by Carrie Lofty
She was almost thankful, then, for Miles. No, she was thankful. Nothing would prevent him from transforming back into an insidious fiend once they reached their accommodations. But right then, when he remained both spirited and contemplative in the face of that marvel, she was terribly glad of his presence.
“Come, before it gets too late.”
With the poise of the nobleman he was, and in contrast to his unkempt appearance, he again offered his arm. Viv walked with him back toward town, where he hailed a hackney. The driver turned north. Ambitious stars and a slice of moon shimmered overhead. Night-blooming flowers—she hadn’t realized how greatly her ignorance of the local flora would bother her—offered up the gift of their sweet perfume. Perhaps when all was settled, she could begin a garden in this unusual place.
Anything to make it her own.
On the opposite bench, Miles’s mind was elsewhere. He concentrated on the blackened eastern horizon like a weathered pirate assessing blue Caribbean waters. Where was the spoiled nobleman who’d fed caviar to his hunting dogs on a bet? Or who, at his cousin’s engagement gala, had spent the evening introducing Viv to every foul term for a woman’s intimate places? His whispers. Her answering anger and arousal. Never had an evening dragged on with such anticipation. Alone together that night, he’d repeated those words all over again, but with his mouth nestled between her legs.
And yes, she’d shattered.
Soon his focus would return to her, always for his own amusement. He had sparked her to life, every nerve ending bright and awake. Perhaps that explained his innate skill at cards: his opponents simply lost the will to compete.
That evening, they would sleep beneath the same roof for the first time in more than a year. Would he come to her? So soon?
Would she let him if he did?
The cab pulled to a stop. With her fingers in Miles’s palm, she descended and caught her breath. A white manor home gleamed beneath the scant moonlight. Dark shutters—maybe blue, maybe black—bordered a dozen windows, each with six panes of leaded glass. Candles brightened the rooms with glittering friendliness, just as torches lined the perimeter of a gated front garden. On the second story just above the entryway, two French doors opened to a balcony that stretched the entire width of the verandah. Sheer, pale curtains fluttered in the cooling breeze.
“This is home?” she asked.
They stood side by side, his hand on the latch to open the whitewashed gate. “Yes, this is home.”
She hadn’t expected this, the closeness of it all. His softly spoken words were an intimate promise. He didn’t touch her now, but the idea of him twinkled and twisted under her skin.
She swallowed. “Lead on.”
His boots crunched on the gravel walkway. Dark foliage hid in shadows along either side of the path to the front door.
Adam greeted them. He sat on the wraparound porch with a rifle across his lap. “Chloe has been installed in the quarters adjoining your room, my lady,” he said. “And the housekeeper, Mrs. Shelby, has prepared a supper for you. A bath will be ready when you require it in the morning.”
Relief made her weariness even heavier to bear. But she was never the kind to let such weakness show, not when hard-earned manners helpfully took control of her tongue. “Thank you, Adam. Your efforts are much appreciated.”
“His Lordship’s orders, my lady.”
No platitude could rescue her when Miles gazed at her with such utter absorption. She licked her bottom lip. “Then . . . I’ll bid you both good evening.”
“Your bedroom is up the stairs, first door on the left,” he said quietly as she walked away. “I’ll join you there shortly, Vivie.”
Miles had no intention of letting that be the end of their day. Despite the last time he’d overcome her defenses, behind the staircase at the Saunders’ gala, he wanted their next encounter to be entirely private. Her gasps and breathy pleas would be for him alone. And very soon.
The darkness disguised Adam’s typical blushes and smiles, rendering him the blunt, toughened bastard Miles knew him to be. Therein lay his unspoken value—that, and his gratifying loyalty. Few would ever assume a viscount’s manservant to be a soldier’s son, or that Adam had proven so adept at learning his father’s countless techniques for defense.
“Any problems?”
“None, my lord.”
“Good,” Miles said. “But you need rest. Where’s Mr. Shelby?”
