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Three
    Darius led his guest into the sturdy, unprepossessing manor house he called home, a little surprised Vivian hadn’t cried off. She was nervous, maybe still scared—as he was—and her discomfort sparked some sympathy for her.
    A little sympathy, though she was even prettier by day than she had been in the candlelight of her husband’s townhouse. Or maybe she was prettier when her natural curiosity had her looking all around at new surroundings rather than listening for the sound of her husband’s tread on the floor above.
    A long month awaited, for Darius and his guest.
    “May I make you a toddy?” Darius asked when they reached his study.
    “You burn wood.” She approached the hearth, sniffing the air as she pulled off her gloves and extended her hands toward the fire. “I don’t know what’s worse, the stench of London in winter or in summer. A toddy would be lovely, especially if you’ll join me.”
    “Be happy to.” Darius started pouring and mixing at the sideboard, having made sure the fixings were to hand. “How did you leave Lord Longstreet?”
    “Reluctantly.”
    When Darius interrupted his concocting to approach her, she shrank back against the fire screen then turned her head to the side.
    He frowned down at her, feeling a blend of amusement and exasperation. “I am not in the habit of pouncing on unwilling women.” He unfastened the frogs of her cloak, which she’d claimed to have kept on in deference to the cold. When he stepped back he heard her exhale and knew a moment’s consternation. With Lucy, Blanche, and their ilk, a man had to be the one to pull away, to long for a little more finesse and consideration.
    “Do you prefer nutmeg, cloves, or cinnamon?” He laid her cloak on a chair and spoke to her over his shoulder.
    “A little of all three?” He heard her rubbing her hands together near the fire.
    “My own preference.” Darius poured his recipe into a pot and hung it on the pot swing to heat. Beside him, Vivian was staring at the fire as if she could divine the future in its depths.
    He laid the backs of his fingers against his guest’s cheek. “You are chilled. Shall I order you a bath?”
    She flinched at his touch then shook her head. “Mr. Lindsey.” She took in a breath and still didn’t face him. “I don’t think I can do this.”
    “This?” He used a wooden spoon to stir the butter into the toddies, seeing no reason to give up his place right beside her before the fire.
    “Spend this month with you, conceive a child. Doesn’t a woman have to be relaxed to conceive? My sister said…” She broke off and wrapped her arms around her middle, tightly, as if holding in words, emotions, everything.
    Darius eyed her posture. “I am not undone by a woman’s tears. If you’d like to cry, I come fully equipped with monogrammed linen and a set of broad shoulders.”
    “I don’t w… want to cry,” Vivian replied miserably. “Your toddies will boil off.”
    He swung them off the fire, put the spoon in the pot, and turned her by her shoulders to face him.
    “I seldom want to cry either.” He urged her against him. “The tears come anyway.”
    She wasn’t very good at being comforted. Darius concluded this when she remained stiff against him for a long moment. Or perhaps she wasn’t used to being held, which he could understand better than she’d think.
    “Maybe it’s your menses bothering you,” he suggested, resting his chin on her crown. “You started when, today?”
    “Yesterday,” she muttered against his collarbone, and Darius felt her relax. “I hate that you know that.”
    “It’s worth paying attention to, if you want a baby.” He let his hand trail in a slow caress over the bones of her back, pleased when she didn’t bristle further. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I have two sisters, and they take great glee in informing a fellow when they’re crampy and blue and feeling unlovely.”
    She stepped back, taking his