by Carrie Lofty
“What will we do after this? Do you wonder?”
“There’s always Mr. Framholt,” he said. “He insists there’s money to be made in manufacturing his design. But he’ll need financial backers.”
“An investment opportunity? Intriguing.”
“We’ll make sense of it in time. But come now.” Miles took her hand and led her to sit on the nearby settee. “I have a gift for you.”
“A gift?”
“I find it a remarkably simple thing, darling, to spend your money.” He produced a rectangular jewelry box wrapped in burgundy velvet. “Here. I meant to give it to you this morning, but, well . . .”
At the fresh memory of their decadent morning in bed, Viv sucked her lower lip. His lean muscles and bare torso had been her table as she’d indulged in chocolate-filled croissants and candied fruits. Afterward, starting with the crumbs at the edges of his mouth and working her way down, she’d licked him clean. Potent male had mingled with bittersweet chocolate and crystallized sugar. Only once Miles had given her the gift of his salty release had she stretched out on her back, gasping as he returned the favor.
“I distracted you?” she asked innocently.
An uncharacteristic blush tipped his ears. He cleared his throat. “Open it.”
Viv pried open the spring-hinged box and blinked. Inside, nestled among folds of black satin, rested an exquisite bracelet. Intertwined circles of filigreed gold formed the links. A single rounded charm provided its only adornment. Only, it didn’t twinkle in the light, nor did it shine with radiant color.
“A carbon?” She touched the slate-gray stone. It was smaller than her pinkie fingernail. Flecks of moss green and dull, muddy brown gave its surface an irregular texture. “I don’t know what to say. It’s . . . well, it’s . . .”
“Ugly. Unforgivably ugly.”
Viv giggled, one hand over her mouth. It truly was. Even the beveled gold setting couldn’t save that charm from ignobility.
Miles edged closer, sharing her view of the unusual piece. “But Penberthy tells me it’s one of the best he’s ever examined. No weak crystalline structures, no cleaving plains. Immensely durable. When it comes to industrial diamonds, it’s the highest quality that can be produced. Naturally, I had to have it.”
His grin fell at the corners as he took her left hand. Somberly, he ran his thumb across the radiant diamond on her ring finger. “The man who gave you this gem—he didn’t love you. It’s utterly flawless but holds as little sentiment as the signatures on our marriage contract. The tools of a negotiation, nothing more.” He inhaled deeply. “Vivie, that’s not us.”
“No,” she said reverently. “We’re hard work and trust, arguments, passion, mistakes. And secrets . . . all the secrets that make us special.”
“Yes. Yes, exactly.”
She looked on the globular gray carbon with new eyes. “Thank you, Miles,” she breathed. “I’ll find a way to explain it when fine ladies spot it on my wrist and make rude comments.”
“Oh, dear God, woman. It’s an anklet.”
He knelt on the lush carpeting. Without waiting for permission, he grabbed her right foot and stripped off her slipper. Viv leaned back against the brocade settee and smiled as he fiddled with the delicate gold clasp.
Head bowed, his hair looked impossibly thick. “All that I am, I give to you,” he murmured. “And all that I have, I share with you.”
He’d spoken those vows years earlier as he’d endowed her finger with the wedding band she still wore. That he made the same vow again, now, with such a meaningful token of his love was more than enough to fill Viv’s eyes with happy tears. His palms gentled along the meat of her calf. The lightweight gold links shimmered atop her stocking. With every movement the charm tip-tapped the inside of her ankle.
“I never meant it to be shared,” he said, the words as intimate as a confession. He leaned over and placed a kiss atop her silk-wrapped shin. “It can keep company with your stockings.” His sure, strong hands slid upward, cupping the backs of each quivering leg. “And your crinolines.” He dragged the hem of her gown higher, feathering kisses as he climbed. “And your drawers.” With his mouth hovering just above her thigh, his smoldering eyes met hers. “Something to be gloried in. Privately.”
