Diamond in the Rough

by Jane Goodger

  “I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he said, then dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. His beard was rough against her skin, but it was a wonderful sensation that made her feel almost delicate. One by one, he dropped slow, soft kisses on her shoulder, her neck, her jaw, her throat, then moved down until he kissed the top of one breast peeking above her gown. Running her hands through his hair, she let him do as he wished, reveling in the sensations he was producing. All thoughts of what was proper and improper were gone, replaced only by another, more urgent thought: Don’t stop.

  Clara had spent summers at her grandparents’ farm and she knew the basics of what making love was, though she wasn’t quite sure how a man and woman went about it. When he dipped his hand beneath her gown and brushed her nipple, she knew if he asked, she would gladly lose her innocence to him. She would allow him to make love to her and she would welcome it. Celebrate it. Perhaps that made her wanton or as common as everyone thought her, but with him touching her as he was, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

  The cool night air struck her breast as he tugged her gown down to expose her left breast, pale in the moonlight. For a moment, he stared at her, then smiled. “Look what I’ve done.”

  “Nothing that cannot be undone,” she said, sounding breathless.

  He frowned at that. “Nothing that happens this evening cannot be undone. I am not such a cad as that. Clara.”

  “Clara. Yes.” She knew what he meant, that he would not take her virginity this night, and as much as she desired him, at that moment, she was relieved.

  He dipped his head and flicked his tongue against her turgid nipple, then drew the peak into his mouth, sucking lightly, and Clara thought she just might dissolve into a million pieces. The flood of desire that hit her at that moment was nearly more than she could take without crying out, but she pressed her lips together and let out a small whimper. He immediately stopped.

  “No,” she managed to say.

  “Very well, I am—” He began to pull away, but Clara hung on tightly.

  Clara shook her head and tried to find the right words in her muddled head. “I meant, no, do not stop.” She smiled at his relief. “It’s quite lovely.” Then he grinned and kissed her, thrusting his clever tongue against hers, teaching her how to kiss a man. She could feel his arousal against her stomach, long and hard, and so foreign. Men were such odd creatures, so the opposite of women, and at that moment, Clara was glad of it.

  Again, his kisses left a trail from her mouth to the tip of her exposed breast, the breeze cooling her heated skin. With one deft movement, both breasts were revealed, and Clara let out a short laugh when he said, “Look what I’ve done now.”

  “You are very clever,” Clara said, winning a smile. He took one breast in each hand and moved his thumbs over her stiff nipples, and Clara couldn’t help but let her head drop back against the rough shingles of his shed. This was divine, she thought, then gasped when he again suckled her, first one breast, then the other. His manhood pressed against her, between her legs, producing the most exquisite feeling she’d ever had and making her nearly frantic for more, though she didn’t know how or what to ask.

  “Shh, darling. Let me ease you. Let me.”

  Clara was gasping for breath, unaware of what he meant, until he began lifting her skirts and she knew where his hand was headed. She stiffened instinctively.

  “No?” he asked, pausing.

  “I…I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.” She took a long, shaky breath. “Is it very wicked if I say yes?”

  “Very,” he said. “But I rather like it when you are wicked.” He kissed her, a quick buss. “But if you want to stop, I will. I will always do as you say.”

  “Always?”

  “In these matters, yes.”

  She bit her lip. “Will it hurt?”

  “No. I am not taking your maidenhead, that is for your husband on your wedding night. This will feel like you’ve gone to heaven and back.”

  “Go on with you,” she said, in a clear Cornish accent, which produced another laugh from him.

  “Have you…” He kissed her breast. “…never touched yourself? Down there?”

  “No.” Though lately, she’d wanted to, had squeezed her legs together simply to produce that lovely feeling that came when she thought of him kissing her. If she had touched herself, she very much doubted she would have admitted such a mortifying thing.

  “Then let me show you. Will you?”

  Clara hesitated only a breath before she nodded.

