Flawless (12 page)

The room had turned hot, exacerbating his temper. “You have one month. I’ll concede exactly thirty days so that you can settle and relax and whatever else you need to do. That gives me thirty days to prove that I’m in earnest: no cigars and all that. And don’t delude yourself that such a bargain will be simple to uphold. Habits are habits.”

That was the closest he would come to admitting her particular stipulations might be more than he could deliver.
But he would not relent. More determined than he’d ever been amid the softness of a nobleman’s life, he would not lose this test of wills.

“Then, Vivie, you will submit to our terms.”

With the movements of a creature hewn of iron, not flesh, she sat primly on a wingback chair. “I understand. Good evening then, Miles.”

Before he could think, before he could feel too deeply, he crossed to where she sat. That trembling in his fingertips increased, like a thunderstorm gaining strength with every mile of drenched earth. He felt blustery and wind-tossed.

Pressing his palms along each armrest, he leaned over. “Lift your chin,” he said hoarsely.

“Pardon me?”

“Like you did just a moment ago, daring me to strip off your corset. Lift your chin.”

The apples of her cheeks turned rosy, but she obeyed. Heavy-lidded hazel eyes snapped and sparked with an energy to match his own.

There
was his Vivie.

The unconscious hauteur. The disdain and fire. The animosity that could flip so easily into passion.

And sweet Christ, he could see the inside swell of her breast where the silken wrap gaped in loose folds. Shadows and the color of sweat cream shifted with her every breath. Powder pink nipples, he remembered. Until they darkened beneath the attention he lavished.

A bolt of pure lust coiled through his body, igniting his blood like a match to oil. He leaned in. That traitorous
pulse pounded a tympanum’s rhythm along the side of her neck—the only tell he’d yet found. Otherwise she held still and waited, daring him as much as he challenged her.

Miles brushed his lips against the flawless skin of her throat. She still smelled like Viv, but darker, hotter, bathed in the scent of sun and earthy perfume. He’d only stolen the briefest contact when he’d kissed her nape. Now he wanted more.

Mouth open, he kissed her again and flicked out his tongue, indulging in her salty taste. He lingered there, nipping little bites along that taut tendon, up, up, to the elegant curve of her jaw. With the tip of his nose he traced back to her earlobe, then suckled that sensitive flesh. She gasped softly—bloody hell, just enough invitation. Take more. Demand what they both craved. Blood pounded in his ears and in his cock. His lungs had stopped providing his starved body with oxygen. He squeezed the armrests until the tiny bones in his hands threatened to explode.

“Tell me to go,” he whispered against the skin he’d wet.

She swallowed—and hesitated. “Go.”

With a curt nod, Miles straightened. Her pupils were wide, her plump mouth slightly open.
Thank God.
He’d have dropped to the floor in a melted heap had she remained unaffected.

“Good evening, Lady Bancroft,” he said, then closed the bedroom door behind him.

V
iv broke her fast at
Chloe’s side, with the young woman propped on fluffy pillows covered in fine, pale pink cotton.

“My lady, I’m embarrassed and—”

“Enough,” Viv said gently. She buttered another piece of bread, topped it with strawberry preserves, and handed it to her maid. “I’ve endured the company of far less genial patients. Trust me on that score. Besides, if I stay here with you, I can delay becoming properly acquainted with the names and personalities of our household staff.”

“Are you anxious, my lady?”

“Not anxious so much. Overwhelmed, perhaps. The enormity of this whole venture.” Viv licked a bit of jam from her fingertip, only stopping herself when that flick of tongue reminded her of Miles’s kiss. “But, one step at a time, yes? And that goes for you.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ll have hot water brought in for your bath. The rejuvenating properties of such a luxury cannot be underestimated.”

“Oh, my lady, I couldn’t. The basin is fine.” Her sapphire eyes were still clouded with turbulent emotions, but at least she ate and talked. The frightening catatonia of the previous days had, thankfully, ebbed.

“Believe me, sinking into hot water this morning made every agonizing minute of travel worth abiding.”

She’d even dozed lightly after scrubbing her skin with a bar of lemony oil-and-glycerin soap. That she’d dreamt of Miles had been no surprise—not after her fitful night reliving his open-mouthed kiss. A whispered plea for more had been
right there
. Sitting on her tongue. Demanding to be said. To be left wanting by her husband was generally a dread she reserved for matters of the heart, not the body.

