Flawless

by Carrie Lofty

  They took seats across from one another. Miles’s long legs brushed her skirts, but she was ready for him this time. No flinching. His old patterns were remarkably unchanged. Taunt. Tease. Unnerve. Until she was so topsy-turvy that his certainty was all she could cling to.

  She knew how to fight back now. By ignoring him, to start.

  After the whistle bellowed again, the conductor shouted, “All aboard.” The wheels squealed and the train car jerked.

  So strange to think that she would’ve remained in London had he been humorless, ignorant, physically repellant—an arranged marriage without complications. She would’ve endured no disappointment when Miles drank a sailor’s ration or smoked like a Bowery chimney, nor would memories of mutual passion haunt their shared past. But despite his disheveled clothing, he held himself as every inch the fine gentleman and could produce a flash flood of charisma.

  That he could charm every other female with the same precision made her stomach burn. And after what Viv witnessed on the morning after the Saunders’ gala, she’d been forced to admit that she could no longer rely on him. Not even for discretion.

  He lit a cigar. “You’re staring.”

  As the station slowly crept out of sight, Viv forced herself to confront him directly. “Why are you here? I can understand why you’d attend the reading of the will. That could’ve meant easy money.”

  “Is that what you’d expected?”

  “Maybe,” she said softly. “But you should’ve stated your intentions, rather than trying to unsettle me.”

  “Did I? Unsettle you, that is?”

  “You know you did.”

  “Frankly, someone needed to get a jump on this two-year contract.”

  She frowned. “When did you arrive?”

  “Early January.”

  “But the war was on!”

  “It hadn’t been when I departed England. A lot can change on that blasted long journey.” His expression hardened. “Besides, I had no intention of being the one left behind this time.”

  Viv didn’t reveal what she heard in his voice—something close to hurt. She didn’t dare believe that her leaving had affected him, but a nasty worm of guilt left her shaken.

  “What do you have in mind for our future?” she asked.

  “I find that an interesting question because, until very recently, there hasn’t been much our to speak of.”

  “I want that bonus, Miles.”

  “Ah,” he said, leaning forward. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Why?”

  “My brownstone requires maintenance.”

  “Where you live in New York?”

  She lifted her chin. His lush, deep brown eyes had always been the gateway to temptation. He thought all the things she could never think, and dared her to come along on his adventures. She’d tried. For almost two years. But audacity was outside of her nature.

  “Yes, in New York. Where I’ll return when this matter is concluded.” She took a deep breath. “I want our separation to be permanent.”

  But rather than react with scorn or anger, he maintained a quiet intensity. A silent showdown.

  When she could take no more, Viv tried for a lighthearted tone. “Now that we know what I want, it’s your turn.”

  He unleashed a slow, devastating grin. “I want you in my bed.”

  Of course he would. She’d known there on the docks, reading the heat in his avid gaze. But the blunt truth of it grabbed her insides and twisted. He’d make her beg and shiver, only to leave her wanting a place of refuge he’d never provide.

  And if he harbored resentment because she’d left . . .

  “Will you force me?” she asked, her mouth parched.

  “What sort of gentleman would that make me?” He smiled a bland sort of business smile. “Now, let me share a story with you. Last summer, in a bizarre yet not unexpected turn of events, I won a woman in a card game.”

  No matter the truths she repeated until her head burst, she still recoiled from the idea of Miles in another woman’s arms. “How very . . . you.”

  “As I said, not unexpected. The most fascinating part, however, was that the woman seemed resigned. She’d been part and parcel of a losing hand before. It took the edge off any sort of enjoyment I might have found.” He exhaled a stream of silvery smoke. “So I sent her home.”

  Viv didn’t want to feel relief, but it cooled the jealous heat in her veins. “Make your point.”

  “You asked what I want, so I’m telling you. I want your enthusiasm, Vivie.”

