motivating an impromptu militia, Miles, Viscount Bancroft, was no hero. But he was her partner. No denying that they needed to clear the air.
“Only because you asked.”
“I’ll remember that for the future.” He flashed a cocky, disarming smile—one that, coming from any other man, would’ve elicited a disgusted sniff. Instead her blush deepened.
He glanced around the room as he entered, then slumped into the nearest chair. The floral brocade and stuffed cushions only accentuated the long, angular lines of his negligentposture. He pulled an oblong scatter pillow from behind his back and tossed it aside.
“Like your accommodations?”
“Quite,” she said by rote.
In truth she’d hardly paid the room any mind, so occupied had been her thoughts. A pale yellow wood, polished to a high sheen, bordered the door and every window casing. Gilt trim touched the edges of the room’s two mirrors and four picture frames, all of which lent the interior a sunny disposition. The luxurious details continued: cream lace curtains, a table and chairs embellished with quatrefoils of the Gothic style, and two matched wardrobes wrought from some exotic tree, perhaps teak—a dark contrast to the brighter accents. A feather duvet covered in white brushed cotton stretched across a four-poster bed, with decadent, colorful pillows strewn along the curling brass headboard. Mosquito netting draped in neat swoops from floor to ceiling.
And her astonishing balcony! How enticing to sleep with the whispers of an exotic land lulling her to sleep. Now it was hers, the doors open wide to a night like she’d never known: calm yet exhilarating, filled with unfamiliar sounds and all-too-familiar impulses. From her balcony, on the crest of the bluff upon which the manor looked down over Kimberley, she could see the city’s more extravagant homes brightened by electrical lighting.
Was Miles due the credit for her beautiful bedchamber? So tasteful and comforting, it could’ve been pulled from the place in her mind that most desired a safe, luxurious spaceof her own. She hardly wanted to ask, dreading how poorly her pride would endure expressing her appreciation.
With Miles still silent, she crossed to sit on the settee, where they faced off like polite gladiators. Get on with it, she thought—screaming the words in her mind. Get this over with.
But he stretched his legs and crossed his ankles, settling in as if he had no destination, no purpose. The cocky smile turned taunting.
She pulled her arms into the shelter of her abdomen. “I cannot get used to this place.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. He seemed as taken aback by her words as she was. “The contradictions, you mean.”
Again Viv was disconcerted by how accurately he was able to judge her moods. That hadn’t happened back in England. Not ever. She could have written detailed explanations on every inch of expensive French wallpaper in their town home and he would have missed the point entirely. Perhaps even intentionally. Here, his uncanny ability was becoming habit.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “That’s it exactly. As poor as any hovel in the London stews and then . . . this .”
“I quite like it. At least here we can’t ignore those who finance our livings. We can avoid making eye contact when we pass them on the street, but they’re a constant reminder of the human toll of mining.”
“You like that reminder?”
“It keeps a man humble.”
She couldn’t help but snort. “Hardly.”
His teasing expression faded. “And any man it doesn’t humble . . . Well, then we’ll be better able to understand the high-end bastards with whom we’re competing.”
Even while sparring, he was assessing this place. Viv wanted to think of the process as an extension of his passion for gambling. Did that explain the dedication with which he approached each uncharacteristic task? Just a series of dares?
“Enough of this sad-sack talk,” he said, rising with more grace
“Only because you asked.”
“I’ll remember that for the future.” He flashed a cocky, disarming smile—one that, coming from any other man, would’ve elicited a disgusted sniff. Instead her blush deepened.
He glanced around the room as he entered, then slumped into the nearest chair. The floral brocade and stuffed cushions only accentuated the long, angular lines of his negligentposture. He pulled an oblong scatter pillow from behind his back and tossed it aside.
“Like your accommodations?”
“Quite,” she said by rote.
In truth she’d hardly paid the room any mind, so occupied had been her thoughts. A pale yellow wood, polished to a high sheen, bordered the door and every window casing. Gilt trim touched the edges of the room’s two mirrors and four picture frames, all of which lent the interior a sunny disposition. The luxurious details continued: cream lace curtains, a table and chairs embellished with quatrefoils of the Gothic style, and two matched wardrobes wrought from some exotic tree, perhaps teak—a dark contrast to the brighter accents. A feather duvet covered in white brushed cotton stretched across a four-poster bed, with decadent, colorful pillows strewn along the curling brass headboard. Mosquito netting draped in neat swoops from floor to ceiling.
And her astonishing balcony! How enticing to sleep with the whispers of an exotic land lulling her to sleep. Now it was hers, the doors open wide to a night like she’d never known: calm yet exhilarating, filled with unfamiliar sounds and all-too-familiar impulses. From her balcony, on the crest of the bluff upon which the manor looked down over Kimberley, she could see the city’s more extravagant homes brightened by electrical lighting.
Was Miles due the credit for her beautiful bedchamber? So tasteful and comforting, it could’ve been pulled from the place in her mind that most desired a safe, luxurious spaceof her own. She hardly wanted to ask, dreading how poorly her pride would endure expressing her appreciation.
With Miles still silent, she crossed to sit on the settee, where they faced off like polite gladiators. Get on with it, she thought—screaming the words in her mind. Get this over with.
But he stretched his legs and crossed his ankles, settling in as if he had no destination, no purpose. The cocky smile turned taunting.
She pulled her arms into the shelter of her abdomen. “I cannot get used to this place.”
Miles raised his eyebrows. He seemed as taken aback by her words as she was. “The contradictions, you mean.”
Again Viv was disconcerted by how accurately he was able to judge her moods. That hadn’t happened back in England. Not ever. She could have written detailed explanations on every inch of expensive French wallpaper in their town home and he would have missed the point entirely. Perhaps even intentionally. Here, his uncanny ability was becoming habit.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “That’s it exactly. As poor as any hovel in the London stews and then . . . this .”
“I quite like it. At least here we can’t ignore those who finance our livings. We can avoid making eye contact when we pass them on the street, but they’re a constant reminder of the human toll of mining.”
“You like that reminder?”
“It keeps a man humble.”
She couldn’t help but snort. “Hardly.”
His teasing expression faded. “And any man it doesn’t humble . . . Well, then we’ll be better able to understand the high-end bastards with whom we’re competing.”
Even while sparring, he was assessing this place. Viv wanted to think of the process as an extension of his passion for gambling. Did that explain the dedication with which he approached each uncharacteristic task? Just a series of dares?
“Enough of this sad-sack talk,” he said, rising with more grace
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