by Carrie Lofty
Miles indulged every vice that caught his fancy. His passion for gambling reigned supreme over alcohol, women, and even his blasted cigars, but perhaps his uncanny luck had run out. He must truly need money if he had come to the Cape, ready to make himself a nuisance in exchange for a portion of her earnings. And if he held her possessions, then he awaited the confrontation she’d evaded in New York.
This time he’ll get it.
She needed her belongings. Every last item would be necessary if she were to endure the twenty months that remained of her contract.
No, more than a year and a half was too much to consider. She wouldn’t dwell on the immensity of her task, choosing instead to relive the lessons of her father’s many successes. One day at a time. One foot in front of the other. Piece by hard-earned piece. She could prop her hopes on no more complicated buoys. In doing so she would find the strength to survive this trial. Deep inside, she would rediscover the tenacity of an urchin who’d once stolen a dying vagrant’s dinner just to quell her own aching hunger—and the resilience on which that quiet girl had depended when her mother was jailed and hanged.
But at the present, she simply needed to find her husband.
She signaled to Chloe Tassiter, her maid, who handed the porter a shilling. “Can you take me to him, please?” Viv asked.
“This way.”
As nimble as a fleeing rabbit, he ducked into the crowd, navigating passengers, porters, and incalculable bags and trunks. He jostled to clear a makeshift path. The same foot journey without his aid would’ve been terribly difficult, two women consumed by pressing bodies.
Unlike her siblings, Viv had endured the grueling burden of an impoverished youth and the secret knowledge of her illegitimacy. That meant balancing the strictures of good society with the example of Sir William Christie’s limitless ambitions. She never failed to appreciate when her way was made easier by the privilege she now enjoyed—privilege she would labor ceaselessly to keep.
Good heavens, a million dollars! She’d be able to return to her home in New York, to her gardens, to her life. And she would finally be free of the title she’d learned to wear like a horse harness across her shoulders. But she could take nothing for granted until she’d dispensed with her father’s assignment.
Viv bumped a coop full of clucking hens and bruised her hip. She and Chloe didn’t so much walk as gush toward some unseen destination. Children struggled to haul crates twice their size, kicking scrawny dogs that nipped at bare feet. Men who may have been fathers to those children—or worse yet, their keepers—waited at the wagons and loaded the possessions, always pocketing the coins.
Chloe took Viv’s upper arm and offered a reassuring squeeze. “Courage, my lady.”
Although a servant since her youth, Chloe had never lived as roughly as this. Raised on Lord Bancroft’s ancestral estate, she knew service and she knew her station, but her blue eyes were wide and she sucked on her lower lip. On those crowded docks, Chloe Tassiter may as well have been royalty.
Viv, however . . . Her body ached with a deep recognition. She had once hidden in the shadows of a similar world, her days marked by stealth, fear, and hunger. She breathed its filth and knew its secrets.
“My lady, do you know where we’re going?” Chloe asked.
A shudder wiggled through Viv’s stomach—that sudden, queasy feeling of being taken advantage of. The porter could be leading them anywhere. Suddenly, her husband’s volatility held more appeal than those beastly unknowns.
“I say.” Viv lifted her voice above the din. “Where are you taking us, man?”
“Just there.” The porter nodded toward where a wagon waited along a footpath.
Viv stopped short.
Miles, Lord Bancroft, leaned against one large wheel. Only, she’d never seen him in such a state. Gone was the snide aristocrat, preened to perfection. In his place stood a taut, muscular man whose waistcoat gapped open along a lean abdomen. His neck was bare, the collar undone. He’d rolled his shirtsleeves. A coiled whip dangled from his belt and rested against his hip.
Blinking back the grit and sunshine, Viv struggled to assemble the jigsaw of new impressions. Thick hair he normally tamed with pomade stuck out in spiky disarray. The coffee-dark color was streaked through with lighter strands, kissed by bright midday. Every indecently exposed inch of flesh had assumed a luscious caramel shade. Too much time spent in the sun, her mind argued. But the color suited him—much better than the pallor of genteel boredom and too much time spent in gambling halls.
