by Carrie Lofty
And blast, she was simply aware of him again. Tiny flecks of gray at his temple blended with sun-streaked strands, while matched creases on the insides of each brow were more pronounced. She’d never noticed the scar behind his left earlobe, never truly appreciated the shape of his Adam’s apple. Proper dress had always concealed such tiny details, heightening their intimate appeal.
“What, no more sweet venom?” he asked near her ear.
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve been touching you for roughly thirty seconds and you’ve yet to protest.”
“I never did protest, remember?”
“Yes, quite the good little wife,” he said genially. “When we lived on the same continent.”
He ushered her aboard the train. Close confines pressed the front of his body almost indecently against her back. Or maybe that was just more of his baiting. She shivered either way.
The first-class carriage smelled faintly of leather and strongly of cigars. Sunlight shimmered across carved wood, gleaming brass railings, and beveled, gilt-trimmed mirrors. Richly upholstered benches faced each other along the right bank of windows. Three double-wide sleeping berths stretched along the left, their fine white coverlets peeking from behind parted, dark blue velvet curtains.
Viv stood in the center aisle. She hadn’t thought to find such sumptuous amenities, nor so few people. Well-dressed men read newspapers, with tumblers of liquor at their fingertips. The only two women in the carriage sat together, their coiffed heads angled over a fashion catalogue. The contrast between the glut of passengers outside and the calm decorum of the carriage left her light in the head.
“Only the best for the world’s wealthiest colonists.” Miles’s murmur sounded equally derisive and bored.
“Then we’re in the wrong car.”
“Because you’re no longer a well-heeled Christie?”
“No,” Viv said. “Because I am no colonist. I have no intention of staying here a day longer than necessary.”
They took seats across from one another. Miles’s long legs brushed her skirts, but she was ready for him this time. No flinching. His old patterns were remarkably unchanged. Taunt. Tease. Unnerve. Until she was so topsy-turvy that his certainty was all she could cling to.
She knew how to fight back now. By ignoring him, to start.
After the whistle bellowed again, the conductor shouted, “All aboard.” The wheels squealed and the train car jerked.
So strange to think that she would’ve remained in London had he been humorless, ignorant, physically repellant—an arranged marriage without complications. She would’ve endured no disappointment when Miles drank a sailor’s ration or smoked like a Bowery chimney, nor would memories of mutual passion haunt their shared past. But despite his disheveled clothing, he held himself as every inch the fine gentleman and could produce a flash flood of charisma.
That he could charm every other female with the same precision made her stomach burn. And after what Viv witnessed on the morning after the Saunders’ gala, she’d been forced to admit that she could no longer rely on him. Not even for discretion.
He lit a cigar. “You’re staring.”
As the station slowly crept out of sight, Viv forced herself to confront him directly. “Why are you here? I can understand why you’d attend the reading of the will. That could’ve meant easy money.”
“Is that what you’d expected?”
“Maybe,” she said softly. “But you should’ve stated your intentions, rather than trying to unsettle me.”
“Did I? Unsettle you, that is?”
“You know you did.”
“Frankly, someone needed to get a jump on this two-year contract.”
She frowned. “When did you arrive?”
“Early January.”
“But the war was on!”
“It hadn’t been when I departed England. A lot can change on that blasted long journey.” His expression hardened. “Besides, I had no intention of being the one left behind this time.”
Viv didn’t reveal what she heard in his voice—something close to hurt. She didn’t dare believe that her leaving had affected him, but a nasty worm of guilt left her shaken.
“What do you have in mind for our future?” she asked.
“I find that an interesting question because, until very recently, there hasn’t been much our to speak of.”
“I want that bonus, Miles.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning forward. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Why?”
“My brownstone requires maintenance.”
“Where you live in New York?”
She lifted her chin. His lush, deep brown eyes had always been the gateway to temptation. He thought all the things she could never think, and dared her to come along on his adventures. She’d tried. For almost two years. But audacity was outside of her nature.
“Yes, in New York. Where I’ll return when this matter is concluded.” She took a deep breath. “I want our separation to be permanent.”
But rather than react with scorn or anger, he maintained a quiet intensity. A silent showdown.
When she could take no more, Viv tried for a lighthearted tone. “Now that we know what I want, it’s your turn.”
He unleashed a slow, devastating grin. “I want you in my bed.”
Of course he would. She’d known there on the docks, reading the heat in his avid gaze. But the blunt truth of it grabbed her insides and twisted. He’d make her beg and shiver, only to leave her wanting a place of refuge he’d never provide.
And if he harbored resentment because she’d left . . .
“Will you force me?” she asked, her mouth parched.
“What sort of gentleman would that make me?” He smiled a bland sort of business smile. “Now, let me share a story with you. Last summer, in a bizarre yet not unexpected turn of events, I won a woman in a card game.”
No matter the truths she repeated until her head burst, she still recoiled from the idea of Miles in another woman’s arms. “How very . . . you.”
“As I said, not unexpected. The most fascinating part, however, was that the woman seemed resigned. She’d been part and parcel of a losing hand before. It took the edge off any sort of enjoyment I might have found.” He exhaled a stream of silvery smoke. “So I sent her home.”
