Flawless (20 page)

His lips moved with purpose. He countered her moves to fit his hot mouth more securely over hers. Large, graceful hands at the back of her neck stalled any avenue for retreat, but she had no intention of backing away. Not before she had sipped her fill of this marvelous closeness. The public room they occupied, the servants who might walk in . . . she couldn’t bring herself to mind. Miles was kissing her. And she only wanted more.

Almost without sound, he pushed back from the breakfast table and sank to his knees, their mouths never parting. In fact, he took the kiss deeper—all tongues and aggressive breaths—as he settled between her legs. Arms made powerful by certainty wrapped around her upper back and bowed her down, down to his level, until the starched lace of her bodice crushed against his shirtfront. Her softness. His hard strength. Viv shivered. Her breasts ached. Her whole body—craved more.

She brought her tongue into the fray, stroking his lower lip. Miles moaned at her acquiescence and pulled her flush. Tension that had been gathering between them snapped her skin and tingled in her blood. This was Miles. Every dirty thought, every wicked impulse, every denied need—he
was their personification. That she’d staved him off this long seemed impossible to believe.

Her traitorous heart had settled upon imagining him much more heroic, which was absurd, even dangerous. But perhaps she could be safe if she just let their bodies come together. If this is what they needed to endure one another’s company, they would have it. Hope and trust and emotion could be locked away, leaving only the elemental fact that she desired her husband.

The slide of her palms along his jaw was no longer enough. She wanted a glimpse of the body he had forged beneath the African sun. Shoving her hands inside his suit coat, she found a soft cotton shirt warmed by his body. His second moan urged her on. Viv became a twister over an open field, laying waste to the woman she’d worked tirelessly to become. A quick tug on his ascot, his collar, his buttons, and she pushed the fine white shirt over his shoulders.

Miles looked toward the ceiling and swallowed. Such an incredible view—from his taut throat to his flat, ridged stomach. She eased off her chair and knelt with him, belly to belly, and stripped him from the waist up. With her fingertips, she traced the pattern of dark hair around his flat nipples, along his defined pectorals, and down to where it arrowed out of sight. Never had she seen him so bronzed, so robust. Even the pink scar along his collarbone reminded her of the startling violence he’d brought to bear for her protection.

She dug deeper. Nails scored his skin.

Dear God, what am I doing?

Touching. Needing. Scraping every inch of flesh she wanted to lick, then tracing those marks with her tongue. No longer so uncertain, she ran the outside of her hand along the front placket of his trousers. He hissed softly as she traced the hard line of his erection. Bolder, she took gentle hold and squeezed.

He yanked her hand away and pushed her back. His nostrils flared wide. His lips were slightly swollen. Wet streaks over pale red scratches crisscrossed from his collarbones to his lowest ribs.

I did that.

Miles blanked his expression. He stood without preamble, helped her to her feet, and gathered the pencil, ledger, and newspaper. His clothing came next, as if gathering those personal items was just as casual. “Will you dine with me this evening? We can discuss what comes of our meetings with the Penberthy family. And I have an idea for the business. I’d like to share it with you.”

How was his voice so remarkably calm? Viv felt ripped open. Her knees barely held her weight. The beat of her heart echoed in her ears and at the apex of her thighs.

“Yes,” she managed to say, still dazed. “That would be . . .” She swallowed. “That would be nice.”

“Good. Say, the Ford Inn? I’ll meet you there at eight.”

“All right.”

“Well, then.” He exhaled tightly. Tension warped his wide bare shoulders. The strong line of his jaw was shot through with stiffness. At least he offered those clues, even if his
demeanor was as polite as . . . well, as polite as she’d always desired of her husband.

“I’m off to the Hole to meet with Barnaby’s overseer,” he said. “We get more slag from them than anyone else. I’m tempted to raise their fees. And then, of course, I must con the Board out of a few more pounds to meet our day-to-day needs.” He shook his head. “Uncomfortable business, all of it.”

