by Carrie Lofty
It wouldn’t happen.
Adjusting her wrap, waiting for Adam to bring around the coach, she gloried in the steel reinforcing her spine. Whatever petty games Miles wanted to play, she would rise above them—perhaps with enough resolve to overcome her renewed fascination. How could she possibly love a man who thrived on such whims? Her heart was too precious to leave in such careless hands.
The coach eased around the corner and came to a stop before Montgomery’s palatial residence. Adam stepped out and made a face. “Where is he?”
Viv matched his confusion. “I thought you took him home already.”
A flicker of something—guilt? sheepishness?—briefly eclipsed his concern. “I spent the last few hours in Chloe’s company. I haven’t seen him since I dropped you both here.”
“He probably went for a walk,” she said. “You know how he can be at functions such as these.”
Adam didn’t appear convinced and neither did Viv’s words convince herself. Short of grabbing a lantern and searching the streets, she had little recourse but to climb inside the coach and return home. Old humiliations haunted that solitary carriage.
She recalled his quiet words, spoken just before their arrival. Perhaps this has all been a mistake. Say the word and we’ll leave it.
A halfhearted rain to match her mood spat down from the sky by the time Adam returned her safely home. She dashed indoors, hoping Miles was there. She stood before the door to his room. Never had she ventured inside. The first knock was tentative, but she tried again with more resolve.
He did not answer.
Hands unsteady, she opened the door and crossed the threshold, feeling like an intruder in her own home. The scent of him—bergamot and plain glycerin soap—breezed over her, sparking impulses through her senses. She tasted his insistent lips, felt his hand caressing her inner thigh, and recalled the relaxed sprawl of his big, beautiful body after they’d made love.
His bed was draped with a dark blue duvet. Matching curtains lined the windows, creating the impressions of a sensual cave, a place of refuge and intimacy. Part of her was intimidated and more than a little furious, but she still wanted to explore it, be part of it.
Be with him.
Rather than torture herself with what they did not share, she returned to her room and closed the door. She tossed her evening gloves on the foot of the bed. Her hair came next, as pin after freed pin released pent-up tension. The mental image of Miles doing that for her, sinking his fingertips down to the scalp and massaging away the subtle ache, was almost clear enough to believe. But the truth was more lonely. Just her own hands. Just the wish he would, for once, honor his promises.
She nearly laughed at herself. That evening’s seduction had not started as a promise but as a threat. Something akin to disappointment had settled around her heart. Although she feared Miles would prove as fickle and insensitive as always, she had also hoped . . .
No. Even in this seduction, he was determined to play games. She wanted stability, not the caprice of a man used to indulging every stray impulse.
With a huff, she turned toward Chloe’s room. The sooner she was out of her evening gown and asleep, the sooner Viv could put this monstrous night behind her.
A shadow on the balcony moved, stopping her heart. But then Miles stepped into view. She muffled her shock with both hands over her mouth.
“No need for that, Vivie.” He lounged shirtless against the frame of one open French door. “After thirty days of waiting, I want to hear you scream.”
All of her frustration and confusion became a physical force. She launched herself at her husband. Miles caught her wrists as she flailed against his chest. The strength of her anger was no match for the casual potency of his body. He restrained her with an ease that should have been frightening. Instead, as he brought her hands behind her back and held her still, she felt only a rush of desire.
He finally kissed her, and she was more than ready. Miles reversed their positions and pressed her back against the doorframe. Hard wood behind her. A harder body pinning her there. Too far gone for shame, her only thought was for more. She wanted him bruised and bloody after all he’d done, warping her life. She could kiss him that hard. The urge made her strong and reckless.
“We have all night,” he said against her throat. “I even sent Chloe downstairs to sleep. No need to rush. No need to be silent. Give me what I’ve earned, Vivie.”
“If you talk to me I’ll toss you out right now, our deal null and void.”
He pulled back. His mouth tightened and his brows dipped into a fierce frown. He seemed angry, yes, but also . . . dashed?
