“Shh! I’m happy! Now ravish me, Michael and allow your wife to have her own wicked way.”
“I’ve never ravished anyone before,” he whispered, nipping the juncture of her neck and shoulders the way he knew she loved. “If I tear your clothes off and then take my time, does it still count?”
She smiled and pushed away from him slightly, shifting up onto her knees next to him. “Let’s omit the loss of a few buttons and the embarrassment of asking Mrs. Clay to help me repair my clothes, shall we?” Grace’s hands moved quickly and with her eyes on his to measure his appreciation of her labors. The buttons gave way and Grace shrugged out of each layer, lingering when his eyes flashed with fascination and relishing the play of salacious need she alone was orchestrating.
The confidence in her eyes was an aphrodisiac more potent than any he knew.
Her chemise fell to pool around her and Michael’s breath caught in his throat as his bare goddess lifted her arms to pose for his approval. The cool air across her skin made her nipples pebble hard and her skin was smooth as she innocently cavorted and turned to show off her curves and entice him with the seductive allure of her body. He reached out with his fingertips to trace the outline of her hips across to the indent of her waist and the exquisite firm set of her pert breasts.
His palm splayed across the soft rise of her belly above the triangle of silken dark curls that gleamed in the candlelight. Her inner thighs were already damp and a single trickle slipped down like honey and Michael’s tongue darted out already anticipating the taste of her sex.
Grace reached for him and eagerly dispatched his clothes, caressing and stroking every inch of his flesh that was bared to her, hurrying him with the promise of her mouth and hands. God, she loved his physical form, every hard line and firm curve of his masculine beauty whet her appetite and made her crave him. The empty ache between her legs sharpened and she flushed at the strength of it.
There seemed nothing like the polite prose of romantic poetry in the insistent and unrelenting demands of her body for carnal satisfaction. There was nothing tepid or metered in the lust that whipped through her as she pushed his trousers down to free his growing sex into her hands. Lush and rampant, it did not feel ladylike to openly stare and admire it but Grace couldn’t resist the impulse.
If it was devilry, she didn’t care.
Without releasing him, she pushed him over onto the mattress and climbed atop him, her thighs spread across his hips. He wasn’t yet fully aroused, but Grace stroked his phallus and guided him into her body where the searing coil of her desire begged for him; begged for him to overtake the emptiness and impale her core.
Michael held her hips to try to slow her descent as the grip of her tight wet channel squeezed and pulsed around his member forcing him to harden and swell, pushing up inside of her, filling her completely. Tighter and tighter their bodies meshed until he feared it was too much, that he would hurt her somehow with the length and girth of his searing cock.
But Grace dismissed his fears. She wrapped her legs around him and drove her ankles against his back, pressing him deeper and urging him to move against her. Michael withdrew as far as he could and then slowly drove back inside of her, nearly shuddering at the overwhelming feel of her body submitting to his. Again and again, he pulled out to tease her with the withdrawal of his body only to plunge inside, the speed of each thrust increasing until he’d forgotten everything beyond the woman in his arms and the tight fever-hot build of his own impending release.
He was trapped in a spiral of wanting; of anticipation and the selfish wish to make it last—to deprive himself of the zenith for a few moments more so that it would all last. But Grace was pushing him hard, moving with him and against him, crying out as she began to climax again and the spasms of her body as she came conquered his will. He couldn’t hold anything back, his own orgasm tearing through his body and jetting out of him to mingle with hers. He had one last primal surge of pride at the idea that he could possess her so completely that her body would overflow with his release.
She was slow to return to her senses, clinging to Michael as he leveraged himself onto his elbows to make sure he wasn’t crushing her. As if he could, silly man! Grace smiled up at the ceiling and kissed his chest, teasing the dark circle of one of his nipples and making him yelp in surprise.
“Woman!” Michael laughed. “You are incorrigible!”
