by Carrie Lofty
Watching him became her privilege as a nervous heat radiated from her belly. He made a quiet noise of disapproval and propped his chin on his fist. The pose was reminiscent of a schoolboy fitfully working over his sums. But as he pressed tense fingers against his temples, he was a man again—a man working to the limits of his endurance. Did he have a headache? So soon in the day?
Her throat tightened and her thighs felt as flimsy and weak as meringue. As far as Viv could discern, he’d stuck by his promise to forego his standard complement of vices. Upon returning from his visits to the Kimberley Club, he was always sober. Adam had let it slip to Chloe that Miles never gambled. And he slept every night in the room across from hers.
Not that she dared challenge him on the subject of vices again, not after the last time. Their kiss had ripped her apart. The idea of upholding her end of their bargain left her shaking, nervous, and tingling with an anticipation made of both dread and pleasure.
Who are you? And how long will you stay?
He was Miles, Viscount Bancroft. Whatever his current fascination with Kimberley, he wouldn’t be captivated for long. The alternative, that he’d made a serious commitment to the mine’s success, for her, was terrifying—a far greater leap than simply sharing breakfast.
“Viv?”
She blinked and his face came into focus. Sunlight from the eastern windows streamed over his shoulders, lighting him from behind and casting the details of his aristocratic features in shadow. But his chocolate-dark gaze missed nothing. A knowing smile eased across his mouth. That was Miles, all insolence and expectation.
Then it was gone. He finished with his paper, folded it into a haphazard pile of wrinkles, and set the ledger aside.
“Come sit,” he said, all business. “We have much to discuss.”
Viv took a seat and Chloe bustled in with a fresh pot of tea. She offered a reassuring smile but hastened away as quickly as possible.
“You frighten her, I think,” Viv said. She poured tea for them both, then assembled a plate for her repast.
“Do I frighten you?”
“Hardly.”
“Uh-huh.” He spiked a piece of cheese with a small fork, devilishness sparkling across his expression.
Walking everywhere—that odd, ungentlemanly habit he’d cultivated—had honed his physique. His tan had darkened. Shaving seemed to slip his mind for days at a time. Every night, he arrived home with his ascot askew. Viv had lost track of the times she wondered what it would be like to help him undress at the end of such trying hours, to remove that silk and bare his throat to the fading evening. He would taste of salt and dust. His quiet, throaty moan would be an invitation to feast.
She took a hasty sip of tea.
“Careful there, Viv.”
Rimmed with lashes far darker than his sun-touched hair, Miles’s keen brown eyes laughed in return, making her blush for such foolishness—and because her thoughts weren’t foolish at all. Far from it.
Yet he would end any given encounter with a single word from her lips. He always ensured that she was equally culpable in their trysts. That she hadn’t stopped him on so many occasions forced her breath to quicken. He thought it was liberation—unleashing a matched passion. But she couldn’t possibly match his passion if he remained unable to give her security.
“I have some interesting news,” he said.
Viv used the excuse of swallowing another sip of tea to collect her thoughts. “Oh?”
“Yesterday afternoon, I walked Mr. Kato to the Hole and presented him to the heads of our mining customers. He will provide security for couriers delivering and retrieving diamond shipments from the brokerage. But with the common harassment of Africans, no matter their employers, I needed to impress my will upon them personally.”
“Did it work?”
“We’ll see, but I have no intention of letting them determine our policies.”
“I feel better knowing that men of our own choosing are on the payroll.”
He smiled, dark eyes dazzling in the morning sun. “Precisely. Which brings me to my news. Mr. Ike Penberthy has yet to secure adequate employment. The recent slump in prices means the mines aren’t hiring as many skilled workers. Even if they could use a man who knows rocks and the like, they won’t foot the cost.”
“So it’s not just us.” She sighed and pushed her toast away. “Everyone will suffer if pricing trends continue.”
Miles nodded soberly. “I wanted to ask how the books look to you.”
He always took her estimations seriously. They were partners, fully and devotedly—at least with regard to the business. Was that so terrible? Why spoil it with dreams of more, the kind that teased her as she slept? The backs of his hands were dusted with a light spray of fine, dark hair. She wanted to fold her own hand over his and stroke that hair with her thumb, just to see if it was as soft as she imagined. Another lonely pang tightened in her chest.
“Viv?”
“Oh, the books. Yes. Anything in particular?”
“I don’t know if we have means enough to offer him employment, or even a job for him to do. And I don’t want it to seem so menial as to be insulting.”
The tightness in his voice revealed a level of sympathy Viv hadn’t thought him capable of mustering. He felt for Ike Penberthy, a clever man with pride and a family to support—a man he never would’ve noticed had they remained in London.
Impulsively Viv squeezed his hand, giving into the temptation to touch. Nothing more. But how could she not? She understood his sympathy and was moved by it. “We have enough. And with his experience, we’re likely to benefit immeasurably.”
Miles flicked his eyes—eyes that burned amber in the morning sunlight—toward their clasped hands. He frowned as if trying to recall the last time she’d touched him voluntarily. She couldn’t remember either. He disengaged and cleared his throat.