  “Just that. I promise.” He kissed her again, one of those long, drugging kisses that made her want to squeeze her legs again. But he was raising up her skirts and she could feel his hot hand high on her thigh with only the thinnest silk drawers between his palm and her flesh, and she found she could hardly breathe with anticipation of what he would do next. All the while, he kissed her, dipping now and then to suckle one nipple, drawing it into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. She felt herself melting again, felt herself grow embarrassingly wet. When his fingers touched the apex of her legs, felt how wet she was, he let out a growl. “Ah,” he said low against her ear. “Here you are.”

  Clara inhaled sharply. Yes, there she was, that was the place where all sensation seemed to center, that spot. That very spot that he was touching, her beloved Nathaniel. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep all the feeling in, keep everything in, lest it go flying away.

  “Oh, God,” she said when she didn’t think she could take much more. It was so good, so different from anything she’d ever felt before in her life. She wanted him to touch her forever and wanted it to stop, for how could one body feel such pleasure without bursting? Without thought, she rocked her hips as he moved his hand against her, his breath, harsh and warm, against her ear. Her own breath quickened and his movements increased, a subtle pressure. And then, she did burst; colors and light and incredible sensation flooded her body, made her cry out, made her hips move uncontrollably. He’d brought her to heaven just as he’d promised, and she leaned against him, drained, as her body continued to pulse.

  For a long moment, they were silent, their breaths mingling as he held her tightly. “Heaven?” he asked.

  “Heaven,” she whispered. He pressed himself against her, and Clara realized he was still hard. He groaned, then drew back, his hands on her naked shoulders before he gently returned her dress to its proper place.

  “Do you realize how much I want you?”

  “A great deal?”

  He let out a short laugh. “Quite a bit more than that. You are so lovely and I…”

  “Yes?” I love you. I love you. I love you.

  “Mr. Emory. Hello?” It was Mr. Standard, and he was just on the other side of the wall.

  With quick movements, Nathaniel pulled Clara into the shadows and entered his room to find his future butler standing at the threshold, a dark silhouette. “Ah, Mr. Standard,” he said loudly. “Just enjoying this lovely night. Have a seat, will you?” He prayed Clara understood that she should make her escape back to the house.

  Nathaniel quickly relit his lamp, then dragged his only chair and swung it about until it faced his bed. “Have a seat, will you? You must be weary from the trip to London and back.”

  “Indeed I am, sir,” he said. The butler had conditioned himself to not call Nathaniel “my lord” but he still found it difficult to call him mister. “I would not have interrupted your evening, but this came moments ago and seemed urgent.” He handed over a telegram and Nathaniel took it, foreboding filling him. His solicitor had been instructed to contact him via telegram only in an emergency.

  Lion’s Gate fire. Stop.

  Nathaniel’s heart plummeted so quickly, he felt ill. He stared at the telegram, hoping he’d misread the words and silently cursing his solicitor for his brevity, no doubt precipitated by the man’s unwill
ingness to part with money. Did he mean Nathaniel’s beloved home was in ruins? Letting out a low curse, he crumpled the missive.

  “I hope it’s not bad news, sir.” Then Mr. Standard blushed, aware of his transparency. “I couldn’t help but read it. Lion’s Gate is your country seat in Cumbria, is it not?”

  “Yes, Mr. Standard, and it’s the only home I have left other than a small estate near Lancaster that is in total ruins. And this humble abode,” he said, looking around his mean little room. “It appears I need to request a leave, sir. It’s actually good timing, as I have little to do here until the hothouse is built.”

  Mr. Standard leaned forward. “Shall I continue your search? If you could tell me what it is you are looking for, I’m certain I could be of help.”

  Nathaniel considered the offer briefly before shaking his head. “I believe that would only arouse suspicion. I know you are eager to begin your new post, and I promise you it will come to you one day, but it can wait. What cannot wait is my leaving for Lion’s Gate immediately. I would appreciate it if you could inform Mr. Anderson of my departure and assure him I will return before spring.”

