Flawless (11 page)

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.”

“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.

“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.