Viv didn’t want to feel relief, but it cooled the jealous heat in her veins. “Make your point.”
“You asked what I want, so I’m telling you. I want your enthusiasm, Vivie.”
He’d whispered that name in their bed, holding her and kissing her, bestowing an endearment no one else had ever used. He’d also called her that the night of the Saunders’ gala. Fueled by alcohol, he had seduced her behind a wide spiral staircase. Anyone could have seen. With passion and shame fighting for dominance, she’d bit the muscle above his collarbone to keep from crying out. Never had she dipped so near to what she truly was: the bastard daughter of a whore.
But never had she felt such treasured hope. She had viewed the aristocracy with the same awe as any of New York’s best. To secure a title was an accomplishment managed by only the richest families and choicest offspring. Learning her fiancé would be the dashing Viscount Bancroft had been a day of utter joy. All her dreams and hard work conspired to her advantage.
The drinking. The gambling till all hours. The hideous gossip that always followed. Miles was not dashing; he was a disappointment. The night of that gala, she had thought otherwise. Maybe, just maybe, he could change.
He’d proven those hopes unfounded by dawn.
“You ask too much,” she whispered.
“Do you want that bonus?”
“You know I do.”
“Then you will summon as much enthusiasm as you possibly can,” he said, his voice hard. “Only then will you find me a willing partner in this little venture.”
“A partner? You are a rake who lives for the next hand of cards. You have no skills, no patience, and every rankling syllable
you utter is designed to divide people from their sanity. I could never depend on you.”
He lifted his dark brows. “Perhaps, but I’ve been living here for nearly three months. That’s a great deal of experience in a place you’ve never even seen. So, my dear, you can do this alone, peddling your lovely wares to men here on the Cape. Or you can share our marriage bed with me.”
Deflated despite her simmering anger, Viv forced herself to be practical and accept the truth. He was a man, he was a peer, and he’d amassed a tremendous head start. She would never be able to command his overt influence, which he could turn against her if he chose. His smug smile made that threat.
“And the money?”
“One third.”
“Hmm . . . Debts, my lord?”
“I’m a better gambler than that. You hit the nail on the head earlier. Your dowry made my father’s estates solvent, but hardly enough remains to accommodate my lifestyle.”
“Debauchery is deuced expensive,” she said, affecting his accent and lackadaisical attitude. “Vivie, love, be a dear and ask Daddy for more.”
Miles swallowed and looked away. Odd. Perhaps being confronted, while sober this time, with his oft-repeated request caused a little shame.
But he was the master of quick emotional recoveries.
“I would rather the privilege of debauchery than your starched half-life. Always so prim.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Always . . . trying so hard. Such a nouveau riche mistake.”
“Your parents didn’t think so. What did your mother say to me on our wedding day? I believe it was, ‘You deserve better than my son.’”
“She was as good at pretending as you are.”
Viv hoped she hid her flinch, but he rarely missed a clue of any kind.
“But I won’t quibble about money, my dear,” he said. “Should we wish to be uncouth, we may as well shed all reservations and return to discussing sex. After all, money is little compared to the gusto you can deliver. So, do we have a deal?”
“I only want what I’d sought upon leaving Manhattan. A life without you.”
“Then you know how to earn it.”
If giving her body to Miles, to her husband, would ensure that unthinkably large bonus, so be it. After all she refused to surrender anything more dear: her trust, her dreams, her heart.
Decision made, Viv stood and found her balance in the swaying train car. Looking down at him strengthened her resolve. “No drinking,” she said tightly. “No other women. And none of your bloody cigars. Are we agreed?”
He was fidgeting with his wedding ring. Their eyes met and he tucked his left hand out of sight. “Agreed.”
She savored her rare moment of authority. “Then I’m all yours.”
Continue reading for an exclusive excerpt from
Starlight
CARRIE LOFTY
Alex Christie, the oldest and most steadfast of the four Christie siblings, is a widower with a flourishing career in astronomy. In order to protect his frail infant son from his cruel father-in-law’s bid for custody, he undertakes Sir William Christie’s posthumous million-dollar challenge: to make a Glasgow cotton mill profitable. Although clever and determined, Alex has never possessed his late father’s knack for business, nor his killer instinct. Sabotage, union agitation, and the peculiarities of urban Scottish life only magnify his burdens.
Polly Gowan also seeks the identity of the saboteur, hoping to exact justice without involving the police. Because a sympathetic mill master would aid her cause, she becomes Alex’s guide among her people. From soccer games to drinking contests to pub brawls, she is astonished to learn what masculine vitality lurks beneath Alex’s intellectual exterior. Too good for too long, he aches to burst free of his tight, repressive shell, just as Polly harbors a secret longing to escape the impoverished community she loves and defends.
As plots threaten to extinguish their newfound passion, Alex and Polly realize just how at odds their ambitions are. Alex will do anything to earn that million-dollar bonus and protect his son, while Polly refuses to put one boy’s future ahead of an entire community’s well-being. Only when the saboteur is revealed as an enemy to them both do they unite to protect all that they hold dear, including a love strong enough to shatter class boundaries.