“He’ll be along shortly. He’s . . .” Adam hesitated. “He’s bidding Mrs. Shelby a good night.”
“I envy the man.” Only at Adam’s raised brow did Miles realize he’d spoken that damning doubt aloud. “No matter. The night is young, Mr. Nolan.”
On a gruff farewell, he pushed through the front door and down the corridor. The air inside was slightly warmer. The scent of an extinguished stove—woodsy, tinged with stale cooking smells—invited the return of his fatigue. Up the stairs and down to his bedchamber, Miles pushed the tiredness away while he grappled with the bigger matter.
Vivie was home. His hellfire ridiculous brain couldn’t think anything else. Now . . . what to do with her?
Keep her.
He shook his head once, hard, angrily, and cursed himself a hundred-fold fool. Keeping her wasn’t his objective. If he was going to knock his darling Vivienne down a few pegs, he needed a clearer mind.
He cracked the knuckle of his right thumb, then poured water from a pitcher to quickly wash. For a man used to sleeping until noon and enjoying every sensual pleasure available in England, the demands of the previous few days—nay, months—had taken an insidious toll.
But more than he craved his vices, he wanted to conquer—an echo of the medieval warrior who’d wrested ancestral lands from dastardly cousins or half-bestial Celts in order to found his noble line.
There were diamonds to be yanked from the ground, diamonds to be assayed and graded, diamonds to be sold. A list of competitors as long as his leg awaited their subjugation. There was a future to be won. Unlike everyone else in Kimberley, he and Viv didn’t need to earn much—just a penny of profit and they’d secure that million-dollar bonus.
But Miles wanted to win big.
Why? Why this urge? It was as irrational as the urge to take off at a run. Gentlemen didn’t run. They didn’t sweat and they didn’t get dirty. They didn’t concern themselves with the workings of mines and counting houses and the trade of precious gems. But here they did. Maybe that was the appeal, as much as the freedom and the danger. Here in Cape Colony, the rules had been turned upside down. He enjoyed the vertigo.
And Viv.
Toweling off and donning a clean shirt, he promised to win big with her as well. Yes, they would prevail against her father’s posthumous scheme, but Miles wasn’t going to hand her the independence she craved, not without fair compensation. When it came to what her body desired, she was one of the most hypocritical people he’d ever met. He planned to remind her of that, repeatedly, until she ceased to be the needle gouging his chest.
Starting tonight.
Seven
Viv perched on the edge of the settee in her bedroom. She knew she should move. But she remained very still and, as if watching herself from afar, silently laughed at her absurd situation. Once she might have been considered one of the most capable children in Paris. And she had certainly been regarded as an accomplished addition to London Society, a feat quietly acknowledged as all the more impressive because of Miles’s rebellious ways. That she could host a splendid tea for the Duchess of Colemont, her smile never wavering as they discussed his latest all-night card game, had deserved all the celebrations due a conquering hero.
For fifteen years she’d labored to learn the rules of propriety, etching them onto her person—the very essence of what it was to be Vivienne Christie Durham, Viscountess Bancroft. The strictures had pinched and strangled at first, like a corset laced to the point of pain.
But what would she be without them?
The fact of
her shameful parentage would escape the vault of family secrets. Her dear siblings knew, and they’d rather die than do her harm. Otherwise, with their father’s death and with the death of his second wife, Catrin, four years earlier, the door to Viv’s true past had closed. To everyone else who breathed, the simple story was best left unquestioned. In the summer of 1863, during the tumult caused by the War Between the States, William and Catrin Christie had decided to adopt an eight-year-old girl. Perhaps Catrin could no longer bear children. Perhaps they did so out of Christian charity.
No one dared suggest that they did so out of obligation to a condemned French can-can dancer and her bastard daughter. With the largess of the dowry they’d received, even Miles’s parents had never asked. But as an adopted child, she had always been the object of speculation. What blood did she carry in her veins? As a result her efforts to blend in—no, to excel—held a sharp edge of desperation.