Never. The man wanted sex and he’d get it. She hadn’t promised a meeting of the heart—just her enthusiasm. He’d long ago closed off the opportunity for anything more than the physical and had no cause to appear so disillusioned now. She had said her vows with every intention of being a good wife. That he’d missed his chance was not her burden.
“Damn you,” he rasped. “Damn us both.”
He hooked her under the legs and hauled her into his arms. Viv was tossed off balance, finding purchase with her hand on the hard, smooth curve of his shoulder. She clenched her fingers, then found his throat. Imitating the kiss he’d placed along her neck—oh, so many weeks ago—she opened her mouth and tasted him. His skin was peppery, hot, and smooth. He tipped his face to the ceiling. Tension made ropes of the defined tendons along his throat.
His arms didn’t tremble as he walked her to bed, even though his whole body shimmered with energy. So strong now. She remembered seeing him on the Cape Town docks, wondering about his new physique. Then, kneeling before the breakfast table, she’d seen the proof, how his more vigorous daily regime added lovely, lean bulk to his long aristocratic frame.
Now she could see the whole of him. She admired his chest, arms, neck, all thicker with carved muscle. The half-light of a pair of taper candles accentuated the deep shadows of his pectorals, the ridges along his abdomen, the casual bulge of his biceps.
No wonder she was shaking.
“You’re staring.” His voice was as elemental and rough as she felt.
“And you’re talking again.”
“Undress and that will no longer be a problem.”
Viv swished her hair over one shoulder and turned away, presenting him with a maid’s task. He stepped close, warming the length of her back, and took the hair from her hands. He twisted it into a single rope, then placed delicate, feathering kisses along her nape. One quick tug pulled her head back, her crown flush with the hollow where his shoulder joined his torso. Viv closed her eyes as his kisses—nipping at her ear, throat, collar—became more aggressive.
“Miles,” she whispered.
“Soon.”
Once again he swept her hair aside. His nimble fingers unfastened the hooks of her gown. With that expanse of silk pooled around her ankles, he started on the stays and tapes of her corset. She inhaled deeply, relishing that sudden return to meaningful breathing.
Still at Viv’s back, he slipped his hands—fine bones wrapped in rough skin—beneath her corset as she inhaled, taking hold of breasts that rose to meet his palms. They moaned in tandem, his mouth nuzzling her temple. His body enveloped her, hands and mouth and the tall, sure height of him. His erection, like a hot pipe, settled firmly between her buttocks. He glided his palms down, taking the corset with him until he could fling it to the floor. A quick tug relieved her of her chemise.
He turned her and trailed graceless kisses down her throat, down her chest, until he nipped gently at one nipple, then the other. Teasing was likely his frustrating intention. He wanted her mindless and crying out his name. Viv had no hope of keeping that from happening, especially when he cupped her mound and slid two fingers between her private lips. Dampness seeped through her cotton drawers. Then he abandoned all pretense and slipped his palm down her stomach, under the cloth, touching her where no other man ever had. And still he continued the gentle assault on
her breasts, caressing the heavy sweep of flesh beneath. His tongue rolled and roiled over one sensitive peak. He suckled before blowing softly on her erect bud.
“My gorgeous girl,” he whispered there.
The rush of his breath over her bare nipples cooled Viv’s fiery blood, ushering in a surge of panic where mindless pleasure had been. Goose bumps sprouted on her lower back.
Stop.
The word formed on her tongue and dissolved there like sugar. Again she tried. But their mouths met as Miles’s fingers kneaded her backside, his thick penis goading where her body craved. Soon he would press inside, just where his fingers had swirled her wetness across slick skin.
Viv’s panic exploded, but not because she feared her husband. Not even because she wanted to refuse the pleasure he offered and demanded. No, she feared that she would back out, deny him, turn to ice—long before finding the release that teased and enflamed her.
She spoke against his roughened jaw. “Don’t let me stop.”