“Kiss me,” she commanded and he complied with the eager diligence of a man more than happy to oblige his new bride. When at last he lifted his head to allow her to catch her breath, Grace couldn’t help but sigh in utter contentment.
“There. I am ravished.”
“Mrs. Rutherford, you are indeed.” He kissed her playfully on the forehead and they both lay back onto the bed laughing at the delights of the day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sterling readjusted his coat front as he walked down the steps from the headquarters of the East India Trading Company. Lord Waverly’s mood had been particularly arch and demanding today, grinding the hours into a long chain of slow minutes that drained a man of hope. The sun had set hours ago and his head ached with the reviews of tax codes and new tariffs the crown wished to see implemented on her rich holdings in India.
He looked forward to the quiet of his house. Since Grace’s wedding two days ago, the house was already changed for the better. Mrs. Dorsett was all smiles as she regained control of the house and had resumed a more enthusiastic attitude in his bed—not that he hadn’t enjoyed her without it. The woman had a gifted mouth and a fondness for his cock that had kept her on her knees and in his service for all their years together despite his sister’s inconvenient arrival on his doorstep. The woman was plain but his sexual appetites were blind enough. Sterling’s steps lightened as he contemplated ordering his proud housekeeper to bend over the dining room table while he—
“Porter!”
Sterling turned at the unfamiliar voice. A footman in a dark livery he knew all too well held up his hand and gestured toward a carriage that waited in the shadows of a nearby tree-lined lane.
Damn it. So much for their agreement to give a man time.
Sterling walked across to the black landau and dutifully climbed up into its interior to sit across from his longtime patron for a clandestine meeting. “It is nearly two weeks until July, sir,” Sterling began calmly. “Has there been some change to our agreement?”
“I have always liked you, Porter. It makes no sense but it is actually true,” the man answered without a trace of humor. “If we were honest, we would both have to admit that it is the only reason you’re still living.”
“Then I am again grateful for my charm.”
A low gravel-filled sound like frozen metal chips sliding into a can made Sterling’s skin crawl and he realized his patron was actually laughing.
“Oh, I don’t find you charming! It is your ambition and drive I like.”
Sterling swallowed hard. “Good. It is a trait I shall never relinquish.”
“Porter,” the man said. “The others are content to wait for you to fail yet again but I’m tired. I tired of all of it. You’ll tell me exactly when you will bring me the diamond and you’ll share exactly how you intend to manage it. Now, Porter. You’ll tell me now.”
“By the stroke of midnight in six days, yes, I shall have it in my hands by then. Within minutes of that instant, I will deliver it directly to you.” Sterling wiped his palms on his pant legs. “Everything is set.”
“How dramatic! The stroke of midnight on Sunday…” Gloved hands flexed atop his silver handled cane and drew Sterling’s eye. “And the how?”
“I am making a trade for it.”
“You mean to tell me that you think you have something equal to its worth to be bandying it about?” the man scoffed. “Or is that someone is stupid enough to trade away something priceless for what? For colored beads or a deed to a plot of land in Elysium?”
Sterling shook his head. “What
I’ve given him is worthless but one man’s trash is another man’s…”
“Treasure,” the man finished. “And why didn’t the simple answer of proposing this worthless trade come to you sooner?”
Sterling shifted nervously on the cushioned seat. The shadows were playing wicked tricks on his eyes and he felt like he was having a private conference with Lucifer himself. “I cannot say but I’m glad that things are finally coming together as I’d promised you that they would. You’ll see, sir. I am a man of my word.”
His patron failed to answer him and an uncomfortable silence ate at Sterling’s confidence.
“Everything is going according to plan,” Sterling added.
“Yes, I’m sure it is.”
“It is!” Sterling winced as the words left his lips. He sounded like a defensive child and he hated it.
There was another low chuckle from the other side of the carriage, a horrible sound that made Sterling’s balls shrivel up against his thigh. “I don’t care, Porter. You see, we met again, our friendly little circle and the sentiment was unanimous. It’s been almost three years that you’ve strung us along, and while Bascombe was once your greatest supporter and advocate—well, we know how that has unfolded, don’t we?”
