Flawless
Authors: Carrie Lofty
Tags: #Historical, #South Africa, #General, #Romance, #Inheritance and succession, #Fiction
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Viv pinched her lips together. “I have
never
strayed.”
“Neither have I.”
She laughed in his face. “No matter what means you have in mind for proving your abstinence this evening, you could never prove that.”
Miles leaned closer until she could feel his warm breath. “You’re going to kiss me,” he said, his words a delicious, rumbling promise.
“Hardly.”
“You are. And you’re going to use that delectable pink tongue of yours and taste me.”
Viv shivered. She looked for any means of escaping his seductive ease, but her feet wouldn’t move. Her knees had turned to porridge.
“And when you taste nary a drop of whiskey nor a hint of cigar smoke, you’ll have to believe that I’ve kept my word.”
“Tonight, perhaps.”
“Is that an invitation, my dear? Because I could come back again and again.” He placed the gentlest kiss on the apple of her left cheek. “And again.” Then the other. “Until you believe me.”
Viv closed her eyes. His voice, the rich scent of him, conspired like an opiate to muddy her thinking. She breathed past a hot ache that radiated out from her belly. Only the wall held her upright.
“Vivie,” he whispered against her mouth. “Kiss me.”
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Carrie Lofty
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Pocket Books paperback edition October 2011
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Designed by Jacquelynne Hudson
Cover illustration by Jon Paul Ferrara
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4516-1638-5
ISBN 978-1-4516-1640-8 (ebook)
To Keven
For all the reasons I can’t mention.
Thank you to Patti Ann Colt and Kelly Schaub for early reads, and to the members of Chicago North who critiqued a very rough draft. In particular, the comments provided by Blythe Gifford, Courtney Milan, and Nancy J. Parra set me on the right course.
I am deeply beholden to Cathleen DeLong, who offered continual support, incredible friendship, and keen insights on various incarnations. I’d quote a bunch of lyrics to show my appreciation, but you already know them by heart. #truths
As always, I am grateful for the encouragement of good friends who keep me relatively sound of mind. Many, many thanks to Ann Aguirre, Zoë Archer, the Broken Writers, Jenn Ritzema, and my family: Keven, Juliette, Ilsa, and Dennis and Kathy Stone.
Two additional individuals, Kevan Lyon and Lauren McKenna, have earned my undying gratitude for taking such a tremendous chance on this story. The support I received from both of you, as well as from the incredible team at Pocket, has resulted in the most creatively satisfying experience of my life. With utmost respect, I thank you.
New York City
November, 1880
V
ivienne stared at the portrait
of her loud, arrogant, bombastic father and stifled the grief that had yet to ease. Captured by deft strokes of color, Sir William Christie’s patented scowl glared down from above the library’s austere marble fireplace. Even three weeks on from his rain-drenched funeral, the truth of his passing had yet to sink in. But there she waited in his brownstone mansion for the reading of the will.
She waited to breathe again.
Her gloved hands wouldn’t stop their restless dance across a pleated ruffle at her waist. Had she repaid her debts to him when she’d been nothing but a dead Frenchwoman’s brat? Had she masked her resentment when he’d held back his approval, expecting her to rise above the circumstances of her birth?
Harsh, her father. Always harsh. But never had there
been a man more true to his word. He had claimed her as his daughter. The details of the bequest, however, had been kept in the strictest secrecy. Anything less than a substantial share of the estate would mean a return to England—to her husband. The rabble and grime of her childhood in the Paris slums held more appeal.
At least then she’d been cherished.
Viv pressed unsteady palms between her breasts and breathed once, and again, until her fears quieted. She needed to keep her best face in place. Instead of more fretting, she reinforced her courage with memories of those first few monstrous months after her betrothal. Wealthy Sir William’s knighthood, bestowed by Her Majesty for his contributions to British rail facilities, had only permitted Viv entrée. The remainder of the steep social climb had been hers to undertake. On the cusp of marrying into the aristocracy, she had succeeded in becoming a vital, respected member of London society.
The greatest challenge of her life—a challenge met and conquered.
Whatever the will held in store for her, Viv would persevere. She believed that of herself, as had her demanding father.
The door behind her opened. She turned to find the butler ushering a tall, stoic man into the library.
“Alex,” she breathed.
Only upon seeing her older half brother did Viv realize she’d been counting the minutes until her siblings’ arrivals. Their laughter and unflinching devotion had laid a bedrock
of strength atop memories of her mother’s love. Alex’s embrace was strong and sure. When sleep had eluded Viv as a child, he had been the one to read aloud the mythological stories she loved—no matter that he examined life with the analytical detachment of a gifted scientist.
He drew back and gave her shoulders a squeeze, as if making certain she would remain standing when he let go. The library hardly seemed so gloomy with his steady support. “How are you holding up, Viv?”
“Well enough.” She shrugged slightly, studying him. Five months had only just started to ease the grief of his wife Mamie’s death. Weariness still tugged his lips downward and deepened the creases fanning toward his temples. “And you?”
“I’ve been better.” He offered a tremulous smile. “But I’ve been worse, too.”
Like a verdant breeze in spring, Gareth and Gwyneth arrived next—together, of course, and as stylish and noisy as always. Chatter from Gwen. Snickered replies from Gareth. And laughter enough from both to prompt a full grin from even Alex.
Aside from those final days of their father’s demise and burial, Viv hadn’t seen the twins since August, when Gwen had debuted as Gilda in
Rigoletto
. Her younger half-sister’s star was on the rise in the world of opera, with Gareth there to manage her career.
Holding themselves with the matched confidence of youth, wealth, and expectation, they harbored no outward doubts as to their share of the Christie estate. Neither did
Alex. After all, her siblings were not bastards. Viv was, with her misbegotten origins hidden by an adoption’s paper-thin veneer of respectability.
If their father had needed to disclose her true origins to his attorneys . . .
Gwen and the boys knew. But Viv’s place in Society would be lost forever if anyone else learned the truth.
“It had to be the library,” Gareth said, shaking Alex’s hand before the men pulled one another into a quick embrace. “I always hated this polite dungeon.”
After receiving Gareth’s affectionate kiss on the cheek, Viv embraced her sister. Gwen, all sunshine and champagne bubbles, always held on a little longer and a little tighter than anyone else, so Viv closed her eyes. Comfort eased deep into her bones. “Good to see you, my dear,” she whispered.
“And you, Viv. I don’t know how I’d manage all of this bother without you and Jonesy to see me through,” she said, using her twin’s childhood nickname.