Flawless

by Carrie Lofty

“Does that mean you want me to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  He trailed his index finger up her forearm. Goose bumps followed his progress. “That wasn’t our agreement.”

  Her eyes rolled closed. Desire slid straight to Miles’s groin. But her expression had nothing to do with succumbing to passion. Hypnosis or an out-of-body experience appeared to be her aim—anything to escape that moment, standing there, being touched by her husband.

  Miles watched, fascinated, as the side of her neck fluttered with a fervent pulse. She seemed so outwardly calm. He remembered her first introduction to his parents, the Earl and Countess of Bettenford, at their ancestral home in Hampshire. Regal had been the only word his stuttering brain had summoned. That Viv’s astonishing beauty had swayed his father was no surprise. That her tranquil grace and immaculate poise had even managed to charm his mother remained one of the seven modern wonders.

  That Miles had wanted her as much as his parents coveted her dowry . . . Trouble.

  How often did she confront the world that way, with her body and her words so perfectly composed, yet her insides churning in revolt? Perhaps he should’ve been pleased that he merited such an effort, but Miles wanted to shake her until she cracked open and spilled out all that was ugly and true.

  “What’s so amusing?” she asked.

  “I was just thinking of . . . true things.”

  “We can do this if you wish, but my enthusiasm will be sorely lacking.”

  “Not to worry. I have decided not to bed you, Viv. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. I’d like to say that I’ll wait until you want it as much as I do, but I despair for delaying that long.”

  “Ah.”

  What an odd noise. Perhaps it was a sign of relief, but Miles couldn’t be certain. He enjoyed knowing that he had her so keyed up and ready to anticipate the least little imposition.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  She met his gaze and held it. Her eyes, that startling shade of green and gold, had dulled to a mossy gray. They were bloodshot. Flecks of dust from the wickedly crude streets still clung to her hair, sullying the vibrant gold. Everything about her had dimmed. Strange, when he felt so charged and alive.

  Miles’ss certainty faltered. What if this bedeviling colony held no magic for her? How could they be so mismatched when he wanted her so badly?

  At last she complied, briskly, without another word. Miles found himself looking at the exquisite arch of her neck. Sweat had tightened the swirling curls at her nape. He needed to kiss her there. That was the compromise his mind made with his body. He would kiss her there and leave her be. After removing her gown.

  He bit back a groan.

  It didn’t take much, just the tilt of his head and the brush of his lips. She smelled as elemental as he did, all dirt and sweat—more of the ugly truth that held him so enraptured. At the first touch of skin to skin, she gasped and he hardened.

  Viv spun and backed away. “Stop.”

  “All right.”

  “Stop all of this!”

  “Well, that I cannot do.” He grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her back around, quickly unlacing her gown before she had the chance to second-guess his intentions. Metal spikes were more pliant than her spine. “Now, tomorrow morning we can visit the clearing house and I’ll acquaint you with the fundamentals of our enterprise. I expect you’ll fare much more soundly than I, what with your father’s example to draw from.”

  “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

  “Then some evening soon, I’ll visit the Kimberley Club. I fear I must, seeing as how no women are permitted. It must gall you when you realize I’m a necessary part of this venture.”

  “What is so necessary about a smoking club?”

  His fingers still shook and blood hammered in his shaft, but Miles found the presence of mind to talk about their schedules. He deserved a curtain call for putting on such a show. “It’s where the rich and powerful men of Kimberley brag about their new wealth. Mr. Nolan mentioned that Neil Elden is back in town. I’ve never met the man, but I suspect I must.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Owner of the Lion’s Head Mine and one of our board members. He splits his time between Kimberley and Cape Colony, where he sits on the provincial Parliament.” He smiled next to her ear. “Luckily I sit on Her Majesty’s genuine Parliament, so you’ll be pleased to know he doesn’t intimidate me in the least.”

  The laces gaped open. Viv shrugged and the gown slipped down her arms. His wife turned to glance over her shoulder. Since when should she be smiling? She lifted her chin, not like a minister’s bride on her wedding night, staring at the ceiling and awaiting the worst, but a warrior planning a counterattack.

