“No.” Michael crossed his arms, bracing for battle. “It’s safe where it is and I’m not putting any of you in danger by burdening you with it at this point in the game.”
Ashe leapt up from his chair. “To hell with the game! It’s not a game! You’re the one in the viper’s nest, Rutherford!”
Galen cleared his throat. “I’m sure what Blackwell meant to say is, congratulations on your marriage, and we are all openly concerned about your continued well-being.”
“I did not and I’m not congratulating the man on being half-witted enough to marry some—“
Darius also stood quickly to cut him off. “Ashe, you are letting your mouth run ahead of your manners! We have not met Mrs. Rutherford and there is no judgment to be made here.”
“My home and this room have always been a sanctuary,” Rowan said firmly. “And they will remain one so long as I have a say!”
Ashe swallowed hard and then let out a long slow breath. “I misspoke. I apologize.”
Michael nodded his assent. “I take no offense considering Blackwell was once an expert on romantic impulses and half-witted choices, and while he was lucky enough to marry Caroline, there’s not one of us that doesn’t agree that landing on his feet with the love of his life was nothing short of a miracle.” Michael smiled. “Apology accepted.”
“When did he get so witty?” Ashe asked with a wry glance at Michael and retook his seat.
Darius laughed. “Rutherford was always clever but with the rest of us chattering away, when does a shy man get the opportunity to demonstrate it?”
“Marriage has brought out his sense of humor,” Josiah Hastings noted from his favorite leather chair. “Bravo, Rutherford.”
“Jests aside,” Ashe readdressed the group, “I think you should reconsider the doctor’s suggestion, Michael. Your bride is bound to get a little bored confined to a small apartment and women have a gift for going through a man’s private things to amuse themselves. She’ll find the diamond. And at the risk of starting another round of battles, that may be her true purpose in all of this.”
The men grew quiet but Galen finally picked up the thread of the conversation. “It wouldn’t be an unreasonable notion. You meant to use her to get closer to Sterling and he could have turned the tables on you. No longer any need for him to break in for a search, Rutherford, now that he has a potential agent in your home.”
“Grace is not her brother’s agent and has nothing to do with his schemes.” Michael deliberately dropped his arms to avoid looking defensive. “She is innocent in all of this.”
“You’re sure?” Rowan asked gently.
“I am sure.” Michael walked over to the bar set on the side table and poured himself and Ashe a drink. He delivered the glass to Ashe, as a small peace offering. “The diamond is safe. I’ve not abandoned my oaths and I know what I’m doing.”
Ashe took the glass but the intensity in his eyes didn’t soften. “Michael, every man thinks they know what they’re doing but when it comes to a woman, when you’re wrong, you’ll be the last one to realize it.”
“You doubt me, Blackwell?”
Ashe didn’t answer him but sipped his drink without taking his eyes off of Michael.
Michael stiffened and returned to the window, looking out onto the moonlit gardens. “Nothing has changed.”
“Nothing?” Josiah spoke quietly. “Can I mention the obvious danger? She is Sterling’s sister and it’s extremely possible that she would take her brother’s side in whatever scheme he’d crafted. Your…romance has been a bit…convenient, wouldn’t you say? And rather too sudden to suit.”
Rowan put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “He’s right. From an outsider’s vantage point it would seem that Sterling insisted you attend that event and then apparently saw to it that you were caught in a compromising position; forcing you to marry his sister and drawing you into his web.”
“Grace is innocent.”
“As you keep telling us,” Rowan replied. “Have you—married this girl in some grand deception?”
“I love her. There’s no deception there.”
“Love! Have you forgotten—“
“I’ve not forgotten, Ashe! Believe me when I tell you that my every waking moment is framed by my vow to you to see to the Jackal. And I will do what I must.”
“When?”
“In seven days. I have seven days.”
“And then what happens?”
Michael said nothing at first, and then turned his back on all of them.
It was Rowan who finally broke the silence. “And then all hell breaks loose.”
