by Carrie Lofty
She lay on sweat-damp sheets and shivered. Collecting her thoughts was like chasing dandelion fluff. She’d never catch them all. She only knew that her nightmare was back, a memory from her childhood made slow and viscous.
Miles had pulled her from it. Three days on from their fight, having barely spoken—that mattered not at all. He’d heard her cries and he’d come to her.
“Wait here.”
He lit a single oil lamp on her bedside table. Wearing only a white nightshirt, he crossed the bedroom on bare feet. Viv soaked up the unexpected intimacy of his appearance. When was the last time she’d seen his heels? Or the dark hair dusting the backs of his calves? The curve of his taut backside seemed almost entirely new, as were the rounded caps of his shoulders. Miles poured water from the pitcher on her washstand, first fortifying himself with a drink before returning to her bed.
Chloe opened the door connecting their rooms. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“Fine, Chloe. Just a bad dream.”
“Oh! My lord!” She tightened her shawl around her body and dropped her gaze. “I didn’t—That is . . .”
“Back to bed with you, now,” he said softly. “I have this.”
She bobbed a quick curtsy and fled.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat. Again, that intimacy. Her husband was coming to bed. In a deep, desperate part of Viv’s heart, no other dream existed.
Her terror transformed yet again. Whatever he had overheard would be incoherent nonsense. She could still keep her secret. But what about the sweet, warm reassurance that he had rescued her from the terrible black? Miles as . . . her champion?
No. That was impossible.
Yet her feeling of security didn’t dissipate. In fact, he intensified it by cradling the back of her head and pressing the glass to her lips. She drank greedily, heedless of the water spilling down her throat. Only once she’d finished, her thirst sated, did Miles use the bed sheet to dry her chin and neck.
How was she supposed to resist tenderness? Any number of coy innuendos and sidelong leers—easy to deflect. Years of practice had fortified her against his usual methods of seduction. This was entirely new. A tiny flicker of hope flared to life.
The mattress shifted.
“Good night,” he said, voice low and gruff.
Before she could doubt, Viv found his hand in the pallid lamplight. “Stay. Please.”
His hesitation became a rushing sound in her ears. The thump of eager blood. The morbid fear of rejection. Not now, Miles. Not like this.
How could she bear the next few weeks, few months, if he disappointed her again?
A soft half smile shaped his mouth—lips so finely carved yet so perfectly masculine. “Shove up, then.”
Viv nearly gasped her relief. She shimmied a few inches from the edge of the bed to make room. Miles eased back the covers and slid inside. His bare feet brushed hers. She flinched.
“Easy,” he said. “Your invitation. Your rules.”
He wore his nightshirt and she her fine linen nightgown. The intimacy of lying torso-to-torso, leg-to-leg, however, was as shocking as any sexual act they’d ever shared. More shocking was her body’s reaction. She simply became a part of him, softening like butter on hot toast.
Strong arms circled her with assured power, yes, but without the intimidating sexuality she’d come to expect from his embrace. Long-boned fingers remained in neutral places—flat, still, comforting. Warm lips rested gently at her temple. His pelvis made no untoward advances. The thrill of safety was as profound and unexpected as watching Miles use a bullwhip. This was a man who could take care of her.
Would it be so wrong to forget the past and start from that moment?
“Are you going to tell me about it?” he asked.
“No.”
Being so near to him, wearing his body like an extra skin, she could feel the way his breathing changed. She had expected fervent excitement. Instead, he simply exhaled. He sounded . . . tired. Maybe even frustrated.
“I would’ve surprised you had I chosen to confide,” she said. “Isn’t that true?”
“Absolutely.” He petted the damp hair back from her forehead. “And in a moment or two, you’ll remember some reason for why I shouldn’t be here. Then I’ll go.”
A sob bubbled out of Viv’s throat. The resilience of his vital arms and the breadth of his chest offered a place of refuge. Deep, heavy sobs kept coming, lunging out of her body. Through it all, Miles held her.
He was steadily dismantling every truth she’d come to believe about him, about their marriage, working with the confidence of a hypnotist. If she had any sense, she’d do just as he suggested: tell him to leave. Lock the door. Throw away the key.
Because none of it is real. None of it will last.
But as her sobs eased and his hands remained civil and soothing along her back, Viv lost her will. He lulled it out of her with the patience of water and earth. This was too much beautiful comfort to deny.
“Viv . . . were you raped?”
She raised her head. The lines on the inside of either brow tightened as he frowned. Those lovely, dark brows. Troubled. For her sake.
Although she wouldn’t tell him everything, she could mollify his curiosity—not entirely for his sake, but because his sympathy was threatening to break her heart.
“No, I never was.”
“And your father, he didn’t hurt you?”
“No. Not ever. Well . . .” She offered a wan smile. “Not with obvious intent. He frightened me. He was hard and exacting. But I always assumed he must care a little.”
“Why is that? Because he took you in?”
“No, because he never compromised. He wouldn’t have given me his name if he hadn’t wanted me to have it.”
For long minutes he was silent. His left hand rested on his stomach outside the covers. He twirled his wedding ring. Thinking, thinking.
“Then, this dream?”