He arched her backward, bent low, and sucked the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. His teeth grazed that sensitive skin. Viv gasped and thrust her hips. After one more quick nip, he whispered, “Do you want to stop?”
“Yes.” Her hands were in his hair now, dragging him back to that wanton breast. “But no . . . no, don’t stop.”
Miles tugged her drawers as he worked down her body with tongue and teeth and firm, determined lips. All along her belly he pressed hot, wet kisses. “Then I won’t let you. No stopping, Vivie. Not tonight.”
Ah, that name. It sounded appropriate now—the name he’d given her when they shared these moments of need and release. She expected his mockery to reappear, but nothing came. Only more glorious kisses and the delicacy of a man enjoying a sensual banquet. Viv could only revel in the shimmering electricity of his touch.
Miles unfastened his trousers and pushed her back to lie on the bed. Then he followed. Determined hands separated her thighs. Before she could think, before she could close her knees, he nudged the head of his thick shaft against her opening.
Every second slowed. His face had taken on a primal cast, full of dark places and darker thoughts, so very like her husband and yet entirely new. Brown eyes were midnight black, his mouth severe with concentration. Sun-streaked hair slipped down across a forehead already damp with sweat. He slowly entered, not ravaging but stretching her inch by inch, as his searing stare measured each reaction to that most intimate caress.
Viv melted. This wasn’t the fighting and anger she’d expected. This was a bliss so sweet that tears pricked her eyes. This was dangerously right.
His taut strokes accelerated, his lean hips rocking her back, deeper against the mattress. Viv’s climax had been gathering for days, weeks, months—ever since he strode into that distant library and draped his arm around her. You are mine, his body had said. Now he proved it, withdrawing and pushing deep in a rhythm that built like scalding steam inside her skin, trapped, readying to explode.
“Vivie,” he ground out. “Vivie, look at me.”
She wanted to shut out the sight of his strong torso over hers, shut out whatever she might find in his expression, but that would be a betrayal of this closeness. Made brave by the pleasure liquefying her muscles, she caught his gaze and held it. A quick flick of her tongue over her bottom lip pulled another groan from him, his fierce control disintegrating into more powerful, jerking thrusts. She hooked her heels along the firm rise of his buttocks, riding crests of heat and heady power.
The tingling need became too great. She clenched her eyelids and sank into her climax. Jewel-tone lights fired in the darkness. She spun away, blown apart by a quivering that would not relent. Her cries sounded foreign and erotic as pleasure became a violence in her blood. Miles’s mouth was at her ear, filling her distant mind with darkly whispered words.
“Vivie. God, Viv.” A shudder rippled through him, radiating out from where they joined. His body surged with a final thrust.
Slowly, as slowly as he’d entered her, his arms relaxed. He nestled his face along her throat—not kissing, just folded there.
Long, languid moments later, Viv lay on her side with her head tucked close to him. His hand traced idle circles on her bare hip. She watched his chest lift and lower as his breathing returned to normal.
Even while nude Miles conducted himself in the same irreverent fashion, his legs splayed just where they’d dropped after rolling off her. The crook of one elbow covered his brow. Hair—at his armpit, down his chest, between his legs—mocked any notion of modesty. He was a man sated, relaxed, at ease with all that he was and all he did. Viv envied it as much as she resented it, knowing that if the Queen herself happened upon their bedchamber at that moment, Miles would do nothing more than peer up at her and grin. Worse still, he’d expect Viv to brazen out the situation, too.
“You’re thinking, aren’t you?” came his abraded voice—a low, deep voice saved for the most intimate conversations.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think you should.”
But she couldn’t stop. Too many fears and memories leeched the moment of its wonder. She’d worked too hard to make use of the opportunity her father had provided by adopting her. Becoming Society’s idea of a wealthy heiress—and then a proper viscountess—meant lesson after lesson in biting her tongue and hiding the coarse habits that had helped her survive. No one ever saw who she truly was.