“Rand Bascombe is an overstuffed—“
“Yes,” the man cut him off, his voice calm and cruel. “Your love of Bascombe is understood. But let us get back to heart of the matter. We have all begun to suspect that there was never a diamond, a prophecy or any shred of truth to this business.”
He held up a gloved hand before Sterling could reply and the snarling dragon figurine atop his cane gleamed dully. “So it’s very simple, Mr. Porter. Deliver the diamond to us before the stroke of midnight Sunday, or we’ll kill you.”
“There’s no need for threats.”
“No, there isn’t. You should believe that your death is possible without my having to spell it out like some common thug and don’t think I’m not irritated that I’m required to be so blunt, Mr. Porter. But I want no mistakes and no claims of a misunderstanding. Deliver the diamond or face your death. Clear enough?”
Sterling nodded, his voice abandoning him completely.
“Good. Get out of my carriage.”
Sterling opened the door and climbed down in an awkward descent with a mix of relief and humiliation. There would be no additional audiences and no more negotiations. The carriage pulled away and Sterling brushed off his coat, recovering his composure.
Six days.
And my life depends on Rutherford’s attachment to my sister who he may already have strangled for rattling on about chestnuts and why fairies like cobwebs.
Damn it.
A knock at the door interrupted her morning’s progress on the chapter at hand and Grace set her pen down with a sigh. She went quickly to see if Mrs. Clay had come early but was greeted by Miss Maggie Beecham, the Grove’s maid for the rooms and their neighbor on the floor.
“There’s a man to see you, Mrs. Rutherford,” Maggie said sweetly but then lowered her voice. “The one I’m under strict orders not to bring up to the east wing parlor or your door under any circumstances.”
“Sterling? My brother is here?!” Grace’s fingers flew to her throat.
“Bit of a cad, is he?” Maggie nodded sympathetically. “I thought he had the look.”
“He is very much a cad,” Grace agreed then stepped out from the doorway. “Maggie, Michael…Mr. Rutherford isn’t home. Can you alert someone to keep an eye out? Just in case he is here to make trouble.”
Maggie nodded. “Of course.”
“Where is he?”
“I left him in the common room.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” Grace smoothed out her skirts and headed down quickly, dreading a confrontation in front of any of Mrs. Clay’s lovely guests in the public room on the ground floor. She found him easily, sitting at a table by the nearest wall with a look of distaste on his face. The common room of an inn would be beneath him, she knew, and the sight of his grim discomfort made her smile.
“Sterling,” she said quietly and sat down before he could make any grand show of false happiness at her arrival. “Why are you here?”
“Is that any way to greet your older brother? Has marriage to that brute of a giant soured you so quickly?” he asked.
“I don’t mean to be rude. But in light of the way you’ve treated me, I fail to see why you’d be surprised.”
“Grace,” he sighed. “I was harsh, yes, but I had your best interests at heart and I do take some responsibility for the disaster at Bascombe’s. I sheltered you too much and was too cautious about exposing you to the world. Your instincts were dulled by my mistakes and a villain like Rutherford was too clever not to sense it.”
She gasped but bit her tongue to stop the reflexive defense of her husband’s good name. Sterling was up to something and Grace kept her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Why are you here, Sterling?”
“I wished to see how you were faring. I couldn’t sleep nights knowing you were miserable.” Sterling leaned forward. “Is he mistreating you?”
“Of course not!” Grace’s fingers clenched in frustration and she deliberately strived to take on an icy disinterested tone. “Mr. Rutherford’s company is most congenial.”
Sterling’s eyebrows lifted and he glanced around the common room. “It would have to be. I feel no small amount of guilt to think that he has brought you here…as if this is any sort of home for a lady!”