Don’t be found out.
She’d almost told Miles. Once. Her desire to believe in him ran that deeply. On the night of the Saunders’ gala, he had waltzed her around the ballroom until she couldn’t take a breath without pulling his dizzying scent into her body.
Whisking Viv behind the grand staircase, he had pushed her against the cool marble wall and lifted her skirts. His warm, smooth palm had muffled her sounds of pleasure. Inside her, around her, whispering harsh, blunt words, he had taken what she willingly gave.
Viv had only needed his love.
Had Miles spirited her home to continue that fiery seduction, she would have been his. Forever. No matter his failings. She would have confessed everything.
But he merely slicked errant strands of coffee-dark hair into place and returned to an all-night game of cards. Viv made her own way home, numb yet aching, only to awaken to rumors that Miles spent the night in a whorehouse.
The next time he spoke to her, he had asked for money. A remarkable gambler when sober, he was a sieve when drunk. No apologies. No penitence when he admitted the need for ready cash had prompted his seduction. Viv wrote a letter to her father, but not to request an additional allowance. She was returning to New York.
A quiet knock sounded on her door. “Viv? May I come in?”
Her heart jumped. She’d been waiting for him. This was the reckoning she’d delayed for days—the confrontation they’d avoided for over a year.
The floor felt spongy and vague, as if she floated through a hazy dream. What would he do? And on what grounds could she refuse? Her fingertips touched the doorknob but she didn’t feel it.
Miles stood at the threshold wearing a clean shirt. Open at the neck. Sleeves rolled up. Had he completely forgot how to dress? Or did he do it to tempt her wayward impulses? Water darkened his hair. One fat droplet still clung to his earlobe. The murky circles beneath his earthen brown eyes were like tribal tattoos, but he wore the expression of a man who would not be deterred by the mere need for sleep.
One bared forearm propped over his head on the doorframe. Dark hair decorated his tanned skin—a contrast of colors and textures that begged for exploration. He’d never been an unfit man. Too many dares and lost wagers, from polo matches to pugilism, required physical readiness. Now his muscles were long and toned, like taut, sturdy ropes. What else had changed? What of his body would be new territory?
Miles laughed softly. Even the slope between her breasts flared hot and prickly as she blushed.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I said, may I come in?”
Close the door. Close it smack on his face.
But he would only return again, either that night or the next. And despite how dangerous this encounter might prove, Viv wanted to have done with it. Maybe then she could remember her reasons for leaving. Yes, he would say or do something to make her stomach turn over. He always did.
Despite wielding a whip and motivating an impromptu militia, Miles, Viscount Bancroft, was no hero. But he was her partner. No denying that they needed to clear the air.
“Only because you asked.”
“I’ll remember that for the future.” He flashed a cocky, disarming smile—one that, coming from any other man, would’ve elicited a disgusted sniff. Instead her blush deepened.
He glanced around the room as he entered, then slumped into the nearest chair. The floral brocade and stuffed cushions only accentuated the long, angular lines of his negligent posture. He pulled an oblong scatter pillow from behind his back and tossed it aside.
“Like your accommodations?”
“Quite,” she said by rote.
In truth she’d hardly paid the room any mind, so occupied had been her thoughts. A pale yellow wood, polished to a high sheen, bordered the door and every window casing. Gilt trim touched the edges of the room’s two mirrors and four picture frames, all of which lent the interior a sunny disposition. The luxurious details continued: cream lace curtains, a table and chairs embellished with quatrefoils of the Gothic style, and two matched wardrobes wrought from some exotic tree, perhaps teak—a dark contrast to the brighter accents. A feather duvet covered in white brushed cotton stretched across a four-poster bed, with decadent, colorful pillows strewn along the curling brass headboard. Mosquito netting draped in neat swoops from floor to ceiling.