“Miles, you know I was adopted. I was eight. That means I spent eight years in places I don’t want to discuss.” She shivered and dove back into the refuge of his arms. Weathering his scrutiny was far easier when she didn’t have to look him in the eye. “Being here,” she whispered against the smooth heat of his cotton-covered shoulder, “being here brings it all back. The conditions. The struggle to survive—it’s all right here to see. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” He was stroking her upper arm now, hypnotizing her once more. “I think it does.”
Miles left her bed before dawn, but not before staring down at the fan of golden hair that spilled across her pillow and the soft curve of her cheek. An elemental craving sped his heart. Unlike those initial weeks when he’d convinced himself that his interest in Viv was purely sexual, he was under no such delusions now. Not after holding her as the last tremors of a nightmare shook her body. Not after hearing the fear in her voice and wanting nothing more than to sweep it all away.
As a gambler, he understood his weaknesses as well as he knew that twirling his ring was his tell. When there wasn’t an ante to be won, he hardly enjoyed looking such weakness in the face—hence the convenient oblivion of his vices. But he was no longer that man, and the stakes of this game were the highest he’d ever wagered. The time had come to be honest.
He was in love with his wife.
As if that news did not shake the very foundations of his life, he returned to his own room, finished his morning toilette, and broke his fast. Something precious would have been ruined had Viv awoken in his arms. Instinctually, he knew it just as birds knew to migrate. She had not been herself last night, but likely as close to her true self as he had ever witnessed.
Although their conjugal relationship had yet to resume—and it would resume, one day, if Miles planned to remain sane—he wouldn’t have traded these last few weeks for a pound of brilliants. Forget Neil Elden and forget their fight. Kneeling with her beside the breakfast table had been one of the most singularly erotic moments of his life. So near
to his temptation.
And last night, screams fueled by unknowable nightmares had yanked him out of his sleep. She hadn’t fought when he closed his arms around her. Just the opposite. Sweet Christ, she had asked him to stay. The wonder of their closeness was as marvelous as a ball of blown glass, and just as delicate.
That she wouldn’t confide in him should have been a minor concern. But the need to know prodded in his brain and somewhere near his heart. What was she so afraid of?
Funny. Sipping the liquid off the last dregs of his tea, he’d never considered that the dream might be pure fantasy. He knew—his gut knew—that her nightmares had been conceived in life.
Maybe he would talk to her about it. They had become so much closer, but he hesitated. Again, that idea of blown glass. They would shatter with the least little jostle. In previous years, he would have avoided such concerns by topping up his tumbler of Hennessey and seeking out a game of chance. That morning, however, he had more reading to do. Not the Romantic poets his father so detested, but a mining and drilling pamphlet Ike Penberthy had lent him.
Miles needed to understand it, because his idea would not be quelled. Daring and untested, it would be the key to proving himself to Viv.
Two short weeks after her nightmare, Viv accomplished what she could to combat it by founding the Auxiliary.
Or, the beginnings of it. Right now it was little more than a plain, bare warehouse made of corrugated tin. She had Neil Elden to thank for that. His enthusiasm about the project reminded her of Sir William’s decision to found a home for orphan children. It heartened Viv to think that such men existed in the world. They built themselves from nothing and gave back in return. Her father would have been satisfied with the results.
But so much work remained.
“This is marvelous,” Alice said, her voice soft as a churchgoer.
Together they stepped through the threshold. Alice carried her newborn daughter in one arm while David and John ran through the warehouse’s cobweb-draped shadows. Two windows at the front and back of the building provided its only light, but it would serve their purposes well.
“I’m envisioning rows of cots on one side.” Viv swept her arm to the left. “We could designate an area to care for young children, with rotating volunteers to assist in their care.”
“And for the remainder of the space?”
“What we discussed before: a laundry, a quilting circle and seamstresses, a food kitchen. So many men are here without families. Tasks such as cleaning and mending their own clothes can become a forgotten chore. We can provide those services.”
Alice nodded. “That will help attract some of the widows from the slums.”
Knowing all too well the boundaries of a desperate woman’s pride, Viv added her affirmation. “I promised you that from the first. It’s a business, not a charity. Women in need will register their names, children, and skills. Whether they wish to volunteer details of their circumstances should be left to their discretion. My hope is that none should need to stay for more than a few weeks. Just long enough to find suitable employment, or to return to their families elsewhere. But some of the best may sign on permanently, as you see fit.”
“Me, my lady?”
“Absolutely. I cannot accomplish all of this and manage my business, too.”
A smile quirked across Alice’s lips. She still wore the haggard fatigue of a new mother, but her skin had taken on more color. Dark hair was neatly combed and bound in a bun. The brightness of her wide green eyes made for a lovely contrast. Even the strains of her family’s circumstance no longer dimmed her quiet, earthy beauty.
“From what I hear,” she said, her tone teasing, “your husband controls the brokerage. No lady of quality would attempt such a feat.”
“You’re quite right. The word I intended was ‘household,’ of course. Manage my household.”
Mirth danced in Alice’s eyes. “Then I hope your household is a raging success, my lady.”
As did Viv.