  He’d whispered that name in their bed, holding her and kissing her, bestowing an endearment no one else had ever used. He’d also called her that the night of the Saunders’ gala. Fueled by alcohol, he had seduced her behind a wide spiral staircase. Anyone could have seen. With passion and shame fighting for dominance, she’d bit the muscle above his collarbone to keep from crying out. Never had she dipped so near to what she truly was: the bastard daughter of a whore.

  But never had she felt such treasured hope. She had viewed the aristocracy with the same awe as any of New York’s best. To secure a title was an accomplishment managed by only the richest families and choicest offspring. Learning her fiancé would be the dashing Viscount Bancroft had been a day of utter joy. All her dreams and hard work conspired to her advantage.

  The drinking. The gambling till all hours. The hideous gossip that always followed. Miles was not dashing; he was a disappointment. The night of that gala, she had thought otherwise. Maybe, just maybe, he could change.

  He’d proven those hopes unfounded by dawn.

  “You ask too much,” she whispered.

  “Do you want that bonus?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then you will summon as much enthusiasm as you possibly can,” he said, his voice hard. “Only then will you find me a willing partner in this little venture.”

  “A partner? You are a rake who lives for the next hand of cards. You have no skills, no patience, and every rankling syllable you utter is designed to divide people from their sanity. I could never depend on you.”

  He lifted his dark brows. “Perhaps, but I’ve been living here for nearly three months. That’s a great deal of experience in a place you’ve never even seen. So, my dear, you can do this alone, peddling your lovely wares to men here on the Cape. Or you can share our marriage bed with me.”

  Deflated despite her simmering anger, Viv forced herself to be practical and accept the truth. He was a man, he was a peer, and he’d amassed a tremendous head start. She would never be able to command his overt influence, which he could turn against her if he chose. His smug smile made that threat.

  “And the money?”

  “One third.”

  “Hmm . . . Debts, my lord?”

  “I’m a better gambler than that. You hit the nail on the head earlier. Your dowry made my father’s estates solvent, but hardly enough remains to accommodate my lifestyle.”

  “Debauchery is deuced expensive,” she said, affecting his accent and lackadaisical attitude. “Vivie, love, be a dear and ask daddy for more.”

  Miles swallowed and looked away. Odd. Perhaps being confronted, while sober this time, with his oft-repeated request caused a little shame.

  But he was the master of quick emotional recoveries.

  “I would rather the privilege of debauchery than your starched half-life. Always so prim.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Always . . . trying so hard. Such a nouveau riche mistake.”

  “Your parents didn’t think so. What did your mother say to me on our wedding day? I believe it was, ‘You deserve better than my son.’”

  “She was as good at pretending as you are.”

  Viv hoped she hid her flinch, but he rarely missed a clue of any kind.

  “But I won’t quibble about money, my dear,” he said. “Should we wish to be uncouth, we may as well shed all reservations and return to discussing sex. After all, money is little compared to the gusto you can deliver. So, do we hav
e a deal?”

  “I only want what I’d sought upon leaving Manhattan. A life without you.”

  “Then you know how to earn it.”

  If giving her body to Miles, to her husband, would ensure that unthinkably large bonus, so be it. After all she refused to surrender anything more dear: her trust, her dreams, her heart.

  Decision made, Viv stood and found her balance in the swaying train car. Looking down at him strengthened her resolve. “No drinking,” she said tightly. “No other women. And none of your bloody cigars. Are we agreed?”

  He was fidgeting with his wedding ring. Their eyes met and he tucked his left hand out of sight. “Agreed.”

  She savored her rare moment of authority. “Then I’m all yours.”

  Three

  Miles climbed out of the stagecoach. He wove his fingers together at the back of his neck, stretching tired muscles. For three days they’d been traveling, first by train to the terminus at Beaufort, and then by coach since early morning. The steep incline of the Table Mountains had given way to the Karoo, the arid plateau over which they rolled for endless hours.