Those flashes of lightning in her stomach gathered, strengthening, scattering caution like a hot summer gale. She caught his face in her hands and pulled. With his body braced above hers, both of them half sprawled on the settee, she kissed him deeply. The library dimmed as she reveled in this man, her man, and the wicked, beautiful passion they’d found.
“Or perhaps not so privately,” he whispered.
She furrowed her fingers into his very proper hair. Kissing again, she hooked a stocking-clad foot around his thigh and flexed, fitting his pelvis against hers.
“Vivie, enough.” His words sounded choked and dry. “We should—”
“Oh, good heavens!” Alain Delavoir stood in the library’s doorway, a portfolio tucked beneath his skinny arm. “I’ll return momentarily.”
The shame Viv expected to feel never came, only a naughty sort of humor. She grinned against her husband’s mouth. “No, not at all,” she said, half laughing. With steady movements she untangled her body from Miles and sat upright on the settee. “The fault is ours. Stay, please.”
Once her clothes and hair were in order, she and Miles arose. A chagrined smile shaped his lovely mouth.
“I never would’ve taken you for bashful, my lord.”
He leaned forward, for her ears only. “I despise interruptions.”
“Ah, but now is the time for business.” She reached up to retie his rumpled ascot. “What news of my siblings, Monsieur Delavoir? I’ve received but few letters and no updates of late.”
“I have no information to add, my lady. You are the first to arrive.”
She found Miles’ss hand and squeezed. Contentment washed over her, unlike any she’d ever experienced. But it wasn’t quite enough. She needed her family to be as safe, as protected, as cherished as she was.
“In the meantime, this paperwork is for you to approve,” Delavoir said.
Viv’s hands shook as she signed the documents that transferred one million dollars into her name. She had not thought this moment would be so charged—more perfunctory than powerful. But the magnitude of her accomplishment washed over her in a wave of emotion.
Miles brushed a kiss against her temple. “Congratulations, my love.”
She exhaled a heavy breath. So much work. So much to be proud of. And now, such a future awaited them both. “It was quite possibly the most difficult undertaking I’ll ever attempt, but it was worth it. Even without the money, it would’ve been worth it.”
“You both performed admirably.” Delavoir smiled. Such an odd expression for his hawkish face, like seeing an undertaker laugh. “Now I’ll withdraw until your brothers and sister arrive.” He performed an exacting bow and turned to go. “Oh, my mistake. This is for you as well. From Sir William.”
Viv accepted a folded, sealed letter. Even her father’s scrawled handwriting threatened a new round of overwhelmed tears. She glanced up at his portrait, then opened the heavy stock paper. Miles stood behind her, his forehead bowed to rest on her nape, his fingers gentle on her shoulders. He was nearby, so close, yet giving her the privacy she hadn’t needed to request.
The paper trembled as she read one final message from her father.
My Vivienne,
If I could change one thing in my life, I would return to those months in Paris—or the fateful years that followed. I would have been your mother’s champion. I have never been able to think of her without regret. Pride kept me from offering what she deserved, and you both suffered for it. Please forgive me, my daughter, for the pain you endured because of my mistakes.
You have always been the most deserving girl, so quick and dutifully minded. I can only hope, as I pen this missive, that one day your husband earns your heart. He always stru
ck me as a man in need of a challenge, and you, my dear, were the most challenging endeavor a father could undertake. To love you is to love untapped potential and the thrill of the chase. Perhaps in tackling the wilds of the beautiful, untamed Cape, you will discover that thrill together.
Be well, my exquisite girl, and be happy. You deserve both and so much more.
Your father,
William
“Good tears or bad?” Miles asked against her cheek.
“Good. So very good.”
She turned in his arms and held on tight. A feeling of incandescent love enveloped her as surely as he did. The million dollars was nothing compared to the miracle of learning her father’s true heart.