Michael nodded and answered without turning around. “Gift me with these seven days. With this time with her…before all is lost. Sterling will get what he deserves and she’ll never forgive me.”
The men looked at each other, weighing out their brotherhood, their marrow-deep trust in Rutherford against their complete understanding that love could tip any scale and destroy any ties.
“We’ll stay clear,” Rowan spoke for all of them and Michael turned to leave without another word leaving his friends to an awkward silence that hung heavy in the air.
Galen stretched out his legs and finally risked conversation. “Well, that went better than we expected.”
“What did we expect again?” Josiah asked. “Because I could have sworn that Rowan said something about a gentle intervention to make the man see reason…”
“He loves her,” Rowan said. “Reason doesn’t apply anymore. But it’s Rutherford we’re talking about and I believe him. He has something planned in a week and we must stand by him and wait.”
Ashe put his head in his hands and groaned. “I hate waiting and I hate being the one to push so hard to steal another man’s bliss.” Ashe lifted his face and gave each of them a hard look. “But you have to ask yourselves, what would you give up for the woman you loved? Who would you betray if it came down to it?”
None of them answered him because the answer was too obvious and too painful.
Everything. Anyone. There was nothing and no one they wouldn’t yield for the women they worshipped and adored. All bets were off.
And now their fates hung on the fragile hope that Michael Rutherford was somehow made of stronger stuff than the best man among them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The ride to Oxford Street evoked memories of a different day but this time there was no need to shyly avoid his touch. The confines of the hackney carriage gave her a lovely excuse to lean against his arm and delight in his touch.
He trailed his fingers across her cheek and tipped her chin up for a kiss. He’d intended a chaste touch to simply calm his fidgeting wife and distract her from the appointment ahead. But when his unpredictable wife ran her hand down the line of his thigh and then slowly back up in a teasing assault on his control, Michael forfeited his plans.
He deepened the kiss and began to lift her up, voluminous skirts and all, onto his lap. Grace wriggled and sighed in compliance but then pushed against him, giggling as she pulled away. “Michael Rutherford! My bonnet is coming undone!”
He laughed. “Is that all?”
“It is enough to make me question my sanity in dragging you along,” she said as her cheeks colored. Grace retied the wide satin ribbon underneath her chin to put a jaunty bow under her right ear. “You didn’t need to accompany me, Michael.” She pressed her fingers against her warm cheeks. “Not that I don’t enjoy your distracting kisses.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Rutherford but these streets are rife with pickpockets and I don’t like the idea of you risking it alone. Not to mention the runaway carriages…”
“May I—do the talking, Michael? When we go up to meet with my editor, Mr. Pollson? Would it be untoward to ask such a thing? It’s only that I know that it would be the natural course of things for him to assume you have a greater authority and I’ve fought so hard to—”
He kissed her, thoroughly enough to bring even more colo
r to her cheeks and make her breath come quickly once he let her go. “I shall pretend to be mute if it pleases you. I confess, I am simply curious to catch a glimpse of the business of publishing. If pressed, I will assert your expertise and that is all I will say.”
“No, but let’s have our fun and omit introductions!” Grace offered with a mischievous grin. “He’s a rough man but good hearted and I would love to keep him guessing.”
“I’ll play the intimidating tall gentleman at your back.”
The stairway leading to Mr. Pollson’s office was as dingy and narrow as always. The steps creaked with protest as Michael climbed them, his elbows and wide shoulders nearly blocking the passageway. Grace shyly held his hand as he walked behind her as proudly as a man walking a princess on a promenade. She knocked on the door to S&Y Publishers and entered the small office, stepping around the piles of papers on the floors by rote habit.
“Miss Porter! I’d hoped for you my month’s end but this is a delightful…sur…prise…” Mr. Pollson’s sharp powers of expression disappeared as Michael ducked under the doorframe. “Are we…delighted?”
“We are!” Grace beamed at his discomfort. “Mr. Crimson has experienced an unexpected burst of creative productivity,” Grace began as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in a lady bringing along a nearly seven foot tall living fashion accessory on her errands. She held out her hand and Michael handed her the leather satchel with the pages they’d brought. “I have the newest in his brand new series, “The Fatal Storm”.”
