will be outside, charming the ladies. This does not mean you are to be inside doing likewise.”

“Go.” Darius said, parting with his son—that he should give the boy into Valentine’s keeping made it marginally less difficult. He spotted Vivian sitting at the back of the church. A nattily dressed middle-aged man was bent low, whispering in her ear, and Vivian’s expression was carefully blank.

A parliamentary crony of William’s, haranguing her over her husband’s absence, perhaps? But no, Vivian would handle that easily. This had to be her stepfather. Darius quickened his pace.

“Lady Longstreet?” He inserted himself beside her pew, causing the man bothering her to take a step back. “If you’re ready to go, the carriage and your son are waiting.”

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” the other man said. “I consider my daughter’s welfare my concern, so all in her ambit are of interest to me.”

Vivian rose and handled the introductions, but Darius barely heard her words. She was pale, more pale than she’d been earlier in the morning, and a mask was over her features that spoke more to upset than fatigue.

“If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Ainsworthy.” Darius tucked Vivian’s hand over his arm. “Her ladyship is anxious to get the baron home.”

“Vivian.” Ainsworthy lifted her other hand and bowed over it, so each man had a grasp of one of her hands. “You will take my words to heart this time.”

The fool made it sound like a scold, which was reason enough for Darius to loathe him.

“Thurgood. My thanks for your felicitations.”

Darius led her away, though he could feel Ainsworthy’s stare boring into his back. “What an unfortunate example of a stepfather,” Darius remarked. “Is he always given to such melodrama?”

She ignored him, or hadn’t heard him. Unease crept across the warmth in Darius’s heart, an emotional cloud on an otherwise sunny morning. A superstitious man would have said somebody walked over his grave.

They collected the baby from Val, who elected to ride up with the coachy, and Darius situated mother and baby in his conveyance. He presumed on the day’s benevolence by taking a place beside Vivian on the forward-facing seat.

“I can take the baby, Vivvie, and you can close your eyes for a bit.”

Paternal of him, but William’s admonition to look after mother and child rang in Darius’s ears. He’d take care of them, he’d love them, and when the coach got to Longstreet House, he’d somehow find a way to say good-bye to them too.