Only after Miles forced a gentle distance between them did he find a handkerchief and dry her face. “No more of this now, Vivie,” he said. “Your family will be here soon. I’d rather they catch us in an indelicate position than see you crying.” He kissed her softly. “Shall we wager as to whether Old Man Christie changed their lives, too?”
“Absolutely not. No more wagers between us.”
“What then?”
Instinctively, as her heart had taught her to do, she found his dark brown eyes. Her amusement and happiness were reflected there, and in his guileless smile. “Only love, Miles. Love and trust and forever.”
Author’s Note
I have a special place in my heart for Viv and Miles—for their strength, vulnerability, and hard-fought faith in one another. I hope you’ve enjoyed their story of reunited passion!
To complete their happy ending, I knowingly took two liberties with history. Although patents utilizing carbons were issued at the rate of roughly twenty per decade between 1865 and the end of the century, the true value of industrial diamonds was not realized until WWI. Whether a brokerage could have profited by trading carbons as early as 1881 must be left to our willing suspension of disbelief.
In addition, the genuine Kimberley Club was established by Cecil Rhodes three months after Miles’s poker game finale. For a time the club boasted more millionaires per square foot than any building in the world. Twice it was rebuilt following devastating fires. After various concessions toward membership throughout the twentieth century, women were finally allowed to enter through the front door in 1980.
Countless people’s lives were bettered by the opportunities in Kimberley, but very little about the diamond trade has been flawless. In setting Viv and Miles’s story in Cape Colony, I hope I have done justice to the balance between hardship and romance. As with all settings throughout history, both must have existed in Kimberley.
As always, I look forward to your comments! Please contact me by email at [email protected]. I also welcome you to visit www.CarrieLofty.com and to follow me on Twitter (@CarrieLofty).
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Carrie Lofty’s next novel
Starlight
Coming soon from Pocket Books
One
Glasgow
March, 1881
Polly Gowan knew the overseers were looking for her. They always came for her.
She ducked her chin and concentrated on the mechanical arms swishing cotton into cloth. Adjusting the tension of the warp threads, she glanced toward the commotion at the north entrance to the factory floor. One of the overseers, a bulldog-faced man named Rand Livingstone with a taste for expensive clothing, consulted a ragged sheet of paper. A list of names, no doubt.
Christie Textiles had a new master, reported to be the son of the company’s namesake. No one could admit to having met the man, so privately did he keep his own counsel. But a face-to-face meeting was exactly what Polly sought. Any information she unearthed about his methods and personality would aid the weavers’ union, especially during contract negotiations. They needed to know their new opponent.
And she needed to stay clear of blame for last week’s accident. Several newly delivered looms had been ruined in a small explosion, with three horses killed. Mary Worth had ruined her hand trying to save the poor beasts. Many believed it to be sabotage, including Polly. But the identity of the perpetrator remained a mystery. Far too many mysteries for her liking.
Livingstone may as well have been working from memory, so predictable were his persons of interest. Tommy Larnach, Agnes Dorward, and Les MacNider shuffled toward the door under armed guard. Other workers hustled to take their places at the looms. The day’s orders still needed to be filled. Half the factory floor could be hauled to jail and that expectation wouldn’t change.
When questioned by one of the enforcers, stout old Widow Ferguson pointed a gnarled forefinger toward Polly. But Livingstone was already pushing past workers, his sunken eyes fastened on his target. Yes, he and Polly were very well acquainted.
She banked her apprehension as if throwing water on hot coals. Her best defense was, as always, to be perceived exactly as Livingstone assumed. A little simple. A little cowed.
“Miss Gowan, you’re to come with me.” His voice box must have been damaged during his petty, miserable life. He perpetually sounded as if a strong hand clasped his throat. “You’re on the list.”
“Of course, sir.” But she did not pause in her work. Threads whisked to form cloth—the mechanics of the loom nearly magic, except for the grit and toil and steam they consumed.
“Now, Polly.”