  Staring across the grassy flats, he tried to avoid comparisons with his ancestral home in the cheerful, pampered greenery of Hampshire. London, too, with its grand architecture, leafy parks, and even its dire slums, would not produce a fair outcome. By either of those standards, the Karoo was a huge expanse of nothingness.

  He pulverized a clod of yellow dirt with the heel of his boot. He kicked another just to watch it burst. A hot wind took the loosened earth and spread it eastward in a fine, gritty spray. Only when he took the time to look closer did he see individual features. Scrubby acacia trees offered little shade. Their narrow leaves, needles, and gourdlike seedpods only made the lack of greenery more apparent.

  Miles nodded once, paying his respects to the magnificent wasteland that stretched to each horizon. My name is Ozymandias, king of kings.

  Adam climbed down from the luggage hold atop the coach. He squinted into the high, sharp sun. Already his fair complexion had been reddened by the elements. “How do we fare?”

  “Another day at least.”

  “Marvelous, my lord.”

  Miles exhaled his frustrations. “What have I asked? I don’t mind the sarcasm, but for now forget proper address. We both know this place isn’t all fine company and businessmen.” He brushed his gaze across the wide stretch of the plateau and grimaced. “I won’t relax until we reach what passes for civilization. Keep close to the women and keep your eyes open.”

  “Trouble?”

  With a shift of his brows he indicated the armed man atop the stagecoach’s high forward perch. “Our guard hasn’t climbed down to take refreshments with us. None of them has.”

  Adam followed his line of sight, appraising the six motionless stagecoaches. A shimmering gleam of excitement hastened over his deceptively youthful features. He appeared almost as predatory as Miles felt. “I understand, my lord.” He clapped his mouth shut, then grinned. “Sir.”

  “You did that on purpose.”

  “Only a little.”

  “That will do, Mr. Nolan,” Miles said with a slight grin. “Refresh yourself while you can.”

  Acknowledging his dismissal with a much brighter smile, Adam headed for the small way station where passengers congregated. There existed no prohibition against shouts or laughter, but everyone kept their voices low, close, hushed. Men refilled canteens and smoked, while a few ladies in fine clothes huddled together in the meager shade of a ramshackle porch.

  Miles lifted his foot and tapped the butt of his purloined whip against its sole, smacking off the filmy loam. So much space. The vastness of the Karoo made his family’s estate and even broad stretches of English countryside feel tight and tiny. This was the entire heavens above and the whole world at his feet.

  The British Empire had only just come to an armistice with the Boers. What had Old Man Christie been thinking, sending his daughter to a place that had pulsated with tension for more than a decade? And was Miles doing her any favors by encouraging her to continue? He could’ve pressed his hand and, as her husband, insisted on their return to England. Three months of colonial life had shown him what to expect. But no. He’d been caught up in that bonus and, to be even more blunt, in Viv. Now any return trip would be as trying as the journey onward.

  Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

  All well and good, Mr. Shelley. But poetry wasn’t getting them to Kimberley.

  Viv stood on the top step of the stage, slowly surveying her domain. Grinding miles of travel had dimmed the spark of her antagonism, or perhaps she was hoarding her resources against his next foray. Her stamina for ignoring his attentions had increased greatly since they’d lived as husband and wife. She’d looked out the window for hours at a time, just as she stared now at the way station, examining the scrubbed, bare plateau as if it held the key to understanding the universe.

  Miles didn’t merit a glance.

  Three days.

  Three days of sitting across from her, eating with her, watching her. Three days of coming to grips with the magnitude of what they’d agreed to: twenty months as partners. He was awed and humbled by that prospect, even more so than by his marriage vows—likely because he hadn’t spoken his vows in earnest. This bargain was beginning to feel as if he’d staked his soul.

  He flicked the whip. Its woven tip licked the earth and snapped with a satisfying crack.

  Viv flinched. Her glare burned a hole in his head, but at least he’d claimed her attention. “Must you?”

  “I absolutely must. Practice, you see.”