One
Glasgow
March 1881
Polly Gowan had never heard the sound of a cannon shell ripping open, but the blast that rocked the rear of the textile mill must have been a small taste of combat. The south wall caved inward under the explosion. A blinding plume of smoke and debris slammed toward the looms below. Three giant machines disappeared in the wake of that chaos of powdered brick. Shocked, screaming workers stumbled and ran in all directions, as flames licked their heels.
Eyes wide, taking in every horrifying detail, Polly didn’t move. Her hands were still poised above the warp and weft of her own loom, the threads tangling from her lack of attention. She should move. Her thundering heart demanded flight. But she was consumed by one nauseating thought—one thought that meant the end of peace and safety for her people. And her family.
Tommy had gone through with his threat.
She held her aching stomach. The lightning-quick slam of that hideous realization gripped her hard, but not for long.
She kicked off the firing mechanism that powered the loom’s arms and pulleys. It was instinct; if the place didn’t burn to the ground, she might at least be able to salvage her work. Then she grabbed the hands of the nearest two little sweepers, Ellen and Kitty. They were sisters of only eight and ten, both as redheaded as Polly. At the next loom, Agnes Doward did the same with nearby apprentices. Together they gathered the children who worked the mill, most of whom had been scared into paralysis or equally useless screams.
“Come on now, lassies,” Polly shouted over the din. The harried calls of the other workers competed with the burn and crash. “Out we go. Out into the street. The fire brigade will be here in a wink.”
She doubted her own words. The fire brigade might eventually hurry to the scene, but only once they learned which building blazed. The chiefs knew how furious the mill masters would be if the factories were destroyed. The rest of Calton was simply not a priority.
“Polly,” Agnes called.
Looking back to where Agnes had nodded, Polly saw that a hole the size of a horse had opened in the south wall. Its near-circular shape was visible now that some of the dust had settled. Flames still crawled over the wool stores. Male workers did their best with water from an outside pump, working a chain of buckets and swatting the fires with overcoats.
What in the bloody hell had Tommy been thinking?
She tugged the girls’ hands a little too roughly. She’d sort out the culprit later, feeding him to the families of whoever came away from this sabotage with injuries. There were bound to be some. The explosion had been too large to leave everyone unscathed.
The crush toward the front and side exits was sizable and frenzied. Polly handed Ellen and Kitty to another worker, Constance Nells, and elbowed her way past a half dozen people. She hoisted her skirts and climbed atop two crates, an advantage of height that made her feel as brave as she needed to be. The panic wanting to break free would just have to wait. She needed to keep calm and set an example for the others.
If the factory burned . . .
Cupping her hands over her mouth, she shouted at the top of her lungs—which her ma had always said were the equal of a booming dockworker’s twice her size. That was not exactly flattering, but her strong voice was most useful today.
“Everyone, listen up!” For emphasis, she shouted it again in the Lowland Scots dialect they all shared. “Keep panicking if you want to burn alive. Whoever did this will win the day. They’ll be glad for it, knowing we reacted like animals. I, for one, would rather breathe clean air again. Now, you’ll bloody well calm down, keep care of the young ones, and behave like the Calton survivors you are!” She hooked a thumb back toward those who wor
ked to quench the flames. “And men, if you have any meat between your legs, you’ll help save our livelihoods!”
For the span of a breath, there was no human sound. She had silenced them all. Nods and strong words of agreement followed. And, to her astonished pride, the seventy workers at Christie Textiles found their civilized minds. The men hurried back to help the efforts against the fire. The women hoisted children onto their shoulders and gripped their small fingers. Doors parted under the push of unseen hands, letting in a stream of misty spring sunshine. The smoke sucked out into the street, and Polly could taste the coming rain.
Two hands reached up to help her down from the crates. It was Les MacNider, a tall, skinny firebrand who talked as well as any professor—but only on the topic of workers’ rights and the oppression of their people. Otherwise he was just as likely as any man to grunt vague replies and talk sport, gambling, and women. He was a loyal friend.
Polly accepted his aid in descending. “It was Tommy,” she whispered.
Les shook his head. Although he was only in his late thirties, he was mostly bald. “I won’t believe it. Not of Tommy.”
“There’s no time. Go help the other men. I’ll make sense of whatever awaits us out in the street.”
Les nodded again and added a grunt of agreement. He worked his lanky frame back through the factory to take up a position in the line of buckets. In the distance, the clang of the fire brigade’s bells offered some relief, bringing with it a familiar flare of indignation. Polly wondered how quickly they responded to emergencies in Blythswood Hill. But she didn’t indulge in bitterness. That way lay melancholy and a dependence on strong drink.
Or, in Tommy’s case, a yearning for violence.
She rushed out after the last of the escaping workers. The streets were full of people, from both the Christie mill and across the street. Her fellow workers wore soot and ash like an actor’s face paint, while those from Winchester’s appeared curious and concerned. Every building on the street was vulnerable if the winds shifted.