She hid the shiver that came at his use of her Christian name. “Only finishing my quota, sir.”
Livingstone yanked her away from the loom. Constance Nells eased into Polly’s space, insuring that the work would not suffer. She deftly maneuvered three machines at once, aided by one of the apprentice weavers. A slight smile tipped Connie’s lips, the only indication that she was amused, too. They had, after all, performed this ballet more than a dozen times. Just enough insolence, without inviting the full wrath of the overseers.
That Connie was also involved in union activities probably would have surprised the likes of Livingston. Studious, tidy, and quiet, with her two wee babes tended at home by her elderly grandmother, she hardly seemed the type.
But Polly . . .
Being the eldest child of Graham Gowan meant notoriety. His dedication to workers’ rights spanned three decades. Polly’s youth and gender would not protect her forever, especially if the masters discovered that she served as her father’s right hand.
Livingstone prodded her in the lower back. He always touched her more than was necessary. Little pinches and grabs reinforced what damage he could do if the opportunity arose. Polly kept her eyes forward, her jaw fixed. The heavy pulse in her ears rubbed out the looms’ thumping, humming clatter.
Out the front doors, she squinted against the pewter sky. Calton was hardly a pretty area on the most brilliant of days. In fact, spring’s eventual sunshine would only make clear every crack in the tenement sandstone. But when licked by March’s drizzle and cold, buildings stood as dark, hulking shadows amid the ghostly gray. No color. Very little hope.
She and the other suspects—for that’s what they were—shambled toward a constable’s wagon. But they wouldn’t be dragged before civil authorities. No, with regard to factory matters, the masters may as well be God’s representatives on Earth. Or Satan’s.
That no one had yet met the devil of Christie Textiles was enough to make Polly shiver. How could she strategize against a man she had never met?
Her shawl offered little protection against the slinky late-winter cold. Once inside the wagon, seated on a hard, shallow bench, she huddled closer to Agnes Dorward. The woman’s age was completely indeterminate, a contradiction of smooth skin and gray hair. All Polly knew was that she had four grown children and had lost her only grandchild, a wee baby girl, to cholera during the previous autumn.
Agnes’s closed eyes silently proclaimed her boredom with this routine. Polly shared her fatigue, knowing their destination would be Buchanan Street in the City Centre. All she could hope was that this time, the new Mr. Christie would be there to question them personal
ly.
Les MacNider, however, was full as ever of piss and wind. “They haven’t the right. They never do. And yet we let them herd us along like cattle to the slaughter.”
“Ah, shut your flapping gums, Les.” Hamish Nyman had been arrested at least four times for inciting political discord. He lit a rolled tobacco paper. That sweet, ashy scent quickly filled the enclosed wagon, tensing Polly’s stomach.
“No, I won’t,” Les said. “Polly, take my back on this. Your father wouldn’t stand for such abuse.”
“He has and he would,” she replied. “We all tell our stories, and then we go back to work. No harm done. And no masters the wiser. At least this time they have just cause. Someone really did sabotage those looms. We all know it.”
Hamish’s whip-thin disciple, Tommy Larnach, grinned at her with the witless abandon of a simpleton. But sparks of intelligence shone from his eyes, as did the fondness born of their shared history. Some of it was very intimate. Not all of it was pretty. Once, back when they were children running loose in the alleys of Calton, Polly had seen him kick a stray dog to death. He’d grinned that exact same way.
“Beats working,” he said. “Anything to keep from finishing my quota.”
Les sneered. “You little pisspot. Do you think those demands disappear when we leave the floor? No, someone else takes up our slack. They work twice as hard while we have to defend ourselves against ever more suspicions.”
“Their fault for being so upstanding,” Tommy said with a shrug.
“Shut it.” Hamish exhaled a long gray billow of smoke. “You’ll wake the old lady.”
“I’m not asleep,” Agnes said, eyes still closed. “How could I be with the lot of you nattering on?”