Suddenly parched, she finished her tea with a hasty swallow.

“Anyway, Chloe, I insist. After you’ve cleaned and dressed, you’ll be as eager as ever. I just know it. You simply
must
be as revived as I am or else how will you keep up with my unfashionably boundless energy?”

Chloe tittered softly, her smile shy. But then, with a gratifyingly familiar gleam, she asked, “And may I use your bath salts, my lady?”

Viv spontaneously hugged her maid. “Yes, you silly dear. But only if you lie abed today. Promise me.”

The girl crossed her heart. “Promise.”

A lightness in Viv’s chest banished some of her dark doubts. If her maid was up to resuming her little requests—for a piece of lace, to borrow a hair comb—then she would be fine. Chloe was a good girl, a loyal companion, and a tireless
worker. But she enjoyed life’s little fineries. Often she had been reprimanded by housekeepers and mistresses for such an unforgivable foible, but Viv enjoyed her boldness. Any young woman able to ask for what she wanted should be honored for having made the effort.

Perhaps she admired the trait because Viv herself had never managed it.

She dressed, requiring Chloe’s help only to secure her corset and the back of her hunter green waistjacket. She flounced her green and white skirts, replete with trimmings and lace that now seemed ostentatious. No matter. If she intended to succeed in Kimberley, she needed to make the role her own. Part nobility. Part entrepreneur. Her custom-fitted Parisian ensemble was necessary armor.

“But you
must
let me do your hair, my lady. A simple bun will not suit. Not at all.”

Before Viv could protest, the young woman had scampered out of bed with the vigor of a child after too much cocoa. She tugged her own waist-length brown hair into a quick plait, then joined Viv where she sat at the vanity table. Chloe worked steadily with pins, curls, and irons. An absolute magician of fashionable coiffure. Her mood seemed to improve. Every observation she had yet to speak—about the docks, the raid, the town—streamed forth in a reassuring stream of chatter.

“All finished, my lady.”

A blonde coronet of artful curls topped Viv’s head, woven through with shimmering ribbons that matched her ensemble and brought out the green in her eyes. Hearing
her maid so improved had lightened Viv’s mood, but Chloe’s skillful concoction made her feel like a real lady again.

“Oh, Chloe. Just . . . perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Go rest now,” Viv said once more, rising. “Enjoy your bath and take your meals in here. I’ll make sure someone sends you a bit of cake or the like. That sweet tooth must be indulged, at least for today.”

Chloe giggled.

“Tomorrow we can return to normal. And I’d love your company when I investigate what this town has by way of shops and culture.”

Feeling delightfully refreshed, Viv made her way to the kitchen. The corridor was decorated with ivory flocked wallpaper, with wainscoting and crown moldings in that same distinctive pale yellow wood. A thick dark green carpet runner padded her steps. Although no pictures yet adorned the walls, vases of dried flowers decorated various points throughout the house: the landing of the front staircase, the foyer, a little writing desk in the main parlor. Airy lace curtains fluttered at each window, through which gentle gusts ushered in the dry morning air.

Past a study, a smaller parlor, and the staff’s quarters, Viv found the kitchen simply by following her nose. The scents of some roast or maybe a salty stew mingled with fresh bread. The noise, too, gave away the room as the busiest in the manor.

“Ah, my lady,” said a woman with a distinctly Kentish
accent. “Good to see you up and looking so well. I’m Mrs. Shelby, the housekeeper. “

“Thank you, and it’s lovely to make your acquaintance.”

Mrs. Shelby stood no taller than Viv’s collarbone, but she flounced through her domain with a sprightliness that belied her age and weight. She wore a starched dress the color of spring grass and a faultless white apron. Her hair, like a nest of copper and silver filaments, was pinned high atop her head. Skin beset by wrinkles in the usual places—around her mouth, at the corners of her eyes—remained soft. She must have been very pretty in her youth. Now a mature woman, she exuded a confidence and spirited cheer that Viv appreciated.

“This is Louise, the cook,” Mrs. Shelby said. “My son, Jamie, is the lad who brought in your bathwater. He keeps the stables and helps maintain the house.”

“We have horses?” Viv asked.