And her astonishing balcony! How enticing to sleep with the whispers of an exotic land lulling her to sleep. Now it was hers, the doors open wide to a night like she’d never known: calm yet exhilarating, filled with unfamiliar sounds and all-too-familiar impulses. From her balcony, on the crest of the bluff upon which the manor looked down over Kimberley, she could see the city’s more extravagant homes brightened by electrical lighting.
Was Miles due the credit for her beautiful bedchamber? So tasteful and comforting, it could’ve been pulled from the place in her mind that most desired a safe, luxurious space of her own. She hardly wanted to ask, dreading how poorly her pride would endure expressing her appreciation.
With Miles still silent, she crossed to sit on the settee, where they faced off like polite gladiators. Get on with it, she thought—screaming the words in her mind. Get this over with.
But he stretched his legs and crossed his ankles, settling in as if he had no destination, no purpose. The cocky smile turned taunting.
She pulled her arms into the shelter of her abdomen. “I cannot get used to this place.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. He seemed as taken aback by her words as she was. “The contradictions, you mean.”
Again Viv was disconcerted by how accurately he was able to judge her moods. That hadn’t happened back in England. Not ever. She could have written detailed explanations on every inch of expensive French wallpaper in their town home and he would have missed the point entirely. Perhaps even intentionally. Here, his uncanny ability was becoming habit.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “That’s it exactly. As poor as any hovel in the London stews and then . . . this.”
“I quite like it. At least here we can’t ignore those who finance our livings. We can avoid making eye contact when we pass them on the street, but they’re a constant reminder of the human toll of mining.”
“You like that reminder?”
“It keeps a man humble.”
She couldn’t help but snort. “Hardly.”
His teasing expression faded. “And any man it doesn’t humble . . . Well, then we’ll be better able to understand the high-end bastards with whom we’re competing.”
Even while sparring, he was assessing this place. Viv wanted to think of the process as an extension of his passion for gambling. Did that explain the dedication with which he approached each uncharacteristic task? Just a series of dares?
“Enough of this sad-sack talk,” he said, rising with more grace than a man should possess. “Stand up.”
Viv flinched. “Really, Miles? You’re going to play this now? I haven’t bathed, for God’s sake!”
“And you’re probably exhausted.”
“Yes, I am.”
&nb
sp; “Which is why I thought you might need help removing your dress.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as if seduction weren’t his aim. “Now, do you want out of that corset or not?”
Miles waited. He should have felt conspicuous or ashamed of his imposition. But he didn’t. At the end of a long and strenuous day, Viv was exactly what he needed.
Not that he expected to bed her that evening. She was filthy, as was he. His collarbone throbbed. And he doubted his wife’s ability to do more than lie on that deliciously white duvet and accept his body’s unwelcome invasion.
Yes, Miles wanted to win big. Their deal had been for her enthusiasm. Lovemaking on this, their first night together in the contradictory wilds of Kimberley, would result in more resignation than vigor. Her posture practically shouted, “Have done and leave me be.”
Too bad. Twenty months awaited her slow but certain capitulation.
Not that he expected to wait that long. God above, to live in close proximity to her for that many months, weeks, days—nights. He hadn’t come to Cape Colony to go mad.
“How does Chloe fare?” he asked.
A flash of surprise broke through her wariness. Then it was gone, leaving only the silvery memory of it, like the burn of a lightning strike on the back of one’s eye.
Miles took note. Flies to honey and all that. Another technique to save for the future. But merciful Christ, did she find concern from him so unlikely? Probably. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d inquired after her well-being without ulterior motives. Like now. He flicked his wedding ring with the pad of his thumb but forced himself to stop.
“She’s resting,” Viv said. “I found an empty tray of food outside her door, so she must have eaten.”
“Good, good. And you don’t want to wake her up, do you?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Up, then.”
With the hesitancy of an invalid standing for the first time in years, she arose from the settee. “You don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice catching.