A taunting grin turned him from merely handsome to maddeningly so.
Miles . . . wearing a whip. He’d turned positively heathen.
Viv tried to tell herself that she didn’t want to see him there, obviously pleased to have taken her by surprise. Yet she could not deny a flush of relief. Twenty minutes on the docks had stripped away months of preparation, when she’d waited out the Boer War by studying all she could find about the diamond trade. Confronted with the stomach-sick shock of the Cape, she realized that her will alone would not be enough. Never had she felt more gallingly female.
She needed him. He knew it. And her pride would suffer.
For the sake of that bonus, however, Viv met him at the wagon. “My lord,” she said simply.
“My lady.” Miles bowed, more sarcastic than respectful. “Surprised to see me?”
She ignored his gloating question and nodded toward her possessions. “Is everything accounted for?”
“Mr. Nolan tells me as much.”
Glancing to where Adam Nolan sat among her crates and trunks, Viv allowed a tight smile. “Good. I trust him.”
“Meaning you’d count everything twice had I been in charge of the matter,” Miles said.
The hard emotion in his eyes tempted her to recoil. She remembered that afternoon in the library and the silent anger he’d turned her way. Yes, she’d left him. And she’d left all over again, preferring her siblings’ loving company to his unpredictability. Her reasons remained strong and valid. No glare, no matter how intimidating, would change her mind.
A fine spray of dried blood formed a ghastly constellation across his rumpled white shirt. That he’d already found trouble was hardly a surprise. Trouble and company. A massive African wearing breeches and little else sat on the wagon bench, reins in hand.
Her attention returned to Miles, to his shirt, to his tanned neck and forearms. To the vigorous width of his shoulders and the ready strength of his thighs. This version of her husband was new. All new—at least on the outside.
Just how long had he been here? Had he arrived when the peace concluded in February? Or even earlier?
“We have tickets for the train to Kimberley,” she said, banishing her fascination. “Can your man take us to the station?”
Miles’s grin returned, that reckless expression so out of place in polite society, but so startlingly at home on the Cape Town docks. “We’re all yours, my lady . . . for a price.”
Tender skin chafed beneath her elbow-length gloves, and the cleft between her breasts flared with heat. Better than anyone, she understood that apparent courtesies from her husband would be met with a reckoning. The gleam in his dark eyes told Viv that the last thing he would demand of her was money.
Two
Miles shifted his weight, suddenly restless and hot. The impact of seeing Viv after four months—while sober this time—was more crippling than he’d wanted to believe.
Dear God, she was beautiful.
Ringlets of sunshine-blonde hair framed regal cheekbones and accentuated the sleek line of her jaw. Lush lips that rested in a perpetual pout hid sins and secrets. But her eyes . . . Miles had fallen into them once and had yet to break free of their magic. A distinctive hazel, her irises blended moss and gold until neither held sway. An ingenue’s curiosity layered over a woman’s keen understanding of how the world worked.
Miles searched for clues that she could be bested. Her face had taken on a great deal of color, w
hich suggested she’d spent time strolling the Coronea’s promenade deck. Her figure remained trim yet curved in all the right places, meaning she hadn’t indulged in the never-ending array of delicacies available to first-class passengers. All rather innocuous.
But telltale circles beneath those remarkable hazel eyes—circles not entirely obscured by a careful dusting of talcum powder—revealed restless, perhaps even sleepless, nights.
He exhaled. He relaxed his shoulders. And the enmity he had every right to feel eased his lacerated pride. True enough, he had another man’s blood on his shirt and he craved a steadying drink, but he understood his goals. He wanted Viv out of his system before they parted once and for all. And he wanted her to regret it with every aching, lonely fiber of her body when he was gone.
She stood like a silk-encrusted statue. Never a crack, no matter how many whispered rumors. Only his touch had ever revealed the passion lurking beneath. Rare moments when she’d lost control, gasping his name, were more precious than all the diamonds in the Cape.
