Desire Wears Diamonds

by Renee Bernard

  She laughed and took a seat. “No risk of that! And may I say that I find I don’t fear breaking any of your chairs.” She patted the solid cushion beneath her. “Yours is the more welcoming parlor, it appears.”

  “Or simply the sturdier of the two,” he noted. He sat down across from her and Grace had to blink at the picture he unconsciously made of a large cat stretching out in the patterns of light from the window. He was truly handsome in a rugged way that ignited her imagination and awoke her senses. There was nothing affected in his manners, nothing practiced or polished. He was as different from her brother as the sun from the moon. “I know why you’re here, Miss Porter.”

  “Do you?” she asked, a bolt of astonishment making her sit up a little straighter.

  “I was a boorish brute today. Your brother’s maneuvers are not very subtle and you wish to beg off of attending the ball. You’d begun to tell me at the horse market when your brother came over.” He smoothed one hand down his shirt front. “I don’t blame you for it, Miss Porter. While not either of our doing, I’m the first one to forgive you for expressing disgust or—”

  “Oh!” Grace pressed a hand to her throat. “Your powers for clairvoyance fail you, sir.”

  “Then I…apologize,” he spoke softly. “I’m trying to imagine what else would bring you to the Grove. Does Sterling know you’re here?”

  “No! I came,” she began but then hesitated. “I came because…it’s a tangle, isn’t it?”

  “Just start with one end of the string and let’s see where it goes.”

  Grace steadied herself and decided that where logic failed, the heart would have to lead. “We were interrupted this morning, but you were about to tell me what is it between you and my brother.”

  “Was I?”

  “Mr. Rutherford,” Grace tapped her foot impatiently. “If you are trying to be evasive, it isn’t working. If you know what it is that is pushing my brother to act so erratically, out with it.”

  “Here we are!” Mrs. Clay sang out, a large tray of baked goods and a teapot and cups providing an excuse for the intrusion. “As promised, lemon biscuits! And I added a few things to make more of an occasion of it, if no one objects to jam tarts and apple twists. I took the liberty of bringing cider as well.”

  Michael had to swallow relief at the timely interruption. He’d hoped to never have this conversation with Grace and felt like an idiot for not anticipating her questions. If small talk terrified him, lying had even less appeal. Especially to her…

  “Thank you, Mrs. Clay. How kind of you,” he said, standing to take the tray from her. “It’s a feast.”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Clay demurred, relinquishing her burden. “I didn’t want Miss Porter to think poorly of the Grove or our care for my fav—“

  “Thank you, Mrs. Clay,” he repeated quickly, cutting her off as kindly as he could. He gave her an apologetic look that he hoped would soften the blow. “I’ll—serve Miss Porter and see to things.”

  To his relief, Mrs. Clay’s surprise faded to understanding, although he would have gladly forgone the knowing wink she gave him as she retreated for the stairs. “Anything else, simply ring the bell, Mr. Rutherford.”

  As if that didn’t look completely awkward, damn it!

  “She likes you very much, doesn’t she?” Grace noted with a sage smile.

  “Yes.” He set the tray down on a side table near the chairs. “Biscuit?”

  Grace crossed her arms. “You’re a lucky man to have such a sweet landlady and—“

  “Please,” he said, his throat closing a bit around the word. “It’s…” He sank back down into his chair, aware that a gentleman did not just flop down while a lady stood presently, but helpless to stop the impulse. He was a man on the brink of defeat. “Do you remember how enthralled you were with the idea of appearing mysterious, Miss Porter?”

  She nodded, retaking her own seat, instantly dismissing the breech of etiquette. “I still am.”

  “Well, I have always guarded the—details of my life. It is a habit curried over time and I cannot lie. The mere idea that you are here, that you might know how significant the Grove is, that this is—if not by blood, then by accident and choice, that this is my family and my home; it sets me back on my heels, Miss Porter.”

  “Why?” she whispered earnestly.

  “You are sure that Sterling does not know you’re here?” he asked.