Being with Miles . . . He knew. She could feel it when he touched her, stared at her with that unrelenting intensity. Whatever he had yet to unravel, he would do so with time. Worse than being vulnerable to a man she couldn’t trust was being found out by him. What would Miles, Viscount Bancroft, think of her childhood in a French slum? Her deepening feelings—no matter the folly—meant hiding her past with even more diligence.
Lying there atop the duvet, growing chilly now, she wanted to hide away again before it was too late. Before she confessed everything, including her love.
“I think you should return to your room.”
The hand at her hip stopped its caress. “Do you?”
Viv swallowed. She could still taste him on her tongue. Why did that make her want to cry? “We never agreed to . . .”
“Go on,” he said after a time. “Finish.”
“We never agreed to any more than what we just did.”
“If you believe you can buy another year and a half of labor and sobriety with a single romp, then you shouldn’t be let anywhere near a business. The market doesn’t work that way.”
Her heart had been beating quickly, as it always did when in the midst of a confrontation, but now it kicked like an angered mule. A prostitute. The word remained unspoken, but Viv felt the shame of it nonetheless.
How had she become anything more upstanding than her mother? What they’d done amounted to nothing more than bartered services. How good she felt, how connected they’d been—what did that matter?
She’d wanted his mouth on her breasts and on her neck. She’d wanted his body joined with hers. In the aftermath, however, she only felt sticky. Unclean. Their sweat smelled stronger, less like the intoxicant it had been only minutes before. His arm around her might have been the pinch of metal chains for all the comfort it provided.
“Just an exchange,” she whispered. “You wanted to make this into a bargain, and that’s what it was. How else am I supposed to feel?”
“How else was I supposed to get you back in bed?” He tensed, his expression an unreadable mask. “You left, Viv. Hard to convince my family and our friends that all was well when you lived on another continent.”
“Define ‘all is well.’ Because I heard the rumors of your behavior all the way in New York.” Viv sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. “Out, please.”
At first she didn’t think he would obey. He lay there—as sickening, as intimidating, as beautiful as ever. Then he flung his arm away from his face and skewered her with a cold look. Silently, radiating a
nger, he slid out of bed and grabbed his clothes off the floor. Viv wondered if he had the audacity to walk across the hall that way, naked and holding rumpled eveningwear across his sculpted chest and slim hips.
But no. He shrugged back into his shirt and trousers with more finesse than a man ever warranted, especially when he seemed savage enough to rip through the seams. For all her modesty and shame, Viv hadn’t moved. She couldn’t. He was leaving and she was watching him go. She’d told him to. Would he stay, even now, if she changed her mind?
But the fear of asking kept her silent. Survival was enough. To desire more was a guarantee of disappointment.
Viv compressed her lips, fighting tears in earnest now.
Miles stood before her—disheveled, aloof, exceedingly sexy. He was toying with his wedding ring again. When he noticed too, he smiled like a snarl. “What a farce.” Hard eyes raked over her naked, huddled body. “This wasn’t a single engagement and you know that. I’ll be back tomorrow evening, Vivie. Count on it.”
Nineteen
Avoiding an inevitable confrontation with Viv, Miles sat in the study and flicked the dry tip of a fountain pen. The only window was open, although that luxury would not last much longer. Autumn was growing chillier by the day. Much like every other aspect of his life, he had no idea what to expect from the next change of season. Outside, probably in the herb garden, Louise and Mrs. Shelby were bickering about what to prepare for dinner. Birds and chattering insects gave voice to the foliage.
He should work. Or not work. Both constituted a decision regarding his future. Instead he stared absently at a stack of wage statements and mail, as erotic glimpses of the previous evening conspired to leave him aching. He sank his head back against the padded leather and closed his eyes. Viv, stripped and glorious—as enthusiastic as he ever could have wanted.
His hard cock pushed against the confines of his trousers. He reached between his thighs and rubbed the ache created by such heated memories. Her breasts thrusting up to meet him. Her gasps keeping perfect time with her determined hips, taking every inch of him.