Miles planned to seduce her, just for the fun of proving that she loved it.
“Make your demand,” she said. “I expect I know what you’ll say.”
“Not at all, my dear. I don’t want your money, and I don’t desire marital privileges—well, not yet. Not here on the docks.”
Rosy lips parted on a quiet sound. Her expression sparked with something very close to hatred. More like a cousin to hatred, perhaps, because he’d seen her well and truly angry. This little farce of a reaction meant they were only getting started.
“Out with it,” she said.
“I want you to ask.”
After a flicker of surprise, her composure returned. Miles wanted to retrieve his pocket watch and measure the span of time between flustered and restored. He’d place heavy wagers on her abilities, if anyone dared take him up on such a bet.
“Ask?”
“That’s all. Ask that I instruct Mr. Kato to take your bags to the train station.”
“And then?”
“Then we’ll take your bags to the train station,” he said, as if to a child. “The concept is not a difficult one, Vivie.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
“Why not?” He touched a lock of shimmering blonde hair where it curved along her ear. “Remind you of something?”
“You know it does.”
“Yes.” So much time had passed, yet her warm floral scent still left him ready to beg. “Nights to remember.”
“To forget, you mean.”
His ardor chilled. Memories, both fervent and tender, flayed him with the mistakes of their shared past. The intensity of her passion had been the one great surprise of his utterly predictable life, and her constant need to deny it had been the undoing of their marriage. He’d always wanted what she refused to offer.
If any begging were to be done on that morning, it would be her task.
Miles scraped his gaze down along her body, then climbed into the back of the wagon with Adam and the maid. Every bit of his wife, from her ire to the frown that drew a line between her brows, was busy shocking frozen pieces of him back to life. But he would bend her, bully her, bed her—on his terms, not shaking and frothing like a servile dog.
“Ask, Vivie, or I’ll unload it all into the harbor.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Indeed, I would.” He spread his arms wide. “I don’t back down from bets and you know it. Or was it some other Viscount Bancroft who swam naked across the Thames?”
“Then I’ll inform the police!”
“They’ll only remand you into your husband’s custody,” he said, feeling giddy and mean. “Oh, wait . . . that’s me. And all the while, your bloomers will be floating out to the Atlantic.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Perhaps, but I’m also a Peer of the Realm. Hard to believe, I know, but I do have influence.” He tugged at his bloodied shirt, buttoned his waistcoat, and stared her down. “I can make the success of your daddy’s company more likely . . . or bloody near impossible.”
Genuine hurt stole the luster from her eyes. But the remorse he should’ve felt didn’t come. Instead, as loose and lively as a freed prisoner, he breathed the fetid dockside air. His captivity was at an end.
“Very well, my lord,” she said.
“Call me Miles. You used to.”
“When I held out some hope for your worth in this life.”
“You once held such hope? My dear, that was nearly generous.”
“You deserve a great deal more,” she gritted out.
Her anger was back, pulsing from her in billows. Porcelain cheeks flared with bright, hot color. She leveled a glare that deemed him an insect to be squashed. Miles merely grinned. Aside from the petty fun of her indignation, he could trust her body’s reactions, from the innocent to the erotic—bare truths in their false world.
“All the same,” he said. “You’ll address me as such if you want my cooperation.”
She didn’t move, as if gathering the strength to even breathe. Then she swallowed and held up her hand. “Miles, my lord, will you deliver us to the train station? Please?”
He’d expected to hear defeat in her voice, something beautiful stripped of its grandeur, but she sounded decidedly too self-possessed. Beneath the sweetness of her smile waited venom.
Her father’s daughter.
But for now, a win was a win. He reached for her hand.
* * *
Vivienne sat alongside Mr. Kato, the huge, silent African, as he skillfully guided the wagon toward the train station. She wished to continue nursing her dislike for Miles, but Cape Town held her mesmerized. Harsh blue-shadowed mountains angled along the horizon, holding the entire settlement in a hand ready to clamp shut. She’d half expected the blooming branches of her spring garden, but of course, March was the same as September in the north. Autumnal shades already dotted the foothills and lined the limbs of unfamiliar trees. The fertile smell of loam found her in warm, welcome bursts.