Viv looked away. She was feeling too addled and off- center to make sense of her disappointment.
“I’d like to pay his wife a visit to make sure they’re coping,” she said. “Perhaps their baby even arrived by now.”
“Not alone, please. Take Adam or Mr. Kato.”
The grave timbre of his voice made her uncomfortable. Any reminder as to the dangers of their new home had that effect, stealing the security wrapped around her in their sunlit nook. It was all outside, those hazards and filth. But if Alice Penberthy could stand it, fighting for the sake of her boys and her new babe, the least Viv could do was visit.
“I promise,” she said.
“Good. Then tell me. Where do we stand? Exactly?”
She couldn’t help but sit a little straighter, as she always had when her father valued her abilities and judgment. But with Miles, she could not deny an undercurrent of deeper need. His obvious respect for her mind gave her the smallest hope that one day he would respect all of her wishes.
Unfortunately, she could not give him news to complement the warmth in her chest.
“We are utterly at the whim of the market. Even our best plans could be felled by one good strike outside of the normal rate of excavation. The market would be saturated with new stones and prices would crash. Last year, floods took out two mines and production halted for months. What if they had been our clients? Such extremes would send us beyond the reach of even the most generous creditor.” She sighed heavily. “We lack stability. The whole business is built on speculation.”
“Sounds more like poker every day. It’s a matter of who flinches—and who lets that fear be seen. What of the carbons Smets mentioned?”
“From all I’ve read, they’re nothing more than slag.” After finishing her toast with raspberry jam, she tapped his ledger. “And this?”
“These are the going prices for all of our supplies. Everything is extortionary. The shareholders have set out our operating budget, and I’m not sure it will be enough to see us through the year.” He shoved the papers aside as if the very sight turned his stomach. “Your father should’
ve acquired a dry goods company. The best money will be found in the ability to supply those hopeful souls who keep digging.”
He sank back into his seat and closed his eyes, hands laced at the top of his head. He looked weary. And he’s a viscount, Viv reminded herself—a man whose sole pursuits had been, until recently, those of a hedonistic variety.
“What is it?”
The grin he wore made fun of his own failings. “My brain is not built for all of these numbers.”
“But you’re doing wonderfully.” To her surprise, the words came without hesitation or flattery.
He had lovely eyebrows, dark and thick yet perfectly shaped. They dipped in a curious frown. “You’re in earnest.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice tight. “I am.”
“Good. Then I know you aren’t humoring me when I ask about the books.”
Now it was Viv’s turn to frown. She always assumed him simply too . . . fickle. What interest would the Viscount Bancroft truly have in figures and accounts payable? But never once had she doubted his capacity. Even during the worst discord of their marriage, he had always been an avid reader and a quick wit.
“Not humoring, my lord,” she whispered. “Admiring.”
Miles moved slowly—slowly enough to let her back away—but Viv welcomed his palm at her nape and the inexorable way he brought their mouths together. Feeling amicable and open, she accepted his kiss. Not a punishment or a dare. Just satisfaction that they were in this venture together. All of it.
His lips moved with purpose. He countered her moves to fit his hot mouth more securely over hers. Large, graceful hands at the back of her neck stalled any avenue for retreat, but she had no intention of backing away. Not before she had sipped her fill of this marvelous closeness. The public room they occupied, the servants who might walk in . . . she couldn’t bring herself to mind. Miles was kissing her. And she only wanted more.
Almost without sound, he pushed back from the breakfast table and sank to his knees, their mouths never parting. In fact, he took the kiss deeper—all tongues and aggressive breaths—as he settled between her legs. Arms made powerful by certainty wrapped around her upper back and bowed her down, down to his level, until the starched lace of her bodice crushed against his shirtfront. Her softness. His hard strength. Viv shivered. Her breasts ached. Her whole body—craved more.
She brought her tongue into the fray, stroking his lower lip. Miles moaned at her acquiescence and pulled her flush. Tension that had been gathering between them snapped her skin and tingled in her blood. This was Miles. Every dirty thought, every wicked impulse, every denied need—he was their personification. That she’d staved him off this long seemed impossible to believe.
Her traitorous heart had settled upon imagining him much more heroic, which was absurd, even dangerous. But perhaps she could be safe if she just let their bodies come together. If this is what they needed to endure one another’s company, they would have it. Hope and trust and emotion could be locked away, leaving only the elemental fact that she desired her husband.
The slide of her palms along his jaw was no longer enough. She wanted a glimpse of the body he had forged beneath the African sun. Shoving her hands inside his suit coat, she found a soft cotton shirt warmed by his body. His second moan urged her on. Viv became a twister over an open field, laying waste to the woman she’d worked tirelessly to become. A quick tug on his ascot, his collar, his buttons, and she pushed the fine white shirt over his shoulders.
Miles looked toward the ceiling and swallowed. Such an incredible view—from his taut throat to his flat, ridged stomach. She eased off her chair and knelt with him, belly to belly, and stripped him from the waist up. With her fingertips, she traced the pattern of dark hair around his flat nipples, along his defined pectorals, and down to where it arrowed out of sight. Never had she seen him so bronzed, so robust. Even the pink scar along his collarbone reminded her of the startling violence he’d brought to bear for her protection.