  “And the corset, please.”

  Miles froze. Breathing deeply through his nose did nothing to calm his ticking pulse. It seemed she was finally raising the stakes. He made short work of the remainder of her stays and laces, hoping that haste would ease the tremors in his fingers.

  Free of her encumbering clothing, Viv stepped out of the pile of silk and satin and lace. She wore nothing but her shift, drawers, and stockings, her dust-streaked hair still bound up in a bouquet of curls and pins. Her long, graceful legs didn’t falter. Her spine didn’t lose its majestic grace.

  But something had changed. He would’ve sworn that the faintest wiggle of her hips was designed to drive him to the brink of his control. He transformed into a statue, unable to do anything but watch as she crossed the room, selected a silken wrap from among a pile of filmy female garments, and slid into it.

  The room had turned hot, exacerbating his temper. “You have one month. I’ll concede exactly thirty days so that you can settle and relax and whatever else you need to do. That gives me thirty days to prove that I’m in earnest: no cigars and all that. And don’t delude yourself that such a bargain will be simple to uphold. Habits are habits.”

  That was the closest he would come to admitting her particular stipulations might be more than he could deliver. But he would not relent. More determined than he’d ever been amid the softness of a nobleman’s life, he would not lose this test of wills.

  “Then, Vivie, you will submit to our terms.”

  With the movements of a creature hewn of iron, not flesh, she sat primly on a wingback chair. “I understand. Good evening then, Miles.”

  Before he could think, before he could feel too deeply, he crossed to where she sat. That trembling in his fingertips increased, like a thunderstorm gaining strength with every mile of drenched earth. He felt blustery and wind-tossed.

  Pressing his palms along each armrest, he leaned over. “Lift your chin,” he said hoarsely.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Like you did just a moment ago, daring me to strip off your corset. Lift your chin.”

  The apples of her cheeks turned rosy, but she obeyed. Heavy-lidded hazel eyes snapped and sparked with an energy to match his own.

  There was his Vivie.

  The unconscious hauteur. The disdain and fire. The animosity that could flip so easily into passion.

  And sweet Christ, he could see the inside swell of her breast where the silken wrap gaped in loose folds. Shadows and the color of sweat cream shifted with her every breath. Powder pink nipples, he remembered. Until they darkened beneath the attention he lavished.

  A bolt of pure lust coiled through his body, igniting his blood like a match to oil. He leaned in. That traitorous pulse pounded a tympanum’s rhythm along the side of her neck—the only tell he’d yet found. Otherwise she held still and waited, daring him as much as he challenged her.

  Miles brushed his lips against the flawless skin of her throat. She still smelled like Viv, but darker, hotter, bathed in the scent of sun and earthy perfume. He’d only stolen the briefest contact when he’d kissed her nape. Now he wanted more.

  Mouth open, he kissed her again and flicked out his tongue, indulging in her salty taste. He lingered there, nipping little bites along that ta
ut tendon, up, up, to the elegant curve of her jaw. With the tip of his nose he traced back to her earlobe, then suckled that sensitive flesh. She gasped softly—bloody hell, just enough invitation. Take more. Demand what they both craved. Blood pounded in his ears and in his cock. His lungs had stopped providing his starved body with oxygen. He squeezed the armrests until the tiny bones in his hands threatened to explode.

  “Tell me to go,” he whispered against the skin he’d wet.

  She swallowed—and hesitated. “Go.”

  With a curt nod, Miles straightened. Her pupils were wide, her plump mouth slightly open. Thank God. He’d have dropped to the floor in a melted heap had she remained unaffected.

  “Good evening, Lady Bancroft,” he said, then closed the bedroom door behind him.

  Eight

  Viv broke her fast at Chloe’s side, with the young woman propped on fluffy pillows covered in fine, pale pink cotton.

  “My lady, I’m embarrassed and—”

  “Enough,” Viv said gently. She buttered another piece of bread, topped it with strawberry preserves, and handed it to her maid. “I’ve endured the company of far less genial patients. Trust me on that score. Besides, if I stay here with you, I can delay becoming properly acquainted with the names and personalities of our household staff.”