  Although Miles presented a hand to aid her descent, she ignored him and slid past in a rustle of silk and lace. Both feet planted on the ground, she gave a little hop to right her bustle and straightened her hat—some monstrosity of fashion that dared the rising wind to rip off its feathers and bows.

  If her intention was to prove that she was as au courant and senseless as the rest of the moneyed travelers, she was succeeding. But then, she always had when it came to keeping up perfect appearances. In tight, exclusive groups they critiqued their surroundings with obvious distaste, wearing their success and wealth like medieval crests. The lesser folk crowded into the scant shade of the rear coaches, a new sort of peasant to be consumed by a new breed of empire.

  The first-class passengers watched Miles with obvious curiosity. Although he should’ve taken part in that show, cultivating the relationships that would aid in making Viv’s brokerage a success, he didn’t feel like relinquishing his anonymity just yet. Once he returned to Kimberley, he would become Lord Bancroft again. For now he was just a man in the desert holding a whip.

  Another day and then back to playing Society games. But Viv would be his solace.

  Sidling up beside her, he gently encircled her nape with his fingers. “Such a marvelous day for a walk in the park, darling. Aren’t you glad we came?”

  She stiffened. The man and woman with whom she’d been conversing both gawked, then made excuses to leave. For his part, Miles couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. The angle of her dainty chin made it appear as if she looked down at him. But in doing so, she revealed the sleek, pale line of her throat. What would she do if he nuzzled her there, right now, for anyone to see?

  Slap him. And he’d grin.

  But such uncalculated folly would run contrary to his purposes. He wanted her willing and eager, not on the defensive. So he forced that rogue thought away.

  “Walk with me, Viv.”

  She slowly pried his hand off of her skin. “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “No.”

  “Afraid?”

  She sniffed. “Hardly.”

  “All very proper, I assure you,” he said, leaning as close as he dared to the tempting arch of her throat. “I have no intention of accosting you behind the stables.” He straightened and tucked her arm through his. “Besides, my back aches. If you’ve suffered a
s much as I have in that coach, you’ll appreciate the chance to move.”

  She regarded the other passengers, then Miles, as if weighing the relative digestibility of two equally rotten piles of food. “Very well. But put that beastly thing away.”

  As Miles coiled the offending whip, she claimed the opportunity to precede him. She turned away from the corrugated iron way station and strolled into the sun. A matched trio of peacock feathers waved like a colorful flag atop her hat. Miles shook his head and followed.

  They climbed a small bluff. Bent and warped acacias littered the plain, so infrequent and so isolated—an afterthought from God. Bushweed and devil’s grass pocked the dirt with splotches of dusty brown and gray-green. The afternoon sun stripped them of detail. Lizards darted across the scorched ground and warblers sang from hidden places. Miles squinted but found no animals, other than a few high-soaring birds of prey. Likely at that hour, beasts such as steenbok and topi—both antelopes of some kind—were sensible and sought shade.

  Far, far to the north, a string of clouds the color of fading bruises stretched over a decadently blue sky. Another thunderstorm, it seemed. The unbearably hot months of summer also made up the rainy season, with afternoon cloudbursts a common occurrence. At least he’d learned that much already.

  “We are not in England,” he said.

  “Nor New York.” With a slow turn of her head, Viv traced the horizon from east to west. A sheen of sweat dampened the divot above her upper lip, while her mouth curved into a look of wonder. Sunshine turned her skin to lustrous gold. “What a startling expanse.”

  The camaraderie of that moment, sharing such an unimaginable sight with his cloistered wife, took Miles by surprise. He wanted to ask if she felt it, too—the potential—but that was far too personal. Better if he just left their stalemate as it was, at least until they found some privacy. Then her frozen demeanor would have to go.

  Catching her profile out of the corner of his eye, he banked the greedy impulse to toss the bonnet from her head and ravish her down-turned lips. To stand so near after such tedious months tempted him in ways he was unused to resisting, like licking the condensation off a glass rather than drinking the cool water it held.