Once, bolstered in large part by her new title, she had thrived on the glittering spectacle of high society in London. The challenge, as always, was to become one of them, with rewards beyond compare. Delicate stemware, mannered conversation, beautiful gowns, and glittering jewelry were the creature comforts she desired, symbols of the security she so desperately needed.
And yet a new restlessness covered her like a contagion. Few at Sileby’s or Child’s wanted to address the issues that had come to dominate her waking energies. She could not discuss her involvement in the brokerage’s management, and no one wanted to examine Kimberley’s obvious disparities.
The only impressive quality about diamonds was the effort applied toward their excavation.
From across the warehouse, one of the boys shouted as loud as he could. Both laughed at the echo and continued the game. Baby Samantha fussed, obviously displeased by the interruption to her nap. Alice only smiled indulgently. “Nothing to be done about boys and that energy.”
Balancing the books was not the same as caring for flesh and blood. That responsibility made Viv’s heart clench. She’d given up on the idea of children of her own. At that moment, however, the full force of an unexpected longing washed over her. The problem had always been Miles. The would-be father to any of her children was himself no more reliable than a toddler, and with far greater capacity for betrayal.
The previous two weeks had left her depleted, she realized, as tears pricked behind her eyelids. Sparring with Miles, securing funds for the Auxiliary, and maintaining a nearly obsessive hand in overseeing the brokerage—she wondered how long she could keep up that pace.
As long as it takes. All three endeavors were too important to forsake.
And the most daunting challenge remained. Two days left before her reprieve came to an end. Miles would make love to her. She craved it as much as she dreaded the repercussions. The one night spent wrapped in his arms had yet to let her go. Every evening she wondered if her nightmare would return. And she wondered if he would come to her again if it did.
“My lady, are you well?”
With a blink, Viv donned a placid smile. “Of course. But I have much still to attend today.”
Alice chuckled. “With your household, yes. All the more reason to turn this over to me.” She bounced her baby girl but managed to stand straighter, pride showing in every petite inch. “You’ve done more than enough. I have plans to make and women to speak with. I can do this.”
“Yes,” Viv said with a smile. “Yes, you can. Gather the women you need.”
“Africans, too?”
“I hadn’t even considered the idea. Will white women take shelter with African women?”
Alice shrugged. “It would be a test of their pride, I suppose. I hope most will. There are just as many tribal women who have lost their men. It doesn’t seem Christian to leave them to the worst fate.”
Viv thought of Mr. Kato and his surprising depth. With only a few conversations, he had convinced her that the commonly held beliefs about African intellect and humanity were grossly misinformed. “I agree with you wholeheartedly. Any woman, Alice.”
“Good, my lady. I’m very glad you share that opinion. Living here . . . It has been an eye-opening experience.”
“That it has. In the meantime, report to me with lists of supplies, and I’ll keep pressing the right individuals for their investment and support. Otherwise, this ship is yours to captain.”
“That’s quite a thrill. I’ll be honest.” Alice appeared more hopeful now, more like the stalwart pioneer wife she’d been on that first fateful coach journey.
Despite knowledge that decorum would forbid such a gesture, Viv hugged Alice as she would have her only sister. Missing Gwen pressed against her fatigued eyelids, so she took brief comfort in this other woman’s embrace.
“You know where to find me. Anytime at all.”
“Hopefully not any time at all. Even with the children, Ike and I still make time to remember
why we married.”
Except you likely married for love. I married for status and the exchange of assets.
Despite her customary defense, Viv could not ignore the redoubled flutter in her stomach. Two days. She hoped he would be fast, cruel, thoughtless. But such crass behavior no longer suited Miles. She much more feared that he would be considerate. He had always been a seductive man, able to find the fiery, wild side she did not like to admit. Passion would be just another reason to find him irresistible.
And she was already on the verge of loving him again. The man she swore to leave for good had taken up permanent residence. Where could she go so that his memory—the need for him—would not follow?
With one last goodbye, she left the Auxiliary and walked home. Despite her fatigue, she needed those few minutes to collect her thoughts and force them to make sense. But walking to Egypt wouldn’t have provided time enough. She arrived home far too quickly, the tip of her nose bit by the autumn cold. Perhaps later she would take out her frustrations on a few weedy yards of her garden, preparing for spring.
She wished in vain that she could discuss her confusion. Maybe the demons would not seem so daunting once dragged into the open. But she could not talk about this with Alice or anyone else. It was a private war, no longer against Miles but within her own heart.
Seventeen
They rode in the coach, which made the evening unusual to begin with. Viv petted the back of one hand with her thumb. Her neck was sore, a continual point of tension, and her throat ached, always swallowing back emotions she could barely restrain. Miles, as had become habit, stared idly across the space between the opposing velvet-covered benches of their barouche.
The thirty days was up.
They’d put one foot in front of the other for one month. Her standing in local society was secure, hailed as a benevolent angel who fought to keep the cutthroat diamond industry civil. The Auxiliary would not only help desperate women, but it aptly disguised her active management of the brokerage. Every connection she made on behalf of charity was one she tucked away for Miles to strengthen at the Kimberley Club. Divide and conquer.