And with that, he departed. Viv sank onto her chair. One silver cufflink caught the sunlight moving across the carpet. She picked it up, although sensation in her fingertips was blunted. Someday soon it would happen. There would be no stopping. She only hoped to protect her heart from what her body so recklessly demanded.

Parched and dizzy with desire, she picked up her cup of cold tea and drank it down to the dregs. Unlike when taking tea with Lady Galeworth, her hands would not stop shaking.

C
onvincing Ike Penberthy to accept
employment at the brokerage hadn’t been as difficult as Miles imagined. Two weeks without steady work would do that to a man . . . and his pride.

Make him desperate.

Make him shake and shiver at having a taste of what he desired.

Miles escaped the memory of that morning’s heated encounter, just as he had when speaking before the brokerage’s Board of Directors. After sweet-talking them with his most effective snake charmer’s smile—the one that Viv alone seemed able to resist—he’d gone straight to find Penberthy. As a general rule, Miles put little stock in formal education when push shoved against experience. After all he’d gone to Eton and didn’t trust himself to properly tie an ascot. But Ike Penberthy had both. Ignoring such a valuable asset was as wasteful as leaving that pile of carbons to languish in the brokerage’s basement.

The niggling idea in Miles’s mind would not be quiet.

He walked the silent Cornish miner to the office, intent on making introductions and showing him the ropes. The day was downright chilly—the first cold snap Miles had experienced in the colony. But rather than turning thoughts toward his own slight discomfort, he supposed that the miners in the Hole would eagerly welcome the relief.

As he unlocked the vestibule door and ushered Penberthy inside, he wondered when he had become such a dogooder.

“Good morning, my lord,” Mr. Smets said, rising from his desk. “I didn’t expect you to visit today. Your charming wife is more often our company.”

“My charming wife is paying social calls this morning.”

“Ah, probably for the best.”

Miles made sure to take offense on Viv’s behalf. She’d been pulling her hair out over the bookkeeping. Money came and went with the irregularity of a bat’s flight path. He had ideas and charm and influence, but she had the brain for minutiae he sorely lacked.

He greeted James and Franc where they sat dealing out yet another hand of poker. Did they ever actually work? No, their work was simply maintaining a dependable presence. Few would harass the Christie office as long as their rumps were settled and their eyes intent on a string of five new cards—although the old urge to sit for a hand made him edgy.

No. Focus.

“Mr. Smets, this is Ike Penberthy of Cornwall. I have a special task for him.”

“Of course,” Smets said, shaking Penberthy’s hand. “Your wish is our command.”

Now it was Miles’ss turn to find offense. To say he was unused to subtle barbs would be a lie; the nobility made an art form of such means of communication. But he
was
unused to being on the receiving end of sarcasm from a commoner. Deference was generally the order of the day. Although the Cape was Her Majesty’s colony, it most certainly was not Britain.

“This is not a whim or a charitable endeavor, Mr. Smets, no more than your position within this firm. I will remind you to watch your manners, sir.”

“My apologies, my lord,” he said with a quaver to his voice. “Anything I can do to make Mr. Penberthy welcome, please let me know.”

“I require only two things from you this morning: a pen and paper, and an escort to wherever you store the carbons.”

Smets’s eyes bulged slightly. “The carbons? Whatever for?”

“Questions, sir, were not on my list of requirements. Now, if you please?”

The appraiser led Miles and his guest to the basement. Penberthy was like a child who stayed silent and small so as not to attract the attention of a cruel headmaster. That had never been Miles; he’d hurl a spitball or test a fresh new curse word, an ongoing experiment to determine how long his status would protect his backside. Viv had been the first person to stand up to him since his voice changed.

“Paper and pens are upstairs with the bookkeeping,”
Smets said upon unlocking the basement door. “Shall I show you there, too, my lord?”

“Quit simpering, Smets. I want obedience, not slavering. And I’ll find the paper myself.” He held out his hand for the basement door key, then made a brushing motion. “Off you go. I’ll inform you of Mr. Penberthy’s responsibilities before I take my leave.”

Smets offered a hasty bow and departed. Penberthy was smiling.

“Amused?” Miles asked dryly.