The title diverted her editor briefly and he took the bundled pages from her hand. “The Fatal Storm!” His eyes shifted over to Michael who was now studying the overflowing bookshelves of titles and odd stories. “Is he…pleased with it?”
“Mr. Crimson? I should say so! Would he have instructed me to come here post haste and demanded I do so without an appointment? Mr. Crimson’s trust in your literary instincts is resolute.”
Mr. Pollson’s confusion was vastly entertaining but it was clear he didn’t want to offend the massive tree of a man who was currently wrinkling his nose at a copy of a poetic ode to butterflies. “I…I take it our previous financial arrangement is still acceptable?”
The giant’s head lifted and Mr. Pollson made a point of staying behind his desk. Grace smiled. “Your last payment was well-received.”
Mr. Pollson’s face sagged with visible relief. “Twenty, wasn’t it? We’ll do twenty again.”
“No.” Grace blinked fast. “You paid fifteen on my last call, sir. Not that I wish to be rude to correct you.”
Michael stepped away from the bookcase and shifted to stand at her back. She could only imagine what his expression might be but the effect was magical on Mr. Pollson.
“I meant to pay twenty!” he said, then opened his desk drawer to pull out a few notes and an envelope. “Times are hard, of course, but a simple oversight like that can be corrected. Yes, an easy matter to make amends. Here!” He held out a brown envelope to her. “Twenty-five pounds! Five to make up for my clerical error in your last packet and twenty for the launch of “The Fatal Storm” and our assurance to Mr. Crimson that we will print all the future installments.”
Grace took the packet, her fingers trembling. “Oh! How generous of you, Mr. Pollson!” She looked up at Michael. “Isn’t that generous?”
Her groom was carved in granite and nonplussed. He shrugged his shoulders. “Is it?”
“It is!” Grace gave him a swift small kick to his shins and Michael smiled spoiling the effect but apparently her editor was not convinced.
“Twenty-five, then!” Mr. Pollson amended. “I will pay twenty five for each future installment but not a penny more!”
Grace wheeled back to Mr. Pollson with a gasp. “Twenty-five pounds? For each installment?”
“It is difficult times and sales lag in these hard times. Hard, hard times! You remind Mr. Crimson that times are very hard!” Mr. Pollson’s eyes darted to Michael but he was doing his best to focus on Grace, perhaps hoping hers was the gentler voice of assent in the room. “But his pamphlets have been moving well and we will increase the number we produce.”
Grace held out her hand to shake Mr. Pollson’s, shocking him with the masculine gesture. “You have a deal, Mr. Pollson.”
They retreated quickly but not quickly enough for Grace to stifle the giggles midway down the stairs. “Usually—I am so nervous in there I can barely breathe! But that, my dear Mr. Rutherford, was thrilling fun!”
“He’s quite a badger of a man and his office smells like mushrooms,” Michael observed. “But I’m going to agree. That was thrilling fun, Mrs. Rutherford.”
“There’s no doubt that he thinks that you are Mr. Crimson,” she noted sagely, a mischievous smile crossing her features as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. “I knew he would! You certainly are mysterious enough, my handsome and almost mute husband.”
“He can think whatever he likes. We know better.”
“I love our conspiracies, Michael.”
“As do I.” He leaned down to speak softly into the shell of her ear, the bass of his voice sending a shiver of delight down her spine. “Shall we go back upstairs and see if he’ll double it?”
Grace gasped and playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Michael! We are not thugs! Besides, if you give poor Mr. Pollson a heart attack, I will be hard pressed to find another publisher!”
He shook his head. “Hardly! What publisher in London wouldn’t fall all over themselves to capture the newest works of the wicked Mr. A.R. Crimson?”
“You are prejudiced in my favor, husband.”
“I should hope so.”