She stood. “Thank you for coming, Sterling. As you can see I am neither mistreated nor miserable, but in fact very happy to be married and away from your brotherly care and concern. Now, I’ll ask you to leave.”
Sterling kept his seat, a slow smile creeping across his face. “This isn’t your sitting room, Lady Rutherford. It’s a public dining hall and a very common one at that! Do you seriously think to—“
“Get out, sir.” Maggie Beecham came up behind him, hands on hips, her voice level but menacing. “Mrs. Rutherford’s too sweet for the task but you get out of this very public dining hall or I’ll start screeching like a hellcat and when my man comes over to inquire, I’ll burst into tears and that, sir, will be the end of you!”
“W-what?” Sterling’s confusion was paralyzing. Maggie was five feet of fiery indignation but she wasn’t backing down. Sterling began to take note of all the large muscular patrons in the hall and slowly came to his feet. “I mean to leave as soon as I am done with this conversation, you insolent creature, so there is no need to…”
“Sterling, perhaps you should go.” Grace added struggling not to smile as Maggie’s color increased a telling degree.
“I’ve had enough of bullies to fill a hundred lifetimes.” Maggie said calmly and then took a deep breath and let loose with a cry to make a banshee wince. “Aayaaa! Mrs. Clay! Mrs. Clay!”
The landlady was instantly on hand with a large handled broom in hand and Tally at her side. “What’s that?”
Maggie lifted one hand and pointed it directly at Sterling’s nose. “Rough trade, Mrs. Clay! He was horrible to Mrs. Rutherford and when I came to her defense, he…” Margaret Beecham’s tears were astonishingly effective, “he called me…it’s too cruel…”
Tally put two fingers in his mouth and whistled to conjure two large footmen who at the sight of Maggie’s tears and a very red-faced man, launched into action at Tally’s hand signal. Within seconds, Sterling’s feet had left the floor as he was carried out with the added indignity of being hit with a broom by Mrs. Clay for good measure.
“Out!” Mrs. Clay huffed and lowered her weapon. “And don’t you think to return!”
The room burst into applause and laughter as Mr. Sterling Porter was physically thrown from the Grove to land on his backside on the cobbled street.
Mrs. Clay shut the main doors firmly and reached up to tuck in a stray curl that had fallen onto her cheek. She beamed at all her guests. “Sorry for the dist
urbance. Thank you, dearies! Let’s have a round of ale for any who’d care for it and for all of you, let’s be extra kind to our Maggie for the next day or two, poor thing!”
There was more applause as everyone returned cheerfully to their business and Tally held out a handkerchief to comfort Maggie who had “miraculously” recovered enough to blush and converse silently with the blonde young man using her hands.
Grace covered her mouth with her fingers astonishment and shock taking over her senses. My god! Sterling was thrown from the Grove! How—delightful!
“Are you all right, Mrs. Rutherford?” Mrs. Clay asked her. “Was that man your brother?”
Grace nodded, swallowing a hiccup of nerves. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“Well!” Mrs. Clay sighed. “My Mr. Clay always said, you can choose a fish at market but never the relatives across the table and one of those two things is bound to make a stink when you don’t want them to!”
Grace smiled. “I think I’d have liked your Mr. Clay very much.”
“And he you!” Mrs. Clay patted her hands. “Why don’t you head back up to the peace and quiet of your rooms and I’ll send up a special tray to make up for all this nonsense!”
“Yes, thank you.” Grace retreated even as the round of complimentary ale was being served to the Grove’s steady guests. Laughter echoed against the carved panel walls and her steps grew steadier as she went. There was magic to the inn that extended out from its owner as if every act of kindness and every stray soul she collected had only strengthened the spell. Mr. Crimson wrote of the dark seams of worlds unknown and grim acts that chilled his readers, but even her literary alter ego was inspired by the Grove.
It isn’t just Michael’s sanctuary anymore.
It’s mine, too.
Desire Wears Diamonds Page 24