  “Are you anxious, my lady?”

  “Not anxious so much. Overwhelmed, perhaps. The enormity of this whole venture.” Viv licked a bit of jam from her fingertip, only stopping herself when that flick of tongue reminded her of Miles’s kiss. “But, one step at a time, yes? And that goes for you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’ll have hot water brought in for your bath. The rejuvenating properties of such a luxury cannot be underestimated.”

  “Oh, my lady, I couldn’t. The basin is fine.” Her sapphire eyes were still clouded with turbulent emotions, but at least she ate and talked. The frightening catatonia of the previous days had, thankfully, ebbed.

  “Believe me, sinking into hot water this morning made every agonizing minute of travel worth abiding.”

  She’d even dozed lightly after scrubbing her skin with a bar of lemony oil-and-glycerin soap. That she’d dreamt of Miles had been no surprise—not after her fitful night reliving his open-mouthed kiss. A whispered plea for more had been right there. Sitting on her tongue. Demanding to be said. To be left wanting by her husband was generally a dread she reserved for matters of the heart, not the body.

  Suddenly parched, she finished her tea with a hasty swallow.

  “Anyway, Chloe, I insist. After you’ve cleaned and dressed, you’ll be as eager as ever. I just know it. You simply must be as revived as I am or else how will you keep up with my unfashionably boundless energy?”

  Chloe tittered softly, her smile shy. But then, with a gratifyingly familiar gleam, she asked, “And may I use your bath salts, my lady?”

  Viv spontaneously hugged her maid. “Yes, you silly dear. But only if you lie abed today. Promise me.”

  The girl crossed her heart. “Promise.”

  A lightness in Viv’s chest banished some of her dark doubts. If her maid was up to resuming her little requests—for a piece of lace, to borrow a hair comb—then she would be fine. Chloe was a good girl, a loyal companion, and a tireless worker. But she enjoyed life’s little fineries. Often she had been reprimanded by housekeepers and mistresses for such an unforgivable foible, but Viv enjoyed her boldness. Any young woman able to ask for what she wanted should be honored for having made the effort.

  Perhaps she admired the trait because Viv herself had never managed it.

  She dressed, requiring Chloe’s help only to secure her corset and the back of her hunter green waistjacket. She flounced her green and white skirts, replete with trimmings and lace that now seemed ostentatious. No matter. If she intended to succeed in Kimberley, she needed to make the role her own. Part nobility. Part entrepreneur. Her custom-fitted Parisian ensemble was necessary armor.

  “But you must let me do your hair, my lady. A simple bun will not suit. Not at all.”

  Before Viv could protest, the young woman had scampered out of bed with the vigor of a child after too much cocoa. She tugged her own waist-length brown hair into a quick plait, then joined Viv where she sat at the vanity table. Chloe worked steadily with pins, curls, and irons. An absolute magician of fashionable coiffure. Her mood seemed to improve. Every observation she had yet to speak—about the docks, the raid, the town—streamed forth in a reassuring stream of chatter.

  “All finished, my lady.”

  A blonde coronet of artful curls topped Viv’s head, woven through with shimmering ribbons that matched her ensemble and brought out the green in her eyes. Hearing her maid so improved had lightened Viv’s mood, but Chloe’s skillful concoction made her feel like a real lady again.

  “Oh, Chloe. Just . . . perfect. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “Go rest now,” Viv said once more, rising. “Enjoy your bath and take your meals in here. I’ll make sure someone sends you a bit of cake or the like. That sweet tooth must be indulged, at least for today.”

  Chloe giggled.

  “Tomorrow we can return to normal. And I’d love your company when I investigate what this town has by way of shops and culture.”

  Feeling delightfully refreshed, Viv made her way to the kitchen. The corridor was decorated with ivory flocked wallpaper, with wainscoting and crown moldings in that same distinctive pale yellow wood. A thick dark green carpet runner padded her steps. Although no pictures yet adorned the walls, vases of dried flowers decorated various points throughout the house: the landing of the front staircase, the foyer, a little writing desk in the main parlor. Airy lace curtains fluttered at each window, through which gentle gusts ushered in the dry morning air.