He helped her alight back into the waiting hackney and the ride home to the Grove went quickly as her husband distracted and teased her senses. Michael was as gentlemanly as ever, but he could evoke her desires with a single light kiss on her bare throat and as she’d nearly begged him to throw her skirts over her head on their way to Oxford Street; it was her own restraint she didn’t trust. She was reluctant to admit it, sure that it was a failing in her character, but if it hadn’t been for the pre-set appointment with Mr. Pollson, she would have done her best to keep her husband abed for much of the day.
“If you don’t stop doing that, I’m going to carry you upstairs over my shoulder and your afternoon will be wasted with a long series of hedonistic pursuits, Mrs. Rutherford.”
Grace’s eyes widened in shock, wondering if the wicked turn of her mind weren’t audible. “If you are trying to intimidate me into submission, you’re making a terrible mess of it.” She flashed him an enticing grin. “I am spurred on to wicked disobedience in hope of his punishment.”
“Very well!” He bent down and lifted her easily to balance her over his shoulder, eliciting peals of laughter from his bride. With one practical hand resting on the delicious curve of her bottom, he quickly mounted the stairs with his prize. “You are well and truly kidnapped!”
“Michael!” she pressed her hands against his back to push herself up but gave in to mirth. “It isn’t a kidnapping!”
“Isn’t it? Wait until I tell you what ransoms I’m going to demand in exchange for your release.”
“Oh!” she squeaked and then relaxed in a playful feint. “How promising!”
He achieved their door, unlocked it and carried her inside, then turned to lock the portal behind him apparently fumbling with the mechanism and taking an inordinate amount of time to tease her with the delay. Grace lifted her head to protest and stiffened in surprise as she noticed a change in the room’s layout.
“Michael! Put me down!”
“On the bed?” he asked innocently.
“Michael!”
He put her down very gently, then put his hands behind his back. “Do you like it then?”
Grace tried to answer him but couldn’t. She walked forward in a daze, trailing her fingertips over the surface of a beautiful lady’s writing desk and matching chair that had been delivered in th
eir absence. The top was a splendid satin finish with inlaid woodwork in the shape of flowers and vines that trailed down to decorate the drawers and turned legs. The chair was upholstered in a rich yellow taffeta embroidered with golden stars and tiny silver crescents. Curved and delicate, everything about the pieces he’d selected brought a feminine touch into a room dominated by the stronger pieces that were his. A stack of fresh paper tied with gold ribbon sat atop a new leather-bound journal embossed with the gold letters, A.R.C. and a cut crystal writing tray glittered next to it. The main drawer pulled out as smoothly as velvet and revealed pens, small ink jars and a tiny gold key to allow her to keep her work secured if she wished.
Grace closed the drawer and turned back to look at him in amazement. “It’s flawless and…I never dreamt of…”
“We can move it anywhere you wish. If the light doesn’t suit there for working.” Michael gestured to the last touch. “And Mrs. Clay suggested adding this shelf above the windows. For reference materials or…anything you’d like really.”
It currently housed a blue glass vase with a small bouquet of spring flowers but her heart pounded at the possibilities. Her wonderful husband had gifted her with a little study all her own!
“But where is your desk?” she asked.
Michael pointed nonchalantly to the corner by the wardrobe where his desk was now housed. “I can work there just as easily if I need to or in the sitting room. I have a portable writing desk that a friend gave me. I’m no writer, Grace.”
Grace’s fingers touched her throat and she looked up at him through a shimmering curtain of unshed tears. “Michael.”
His name.
Nothing more and it was the world at his feet. Michael rushed forward to pull Grace into his arms, bending over to lift her up against him and in three strides he’d achieved the bed.
She kissed the bare skin at his throat and pulled her hands through his hair to send chills down his back. He was instantly aware of every inch of his body and savored the moment when reason was tethered and desire took the reins.
Tears spilled down her cheeks and Michael kissed each one, his tongue darting out to drink in the salty sweetness of them. “Grace. If you cry, I’m not sure I can have my wicked way with you. It’s very…disconcerting,” he teased softly as he lowered her onto the bed.
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