The blond man shook his head. “It must be like magic, being able to do that.”

“Pull rank?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

They passed through the door and down two more steps to a dark crawl space. The air was replete with cool dampness. “I know where I’ll be spending next summer.”

“You could sell tickets, my lord.”

“If diamond prices keep tumbling, that may be our only recourse.” He found a lantern and lit the wick. Like a geological boil, a four-foot pile of carbons swelled up from the center of the tight room. “Well, well. I wasn’t expecting quite so many. But this is a boon.”

He held the lantern with one hand and scooped up a fistful of carbons with the other. Penberthy extracted a jeweler’s glass from his pocket and leaned in to take a look.

“I knew you’d prove useful,” Miles said. “How did I know that?”

Penberthy grinned. “You’re an astute judge of character?”

“Only across a card table. What do you see?”

Bringing a single carbon close to the lantern, Penberthy squinted into his glass. “I’ll need more light to see much of anything, that’s for certain.”

“You’ll have it.”

“High-quality carbons, though, my lord. That much I can say straightaway.”

“What’s the difference?”

Penberthy hummed under his breath, made some grunting, appreciative noise, and then nodded a few times. “Very good indeed. Gem-quality brilliants are graded and valued on their color and clarity, but that says nothing about their durability. They’re exceedingly hard, of course, but a glancing blow can crack them along tiny fault lines.”

“No good for industry.”

“Correct.”

“And these?”

“Durable, my lord. Not just hard but with fewer fault lines than I’ve ever seen. These would grind away slowly, not cleave in two. Some in the Cornwall schools suggested their use for mining, but nothing ever came of it.”

Miles examined the carbons he held with a new eye. He couldn’t see what Penberthy saw. Instead he pictured something else entirely: a future.

And he had an idea of how to harness it.

“I want you to take your time with this, Penberthy. Sort them by whatever grading system you see fit, catalogue
quantities, et cetera. You’ll work until the project is complete, or until we run out of funds to pay you.”

Relief drained the man of tension. He shook Miles’s hand with happy vigor. “I’ll get to work right away, my lord.”

“Good. I’ll find you paper and light.”

Miles climbed the stairs in the dark, the image of Penberthy’s face still in his mind. The man was relieved, excited, grateful. The job not only suited his talents, but he would have work for weeks. His family would not suffer. That Miles could bring about such a match of individual and purpose leant a queer rhythm to his heart.

The responsibility Penberthy shouldered for the welfare of his wife and children must be crushing. Miles swallowed twice just thinking about it. For all of their ambition, he and Viv would fare well even if they fell short of Old Man Christie’s posthumous dare. Her siblings might offer a hand, as would members of his extended family. Worse case, his vote in Parliament would always carry a hefty price tag. Their pride would suffer as poor relations, but they would never know hunger.

If Viv stopped long enough to consider her options, she might admit the same. Her determination stemmed entirely from a desire to leave him again. Permanently this time.

Miles stopped on the top step, shuddering, as if this were the first time he had actually contemplated such a thought. Viv would leave. Or he would leave her—his original plan for revenge. But after what they had shared that morning . . .

It felt like a new start.

“Mr. Smets.” Miles was a little breathless upon returning
to the ground floor, but it had nothing to do with physical exertion. “Four more lanterns for Mr. Penberthy.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“That’s more like it.”

Miles took the steps two at a time to the upper story and found the bookkeeping room. Leather and stale air reminded him of Christie’s library. What had Gareth called it?
A polite dungeon.
This cramped office barely warranted even that denigration, hardly bigger than a closet. He tried to imagine Viv sitting here for hours on end, every day, her delicate neck craned over dusty old volumes and ledgers. To his surprise the scene came easily to mind.

Then he played out a fantasy: he would come to her by surprise one afternoon. Her fatigued eyes would light up upon catching sight of him in the doorway. He would rub the back of her neck with gentle, calming strokes, easing the stiffness. Making love would be a tricky endeavor, what with the cramped space and the men downstairs. But they would manage well enough, whispering and shushing each other like naughty young people evading a chaperone.