  She shook her head firmly. “I gave no indication of where I was going when I left the house. But,” she tipped her head to one side as if to make a good study of him. “If you don’t finish telling me why you are so disheartened to have the great secret of lemon-biscuit-wielding-landladies revealed, I might panic and strike you with that tray, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “I count myself warned, Miss Porter,” he said, fighting the urge to laugh. “Let me clarify. It’s disheartening to have anything of my life so easily discovered after—I thought myself very secure from casual scrutiny. No.” Michael stopped himself. “It’s more than that. I enjoyed the illusion of being an enigma.”

  She smiled back at him. “What person doesn’t?”

  “You’ll keep my secrets then? As I’ve kept yours?”

  She held out her hand solemnly. “I am not sure what critical knowledge I’ve uncovered, Mr. Rutherford, but I swear that whatever passes between us will forever remain a confidence.”

  He took her hand and savored the odd ritual. “As I am still at a loss about the events on Oxford Street, we are in agreement. Whatever passes between us will forever remain—in the strictest confidence.”

  She wore gloves while his hands were bare, but the elegant blades of her fingers and the sweet warmth of her touch began to ensnare his imagination and distract him from vows and promises.

  “We are conspirators, Mr. Rutherford.”

  This time there was no stopping the laughter she provoked and he gave in to it—and to the ridiculous illogical reality that Grace Porter was perched across from him in the Grove holding his hand and keeping his secrets.

  “Conspirators,” he repeated when he could, reluctantly releasing his hold on her hand. “God help us.”

  “Mr. Rutherford,” she said, straightening in her chair and then taking a lemon biscuit. “Tell me.”

  “Tell you?”

  “What is it between you and Sterling?” she asked.

  “Michael let out a long slow exhale before he answered her. “We met in Bengal. It wasn’t the best of…circumstances. I meant what I said before. I think I am a ghost from his past that he would rather not encounter but also one he’s been looking for, if that makes sense.”

  “It doesn’t.” She took a small bite from the biscuit. “Should I worry more, Mr. Rutherford? Is there something sinister in all of this?”

  Lie. The truth gains you nothing, costs you her trust and puts you on the wrong side of the Jackal’s sights. All the ground I’ve gained to get within striking distance of this man, all that we’ve lost, all the blood that’s been spilt… Lie, Rutherford.

  “Nothing sinister.”

  She looked into his eyes and Michael forced himself not to hold his breath until her shoulders finally relaxed and a small measure of relief flooded her countenance. “I should have known,” she said with a sigh. “Sterling can be a bit…passionate and unpredictable. With all his posturing and the—strange turns of our recent outings, he seems to have pinned some great hope on you, sir, and I wished to state plainly that I wish nothing to do with it.”

  “Great hope? What great hope?”

  She dropped her gaze to the half-eaten biscuit in her hand. “If it is his matchmaking you fear, I thought I would reassure you, Mr. Rutherford. I’ve set all that nonsense aside years ago when it was…made clear that I was not destined for marriage.”

  “Why in god’s name not?” he blurted out.

  “Pardon?” Grace blinked in surprise, looking up and nearly dropping her biscuit in the bargain.

  “I meant to say, I don’t
understand what was made clear. You are young enough to marry and ridiculously…”

  “I am ridiculous?” she asked.

  “No! Not ridiculous! It’s not my place to—“ Michael pressed his lips together, his brow furrowing. “It’s not my place to tell you how lovely you are. Hell, I’m sure there are a thousand social rules forbidding a man to start spouting off about how you look like a hint of heaven in this wretched world, Miss Porter, and how impossible that should be!”

  “Oh!” Grace’s surprise made her even more fetching as she innocently pressed her palm against her beating heart, inadvertently drawing his eyes to the lush firm curves of her body. “I’m—I’ve never had anyone say I was lovely.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  She straightened in her chair, a sparkling anger making her blue eyes snap with her displeasure. “I’m sure it isn’t your intention to call me a liar, Mr. Rutherford!”

