Starlight (43 page)

But as he looked into her eyes, he knew better. He was the one who’d been tamed, taught to love and need, and to trust in both.

“Are you with me, my love?”

She tried a weak smile. Her thighs were tense across his. “You’ve given me little choice, Professor Christie.”

He grinned at her use of his new title. Officially, he wouldn’t take his position at the University of Glasgow until they returned in March, but ever since learning of the pending appointment, she had insisted on using it whenever she felt like teasing. Which was often. At least it was a better moniker than
master
.

Except her quiet words were shadows of her regular self.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“Your family . . . what will they think of me?”

“I’ve never heard you doubt yourself.”

“I’ve never been minutes away from meeting the rest of the famed Christies.”

“The
notorious
Christies would be more accurate.”

“But my deportment lessons and tutoring, all my new clothes—what if they don’t matter? What if they think managing the mill while you teach isn’t respectable for a lady of my new standing?”

“Don’t belittle your role. I won’t have it. You do far more than manage the mill. You’re the linchpin to the whole operation, where the union meets the masters. And the school was your idea.”

He smiled at the memory of her reaction to Julian Bennett’s accusation that the weavers were all illiterate. A polite snarl had shaped her lips, and she’d sworn on the spot to prove him wrong. Of course Alex had supported her decision to begin mandatory schooling for the factory’s young people. He refused to simply
take
from the people of Calton. He would give back to the small community that had given him the joys of his life.

Yet a line of worry cut between her brows. “The last thing I want is to be looked upon with embarrassment by the people you love. Lord, Alex, I couldn’t stand that.”

“You remember what I told you about my stepmother, and about Viv. For pity’s sake, she’s a viscountess who’s been running a diamond brokerage! They’ll respect you all the more for the responsibilities you’ve assumed so diligently.” Slowly, he stripped her white kid gloves, which were edged with exquisite silver thread embroidery and lace. Bright green eyes watched as he pressed her bare palms to his cheeks. “We’re not a family of saints. Only one generation separates us, my love. My father was a child of Calton, just as you are. He belonged here,”
he said, nodding toward the brownstone. “And so do you.”

“I belong with you.”

“Then you’re in the right place.” He nuzzled her cheek, her neck, and down to the delectably soft flesh pillowed above her bodice. “My family will adore you because you’re a good woman. You bore me a beautiful daughter. You love Edmund as your own. And you’ve utterly transformed me into a man worth knowing and loving.”

“You were worth loving before,” she said with a hint of laughter. “You were just . . . tightly wound.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘broken.’ I didn’t know it at the time, but I was.”

“And now look at you. As filthy-minded as the next red-blooded male.” She dragged his face up from between her breasts. Her smile had widened—a return of the teasing he’d grown to adore. “I can hardly believe you stand before successful capitalists and wise scholars and keep a straight face.”

“I wouldn’t be able to if you were there to smirk at me.”

“I smirk out of love.”

“I’ll remind you of that next time you speak before the union. Turnabout is fair play.”

She reached around and pinched his bum. “The worst part is, I believe you would. Not that it’ll matter when we get back home. I could address them wearing nothing but bloomers and a bonnet, and they’d only care about the size of the bonuses you’ll hand out.”

“Everyone on that factory floor deserves a share of the Christie fortune. They made it possible.”

“They’ll name parks and important buildings after you—you wait and see.”

He shook his head. “I told you, Polly. It was never about the money, nor winning my father’s last challenge. It was about claiming the life I wanted, even if I didn’t understand that at the time. Others deserve a chance at so much happiness. Your brothers, your ma, even Tommy and Les and the rest. They’re part of you. In a way, they’re part of me, too.”

“Back to where the Christies came from. Going home.”

Feeling almost bashful, he smiled softly. “Something like that.”

She flung her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a quick kiss. The tip of her tongue pushed past his lips, infusing him with another jolt of masculine pride. He loved that he could do that to her, repeatedly, whenever they wanted.

“But believe me, Mrs. Christie, the bloomers and bonnet would still take precedence.”

“They might at that. Now in we go, before the coachman suspects our activities.”

After one last hot kiss, he whispered, “He’d be right to.”

Alex descended from the carriage and held out his hand—to be gentlemanly, for certain, but also as a means of admiring her radiant appearance. The midnight-blue gown had been custom-made in London before their departure for New York. The shimmers of brilliant silver and gold threads woven into the fabric reminded him so much of stars against a dark, infinite sky that he had flatly refused to heed her protests
over the cost. The sweeping neckline accentuated her bosom, while artful tucks, pleats, and a subtle bustle hinted at the mouthwatering feast of her curves. Matching blue and glittering silver ribbons adorned her bright auburn hair and trailed between shoulder blades swathed in a fur-lined winter pelisse.

She wore the gown effortlessly, as if born to such finery. Alex knew better and admired her all the more for it. His wife was infinitely brave. She would fit in just fine with the Christies.

With Polly on his arm and a heart near to bursting with satisfaction, he escorted her up the steps to the brownstone. They clung to one another whilst traversing little patches of ice and slushy snow, past clinging ivy vines withered by the cold, and into the soaring marble foyer.

“Alex!”