A half-eaten apple in his hands, Adam leaned against the end of the butcher-block table where Louise kneaded dough. “Lord Bancroft finally broke down and bought a pair of matched fillies and a barouche last week—in anticipation of your arrival, my lady.”

“What had he been using?”

Adam flashed a grin. “He prefers . . . walking.”

The notion of Miles walking from place to place struck Viv as unbelievably comic. This from a man who’d once ordered his carriage brought around so that he needn’t walk from their town house to a solicitor’s residence some ninety yards distant.

“Unbelievable, I know. But he’s . . . changed.” Adam shook his head and blanked his expression. “And of course, Mr. Shelby is sleeping.”

Mrs. Shelby clucked over the cook’s shoulder, apparently unpleased by the progress of Louise’s bread-making. “My husband,” the housekeeper said. “He stands guard at night, so he won’t be up and about until after supper. He helps with the more difficult chores that Jamie can’t perform.”

Miles had done all of this? In just a few short months? Bad enough that he had behaved like some avenging hero. He had also found some deep reserve of perfect decorum, even hiring the right people for household tasks.

She should thank him. And even that urge was surprising. All of this was just so . . .
unexpected
.

And she hated the cowardly cringe pulling at her insides. How difficult should it be to thank one’s husband? Immeasurably so, when she’d been the one to initiate their estrangement, and when she’d been set so firmly in the habit of believing him a wastrel.

Yet she’d managed, during those quiet moments after the way station attack. His actions had been so astonishing, so heroic, that her appreciation had been easy to express. Perhaps if she learned to praise what little good he managed, she would encourage him to take her feelings into consideration as well.

“Where is his Lordship?” she asked Adam.

“Gone to the Ford Inn, actually. I hadn’t realized he was up and about.”

“What for?”

“No notion. Probably something to do with giving testimony about the raid. As a nobleman, his word may hold more weight.”

“So terribly honorable, what His Lordship did for those coaches,” Mrs. Shelby said. Louise grunted her agreement as she hefted four loaves of dough into the oven. “It’s been the talk of Kimberley since you arrived, my lady.”

Viv wanted to sit down. This was too much. Miles had become a saint.

You don’t know him.

She felt compelled to set the record straight, with far fewer rose-colored impressions. This version of her husband was unforgivably cruel, making her feel what she hadn’t dared in years: hope.

Although words of protest edged forward on her tongue, she could not give them voice. To be honest, Viv didn’t know who he was either—or at least who he’d become in the Cape. And she was hardly so callous as to dispel this fairy tale on the off chance it wasn’t a fiction.

Her heart gave a little flutter. She
wanted
that fiction to be true.

“Otherwise,” Adam said, “you both have an appointment at two o’clock to meet with Mr. Pieter Smets. He’ll introduce you to the workings of the clearing house and show you the books.”

Viv blinked. “And how was that managed on such short notice?”

“By paying his manservant incredibly well.” He paused, his smile faltering. “How is Chloe?”

“Much improved. She’ll be up and about tomorrow, I assure you.”

“Good.” Viv caught a glimmer of something unsaid on the man’s deceptively youthful face, but it disappeared too quickly. He was nearly as agile of mind as his master. “Lord Bancroft left a note asking that you meet him at the Ford. Shall I have Jamie hitch the carriage for you, my lady?”

“Yes, please.”

Twenty minutes later she accepted Adam’s hand up into the carriage. Just before young Jamie set off, she couldn’t help her curiosity. “Adam? His Lordship walked to the hotel, didn’t he?”

“Yes, my lady, he did.”

Inside the lobby of the
Ford Inn, businessmen sat on fat leather chairs, their heads permanently crooked into the folds of their newspapers. Trails of cigar and pipe smoke lifted toward the ceiling as if from small campfires. Viv paid them only cursory notice. Her attention was immediately snared by Miles.

He leaned against the concierge’s desk, his posture comfortingly familiar in its negligence. As were his garments. Good gracious, they were in civilization now—or what passed for it this far out on the Karoo. He wore the world’s best clothing with silent disdain, much like his title. Although the midnight blue wool suit was classically handsome, he ruined its impeccable cut by leaving the coat unbuttoned. His sloppily tied ascot meant he had attempted the task of dressing without Adam’s help, but the bright white silk accentuated the vibrant caramel color of his tanned skin.