She dug deeper. Nails scored his skin.
Dear God, what am I doing?
Touching. Needing. Scraping every inch of flesh she wanted to lick, then tracing those marks with her tongue. No longer so uncertain, she ran the outside of her hand along the front placket of his trousers. He hissed softly as she traced the hard line of his erection. Bolder, she took gentle hold and squeezed.
He yanked her hand away and pushed her back. His nostrils flared wide. His lips were slightly swollen. Wet streaks over pale red scratches crisscrossed from his collarbones to his lowest ribs.
I did that.
Miles blanked his expression. He stood without preamble, helped her to her feet, and gathered the pencil, ledger, and newspaper. His clothing came next, as if gathering those personal items was just as casual. “Will you dine with me this evening? We can discuss what comes of our meetings with the Penberthy family. And I have an idea for the business. I’d like to share it with you.”
How was his voice so remarkably calm? Viv felt ripped open. Her knees barely held her weight. The beat of her heart echoed in her ears and at the apex of her thighs.
“Yes,” she managed to say, still dazed. “That would be . . .” She swallowed. “That would be nice.”
“Good. Say, the Ford Inn? I’ll meet you there at eight.”
“All right.”
“Well, then.” He exhaled tightly. Tension warped his wide bare shoulders. The strong line of his jaw was shot through with stiffness. At least he offered those clues, even if his demeanor was as polite as . . . well, as polite as she’d always desired of her husband.
“I’m off to the Hole to meet with Barnaby’s overseer,” he said. “We get more slag from them than anyone else. I’m tempted to raise their fees. And then, of course, I must con the Board out of a few more pounds to meet our day-to-day needs.” He shook his head. “Uncomfortable business, all of it.”
And with that, he departed. Viv sank onto her chair. One silver cufflink caught the sunlight moving across the carpet. She picked it up, although sensation in her fingertips was blunted. Someday soon it would happen. There would be no stopping. She only hoped to protect her heart from what her body so recklessly demanded.
Parched and dizzy with desire, she picked up her cup of cold tea and drank it down to the dregs. Unlike when taking tea with Lady Galeworth, her hands would not stop shaking.
Fourteen
Convincing Ike Penberthy to accept employment at the brokerage hadn’t been as difficult as Miles imagined. Two weeks without steady work would do that to a man . . . and his pride.
Make him desperate.
Make him shake and shiver at having a taste of what he desired.
Miles escaped the memory of that morning’s heated encounter, just as he had when speaking before the brokerage’s Board of Directors. After sweet-talking them with his most effective snake charmer’s smile—the one that Viv alone seemed able to resist—he’d gone straight to find Penberthy. As a general rule, Miles put little stock in formal education when push shoved against experience. After all he’d gone to Eton and didn’t trust himself to properly tie an ascot. But Ike Penberthy had both. Ignoring such a valuable asset was as wasteful as leaving that pile of carbons to languish in the brokerage’s basement.
The niggling idea in Miles’s mind would not be quiet.
He walked the silent Cornish miner to the office, intent on making introductions and showing him the ropes. The day was downright chilly—the first cold snap Miles had experienced in the colony. But rather than turning thoughts toward his own slight discomfort, he supposed that the miners in the Hole would eagerly welcome the relief.
As he unlocked the vestibule door and ushered Penberthy inside, he wondered when he had become such a dogooder.
“Good morning, my lord,” Mr. Smets said, rising from his desk. “I didn’t expect you to visit today. Your charming wife is more often our company.”
“My charming wife is paying social calls this morning.”
&nb
sp; “Ah, probably for the best.”
Miles made sure to take offense on Viv’s behalf. She’d been pulling her hair out over the bookkeeping. Money came and went with the irregularity of a bat’s flight path. He had ideas and charm and influence, but she had the brain for minutiae he sorely lacked.
He greeted James and Franc where they sat dealing out yet another hand of poker. Did they ever actually work? No, their work was simply maintaining a dependable presence. Few would harass the Christie office as long as their rumps were settled and their eyes intent on a string of five new cards—although the old urge to sit for a hand made him edgy.
No. Focus.
“Mr. Smets, this is Ike Penberthy of Cornwall. I have a special task for him.”
“Of course,” Smets said, shaking Penberthy’s hand. “Your wish is our command.”
Now it was Miles’ss turn to find offense. To say he was unused to subtle barbs would be a lie; the nobility made an art form of such means of communication. But he was unused to being on the receiving end of sarcasm from a commoner. Deference was generally the order of the day. Although the Cape was Her Majesty’s colony, it most certainly was not Britain.
“This is not a whim or a charitable endeavor, Mr. Smets, no more than your position within this firm. I will remind you to watch your manners, sir.”
“My apologies, my lord,” he said with a quaver to his voice. “Anything I can do to make Mr. Penberthy welcome, please let me know.”
“I require only two things from you this morning: a pen and paper, and an escort to wherever you store the carbons.”
Smets’s eyes bulged slightly. “The carbons? Whatever for?”
“Questions, sir, were not on my list of requirements. Now, if you please?”