  Michael bit the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. He solemnly shook his head. “How many times can a man apologize for his lack of social graces?”

  She pressed her lips together then lost the battle to smile at his odd question. “Seven.”

  “How many have I wasted so far?”

  “I forgot to count.”

  “Then you must start at one,” Michael said calmly, his confidence irrationally surging in her presence. “When I apologize, of course.” The banter between them was intoxicating and he wasn’t sure how a man ever navigated with any wisdom when a woman like Grace Porter was in his presence. She was mercurial but at the same time, always Grace.

  “Didn’t you just apologize?”

  “No,” he stated before retrieving a lemon biscuit. “I merely inquired as to how many times I might.”

  “True. But I should let you know that if you also apologize for telling me that I am lovely, I will be crushed, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “Your feelings are entirely safe on that account, Miss Porter. For I never said it.”

  “Didn’t you?!” she asked with a breathless squeak that was extremely endearing and made Michael wish for everything he couldn’t have.

  “I said it wasn’t my place to say it and then…I may have mentioned a rule about…angels on earth…” Michael sighed. “You are too clever for me, Miss Porter. I don’t think I can keep up for fear of using up all my apologies in one sitting and then where will I be?”

  She tipped her head to one side, a gesture he was becoming all too familiar with and Michael braced himself for the study. “As I’ve never gotten compliments,” she paused, arching her eyebrows as if playfully waiting for his protest, then continued, “I cannot in good faith abandon the hint of one without a fight.”

  “It’s not appropriate for me to pay you one, Miss Porter.”

  “True.” Grace switched sides as if another angle would gain her a better advantage. “But if you could…”

  “Then I would,” he conceded. “I would say something unpracticed and rustic and you would have a new reason for being angry. And then I would quickly remind you that I’d saved your life to try to keep you from clouting me with that tray.”

  She sat back in her chair, a very sweet and impertinent grin on her lips. “Then I am satisfied.”

  God, I think I actually sailed through that! Hell, even Ashe couldn’t have—

  “And what of you, Mr. Rutherford? Are you sure it wasn’t matchmaking you feared?” she asked.

  “I am no suitor, Miss Porter, and would never presume—I never meant to encroach or disturb. I’m sure Sterling has no such designs and I should wish that you didn’t feel the pressure of some giant fool holding your elbow and steering you to a course you didn’t desire.”

  “You are not a giant fool!”

  “I am a giant,” he said, purposefully making her smile. “I’ll concede that point but no other.”

  “I don’t expect you to steer me at all! I believe we’ve already established that I am a force to be reckoned with, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “You are terrifying.”

  She clapped her hands, eyes bright with a fierce joy that made his chest ache. “I find I love being a terror, Mr. Rutherford!”

  He finished his biscuit to avoid looking at her and began to pour the tea. “Power can be intoxicating.”

  “I shall strive not to become a bully, Mr. Rutherford, especially to you.” She took the cup from his hand. Grace sipped her tea, then wrinkled her nose. “Oh! I think in her haste, Mrs. Clay may have...”

  Michael quickly took a taste from his own cup and immediately grasped the problem. Hot water was good but without tea leaves in the lid’s basket, it definitely lacked flavor. “Let’s not mention it to her. She’d be mortified.”

  “Of course,” Grace agreed quickly. “We are conspirators, remember? Here, pour the hot water back into the pot and I’ll use my napkin to dry out the cups. Then we can say we never got to the tea and she will be relieved if she spots her mistake later.”

  “You’ve a gift for deception, Miss Porter.” The heat that had been curling inside of him chilled. He was so blind when it came to her, so enthralled. She could easily have come at Sterling’s bidding and in all their charming banter, how much had he given away?

  She shrugged with a gentle laugh. “It is a survival skill, Mr. Rutherford, but a talent I hope I apply only for good.”

  “Was there—anything else? Any other reason you had for coming here that you’ve yet to say?” Michael asked.

  “I…” Grace blinked in surprise as she finished drying the cups. “No. I suppose not.”