But the city wore a mask. Ostentatious homes, rich with color and layers of fresh paint, could only brag from behind the safety of high ornate fences. They loomed over decayed shantytowns, tumbledown tents, and countless squatters. Ugliness gathered in the shadows like a cache of weapons, waiting to do violence.
While running on pure determination, Viv had been able to retreat from her dark childhood. Now those destitute years crawled over her skin and down her throat. She squeezed the wooden handle of the portmanteau in her lap—squeezed until her pinkie finger jerked.
The train station was a picture of barely controlled bedlam. Wealthy colonists strolled toward first-class accommodations, while servants dragged luggage in their wake. Rougher folk flocked toward the overburdened rear cars. A woman, great with child, followed a tradesman with a full blond beard whose back bowed under the weight of a massive trunk. She gripped the hands of two young boys, their little legs pumping to keep pace with her determined waddle. The crowd gobbled them up as a whistle announced the train’s impending departure.
A baby wailed and Viv knew its terror.
She eased down from the wagon bench, having lost feeling in her rear. Miles was busy directing Adam and the African in the care of her possessions. “Take Lady Bancroft’s girl with you,” he said to his manservant. “Here are your tickets, plus money enough to make sure Mr. Kato is fairly accommodated. He cannot lose his pass, understand? And for God’s sake find a salve for his back. And a shirt. One of mine, if you must.”
Viv watched the exchange, curious. She had always known Miles to be fair with regard to servants and tenants on his family’s estates. She just never recalled him . . . caring. He had treated such matters as just another responsibility to be mocked.
Adam offered Chloe his arm and a friendly smile. He was exactly as Viv remembered, his master’s opposite in so many ways: shorter, fair, genial, and thoughtful. How he’d managed such a lengthy working relationship with
Miles, loyal even to the back of beyond, was a mystery she had reconciled herself to never solving.
“Alone again,” he said as the trio walked away. “It’s been, what—a year? Two? I honestly cannot remember back that far.”
“An entire naval crew’s ration of liquor each night will do that to a brain.”
“Especially one as stunted as mine?”
“Quite.” She peered at him, as if doing so might reveal his deeper intentions. “You’re determined to make this difficult. Tell me why.”
“A gentleman does not air his laundry in public.”
“No, he threatens to toss his wife’s laundry into the harbor.”
“New money insists on showiness,” he said with a slight sniff. “Seems a shame not to display what frilly bits of lace and satin the Christie fortune can buy.”
Viv smiled sweetly. “Perhaps I’m fresh out of lace and satin.”
“Oh?”
“If you recall, shoring up your father’s bankrupt estates permitted little allowance for niceties.”
His lips lost their teasing tilt. “Sounds a great deal like our marriage.”
She stiffened. Mussed clothing and chaotic hair made him appear more rakish, and yet he was the same man underneath. If only that weren’t the case! She couldn’t take her eyes off the brawn he’d acquired in only a few months. Wider shoulders. Thicker arms. His haphazardly buttoned waistcoat strained over his more muscular chest. What, exactly, had he been doing?
And why did her body insist on reacting so contrary to good intentions?
Because it always had. She always had. With Miles.
“Tell me what you intend. Please,” she added for good measure. Even her father knew the value of pleasantries during business negotiations.
“When you sit with me on the train.”
“You seem certain I’ll do just that.”
“Yes,” he said. “Because you think you can best me. Admit it, you can’t wait to take me on again. You’ve been bored stiff.”
“At peace, more like.”
“Peace isn’t meant for the living.”
The tips of his fingers graced her corseted waist as he guided her toward the first-class car. What should’ve been a gesture of affection or support felt as if he’d wiggled under her crinolines. Hot-faced memories layered atop her restlessness, softening her guts to glue.