  Past a study, a smaller parlor, and the staff’s quarters, Viv found the kitchen simply by following her nose. The scents of some roast or maybe a salty stew mingled with fresh bread. The noise, too, gave away the room as the busiest in the manor.

  “Ah, my lady,” said a woman with a distinctly Kentish accent. “Good to see you up and looking so well. I’m Mrs. Shelby, the housekeeper. “

  “Thank you, and it’s lovely to make your acquaintance.”

  Mrs. Shelby stood no taller than Viv’s collarbone, but she flounced through her domain with a sprightliness that belied her age and weight. She wore a starched dress the color of spring grass and a faultless white apron. Her hair, like a nest of copper and silver filaments, was pinned high atop her head. Skin beset by wrinkles in the usual places—around her mouth, at the corners of her eyes—remained soft. She must have been very pretty in her youth. Now a mature woman, she exuded a confidence and spirited cheer that Viv appreciated.

  “This is Louise, the cook,” Mrs. Shelby said. “My son, Jamie, is the lad who brought in your bathwater. He keeps the stables and helps maintain the house.”

  “We have horses?” Viv asked.

  A half-eaten apple in his hands, Adam leaned against the end of the butcher-block table where Louise kneaded dough. “Lord Bancroft finally broke down and bought a pair of matched fillies and a barouche last week—in anticipation of your arrival, my lady.”

  “What had he been using?”

  Adam flashed a grin. “He prefers . . . walking.”

  The notion of Miles walking from place to place struck Viv as unbelievably comic. This from a man who’d once ordered his carriage brought around so that he needn’t walk from their town house to a solicitor’s residence some ninety yards distant.

  “Unbelievable, I know. But he’s . . . changed.” Adam shook his head and blanked his expression. “And of course, Mr. Shelby is sleeping.”

  Mrs. Shelby clucked over the cook’s shoulder, apparently unpleased by the progress of Louise’s bread-making. “My husband,” the housekeeper said. “He stands guard at night, so he won’t be up and about until after supper. He helps with the more difficult chores
that Jamie can’t perform.”

  Miles had done all of this? In just a few short months? Bad enough that he had behaved like some avenging hero. He had also found some deep reserve of perfect decorum, even hiring the right people for household tasks.

  She should thank him. And even that urge was surprising. All of this was just so . . . unexpected.

  And she hated the cowardly cringe pulling at her insides. How difficult should it be to thank one’s husband? Immeasurably so, when she’d been the one to initiate their estrangement, and when she’d been set so firmly in the habit of believing him a wastrel.

  Yet she’d managed, during those quiet moments after the way station attack. His actions had been so astonishing, so heroic, that her appreciation had been easy to express. Perhaps if she learned to praise what little good he managed, she would encourage him to take her feelings into consideration as well.

  “Where is his Lordship?” she asked Adam.

  “Gone to the Ford Inn, actually. I hadn’t realized he was up and about.”

  “What for?”

  “No notion. Probably something to do with giving testimony about the raid. As a nobleman, his word may hold more weight.”

  “So terribly honorable, what His Lordship did for those coaches,” Mrs. Shelby said. Louise grunted her agreement as she hefted four loaves of dough into the oven. “It’s been the talk of Kimberley since you arrived, my lady.”

  Viv wanted to sit down. This was too much. Miles had become a saint.

  You don’t know him.

  She felt compelled to set the record straight, with far fewer rose-colored impressions. This version of her husband was unforgivably cruel, making her feel what she hadn’t dared in years: hope.

  Although words of protest edged forward on her tongue, she could not give them voice. To be honest, Viv didn’t know who he was either—or at least who he’d become in the Cape. And she was hardly so callous as to dispel this fairy tale on the off chance it wasn’t a fiction.

  Her heart gave a little flutter. She wanted that fiction to be true.

  “Otherwise,” Adam said, “you both have an appointment at two o’clock to meet with Mr. Pieter Smets. He’ll introduce you to the workings of the clearing house and show you the books.”