  He stood abruptly, wincing at his own rudeness. “You’ve risked too much of your reputation by coming here, Miss Porter. I shouldn’t keep you.”

  “If I—“ she started to speak and then stopped herself, standing as well and straightening her skirts. “Yes, I should be getting back before I am missed.”

  “I’ll walk you down to—“

  “No,” she interrupted him gently but firmly. “If it’s my reputation you wish to protect, then escorting me out to demonstrate that I was here, alone, in your company, would not be the most gallant gesture.”

  “Oh,” Michael said, yielding to her better understanding of the subtle twists in social rules. “There is a separate entrance at this side of the building. If you’d prefer not to walk past the dining room again…at the bottom of the stairs just turn left.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rutherford.” Grace made her way to the top of the stairs and had taken two steps down before she hesitated. “My brother was right on one count.”

  “Which one?” Michael gripped the banister to hold himself in place.

  She looked up at him from the steps and Michael’s heart skipped a beat at the fetching image she presented. “The dress you bought me is the finest thing I am likely to ever possess and I…I wish I were strong enough to refuse it, but I find that I am a very ordinary person and very weak when it comes to you, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “What?” Confusion numbed him. I make her weak?

  “But make no mistake. I will go to the ball at Bascombe’s but I won’t be accepting any more of my brother’s invitations—or yours.” She turned on her heels and was gone before he could summon an answer.

  He acted without thinking and vaulted down the stairs, taking them four at a time and reaching her at the door to the inn before she could open it. “Miss Porter!”

  “Yes, Mr. Rutherford?” she answered but did not turn her head so he found himself addressing the top of her bonnet.

  Shit.

  “I do think you’re lovely,” he blurted out and then went on in a rush, “You are terrifying and I find I’d much rather be bullied than lose your friendship and I hereby officially apologize for being a social idiot and ruining whatever it was…whatever magical thing that was…to share lemon biscuits and cups of hot water and feel…I’m out of words, Miss Porter.”

  Grace looked up her eyes shining with unshed tears. “One.”

  And he forgot every rule, e
very restraint and every thread of reason he’d ever known. He leaned forward and kissed her, the lightest brush of his lips to hers and for the space of a single breath, he at once savored the hot silk of her mouth but also waited for her retreat.

  For Michael believed with every fiber of his being that ladies did not submit to the kisses of great brutish clods who towered over them and lumbered about fearful of breaking furniture or spoiling their toes. God in His Grace, merciful—

  Grace didn’t retreat.

  Her hands reached up to frame his face and she deepened the kiss with an unpracticed sweetness that banished fear and inflamed his desires. She sighed in surrender and he experienced a madness that made the world fall away. Hunger gnawed at the edges of his heart and Michael almost cried out at the pain and the healing feast that was Grace Porter’s mouth against him. He gently encircled her with his arms and lifted her against his chest. The pace of his kisses kept rhythm with his pounding heart, her lips parting and inviting a sensual exploration of his tongue—and he was ablaze with raw desire. There was no simmering build to warn him; no slow realization that there was even a line to cross. He was consumed with need and the line was long behind him and beyond his reckoning the instant he touched her.

  Heat snaked up his spine and his body thrummed and vibrated with every breath, and Grace’s arms were around his neck, leveraging her body against his, her responses so natural and unrestrained, he felt like a man clinging to heaven.

  His body took the lead and muted the storm of his thoughts, silencing the whirlwind of protests and warnings raging in his mind with an electrical shimmer of sensation across his skin. Every nerve ending was stretched taut and he had the fleeting idea that this was what Lazarus might have felt. Kissing her was like being reborn, but also brought about the discovery that he’d been dead for a long time, shut away from the world.

  His blood knew nothing of shame. Desire flowed down his spine, like hot sand pooling in his hips, and made his cock harden and swell. Grace arched her back and pulled his lower lip into her mouth, and sent another wicked dance of shuddering sparks through him. She was all woman, willing and warm and impossibly perfect against him…