Viv practically ran out of the library and into his arms. Despite his surprise at his sister’s uncharacteristic jubilance, he held her with all of his strength. In a rush of words, she explained that she had indeed prospered while managing a diamond brokerage in Cape Colony. But the most surprising revelation occurred a few moments later when, joining her in the library, Alex watched her tuck along her husband’s side. Blocks of ice had been warmer when last he saw the pair.

Viscount Bancroft, weathered and tan and resplendently dressed, held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Alex. Glad you made it through in one piece.”

A little dumbfounded, Alex flicked a questioning glance toward his sister. She only smiled, as joyfully
as he could ever recall. The letters she’d penned from the Cape had hinted at her happiness, but this was far more than he’d dared hope.

Alex shook the man’s hand. “And you, my lord.”

“Call me Miles. Please. We’re past all that nonsense,” he said with a deprecating grin. His gaze shifted toward Polly. “And who is this magnificent creature?”

With more pride than a man should have the right to feel, Alex introduced his wife. Polly accepted their congratulations with grace and aplomb. Then her eyes alit on the portrait of Sir William above the huge fireplace aglow with a crackling fire.

“Well, well,” she said cheerily. “If that isn’t the very image of a man from Calton. You look a great deal like him, Alex.”

Viv laughed. “She’s not wrong. Now, you simply must tell me how you came to be married. My brother pens letters as if writing a scholarly treatise.”

Alex exchanged a grin with Polly but decided to save the topic for later. “We all have stories to share, I suspect. But where are the twins?”

“They haven’t arrived yet.”

“And Delavoir? I want to conclude these legal matters.”

“He stepped out briefly.” Viv glanced at her husband with an sly smile. “Something about giving us privacy?”

“Hush,” said the viscount. “You’ll embarrass the new Mrs. Christie.”

Polly giggled. “Oh, hardly.”

“Anyway, he said this letter is for you.” Viv’s
mischief receded. A glimmer of far deeper emotion wet her eyes. “It’s from Father. I received one, too. Just . . . prepare yourself.”

Alex nodded. His fingers were numb as he took the letter. “In that case, if you’ll excuse me.”

Polly followed him into the corridor, which was dim with long winter shadows. Briefly, he touched her face. She leaned into his palm before finding her bravest smile of the day. “Get on with it, then. I want to hear more about the Cape.”

He kissed her forehead, which she tucked against his shoulder. “I knew you’d find your feet.”

The hiss of gaslamps and his thudding heart were far louder than the rattle of servants in the kitchen. Polly kept her body pressed against his, but without needing to be asked, she kept her eyes discreetly lowered. In doing so, she offered both the stability and privacy he needed.

He opened the envelope.

My Alexander,

Circumstances both left us widowers with young sons. Whereas I fled the hardship of facing fatherhood on my own, you persevered. You do our name credit by raising Edmund with such devotion. No matter how you look back on the mistakes I regret, know that I love you both.

I am continually humbled by your intellect, just as I envy your faith in the permanence of this earth. You look at its solidity with assurance. I do not pen such words as a slight, my son, but as a confession of my amazement.
Always, I have craved proof of my success, while you possess the confidence to look skyward with a limitless imagination, to transcend these mortal bounds.

In Calton, I hope you’ve learned to better appreciate my origins, as I’ve endeavored, rather imperfectly, to appreciate you. Keep your fearless heart, my son. I wish you success in your undertakings and, perhaps one day, a love to see you through the rest of your life. My material wealth and your distant stars are naught but dust without the love of a bonny lass.

Your father,
William

Alex chuckled despite the stunned, humbled tension his father’s words had built beneath his chest. “He’s right, you know.”

“How’s that?” Polly lifted her face, full of silent questions.

“I’m a lucky man for having found a bonny lass.” He gathered her petite body in his arms. To hold her was to breathe and to hope. “I love you, Polly.”

She stood high on her tiptoes and kissed his lips. Even better was the soft way she whispered, “And I love you, Alex.”

No teasing now. Just the truth he carried every day in his heart. He threw a quick prayer of thanks up to where he hoped his father might hear. Then he led the woman he adored back into the library.

Continue reading for an exclusive excerpt from

Flawless

The Christies, Book One

Cape Town
March 1881

A
lthough
Miles stood well back from where the
Coronea
had docked, the push and crush of humanity threatened even his studiously crafted calm. Hordes of disembarking passengers wrestled with their belongings as they forged toward land.

The ripe stench of coal fires, harbor rot, and hundreds of bodies overpowered the clean salt of the ocean. Seabirds circled and swooped in a chaotic dance. Miles touched the back of his neck where a light wind teased his hair. The cool seaside air reminded him of Southampton.

I watched thee on the breakers, when all was storm and fear.

But Lord Byron’s words offered Miles no comfort, only an odd sort of foreboding.

Viv had left him a note. Yet another elegant, prissy note to say she was leaving.

So he’d sobered up. And made a decision.

After catching the first steamer back to England,
he’d evaded his father long enough to gamble his way into a bit of ready cash. Then it was off to Cape Town.

Vivienne Bancroft would come back to him. Willingly.

With a hand to his brow, he looked toward the luxury clipper’s topmost deck. Viv would be up there among that tangle of people, along with the manservant he’d sent to intercept her luggage.

Intercept . . . and then hold hostage.