  Nathaniel stood and the butler followed suit. “Do you happen to know when the first train to London is?”

  “Nine o’clock to St. Erth, then on to London. Wish we had taken the train. Would have cut our travel in half.”

  Nathaniel slapped the butler on his back and led him out. “When we leave here, you can be assured we will take the train.”

  Once the butler had gone, Nathaniel packed a bag and set it aside for the morning. Staring at the small trunk, he wondered how he could get a message to Clara without arousing the suspicion of the staff or her family. He certainly couldn’t give a note to Mr. Standard and ask that he hand it to Clara. Leaving now, after what they’d shared, seemed wrong but he wasn’t sure what alternative he had. If Lion’s Gate had been destroyed, he would at the very least have to assess the damage and devise a plan, a depressing thought. His funds were woefully low and his debts mounted by the day.

  Weeks he’d be gone, weeks lost in which the diamond would continue to sit in the earth. Perhaps the worst thought to cross his mind was knowing that he if married Clara, he could at least begin to make some of the changes he needed to. If she were his wife, his search for the diamond would no longer have to be done in secret. But for her to marry him, he would have to tell her the truth, that he had lied and betrayed her, had listened, amused, to her rant about the aristocracy.

  Still…

  She was an heiress. He loved her. And the diamond was still here, still hidden. Marrying Clara, which had seemed such an unlikely thing not long ago, now seemed to be the perfect solution to his problems. Nathaniel sat on his bed and banged his head gently against the wall, and then not so gently. “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t,” he said softly. No matter what happened, neither he nor Clara could be happy. That fairy tale had ended the minute he’d taken her in his arms.

  “He’s what?”

  “Gone, miss, for at least a month, perhaps more. A family emergency.”

  “But he has no family.” Even as Clara said the words, her mouth snapped shut. Could this day get any worse? Harriet’s heart had been broken—even now she was up in her room quietly crying. Lord Berkley had come this morning to see Harriet, and Clara had been convinced he was here to ask her sister for her hand in marriage. But he’d left without proposing, and Harriet had immediately gone to her room, her soft sobs filtering through the wall that separated their rooms. Now, the man Clara loved had left without saying a word. “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Standard.”

  “He did extend his apologies for not being able to organize the garden shed before leaving.”

  Clara had begun walking away when Mr. Standard said those words, which caused her to pause briefly. The shed had been meticulously organized the last time she’d been inside. “Thank you, Mr. Standard.”

  Clara immediately stepped outside and walked directly to the garden shed. It seemed strange that Mr. Emory—Nathaniel—was gone and she half expected to see him in the garden, toiling beneath the sun. She opened the shed door, allowing the day’s bright sunshine into the large room, her eyes immediately going to a jumbled pile of small garden tools left in one corner of the room. Never before had an untidy pile delighted Clara more, although part of her wondered at the obvious nature of it. Obvious to her, at any rate.

  Without a care for her dress, she knelt on the hard floor and began sifting through the small tools, smiling when she spied a bit of paper at the bottom, folded neatly. She pulled it out gently, and opened it, as if it were something delicate.

  His writing was bold and lovely, the penmanship of a well-educated man.

  Dearest Miss Anderson:

  I have been called away on an emergency. It is with a heavy heart that I leave, this day of all days. Please know that you will be in my thoughts and that I promise I will return to you. I adore you, Miss Anderson. Never forget that.

  Yrs,

  Nathaniel Emory

  Tears pricked at her eyes as she re-read the words. I adore you. That was very close to a declaration of love. And he promised, not to return to St. Ives, but to return to her. She would most certainly wait. She would happily wait forever for him to return.

  Chapter 12

  It was bloody cold in Cumbria, Roger thought as he stared at the weak December sun trying to filter through a thin layer of clouds that portended even more snow. He was staying at a small inn on the outskirts of Keswick, not far from Derwent Water. Indeed, he could see the lake from his window. It was a lovely view, snow-covered trees, cozy homes with trails of smoke pouring from chimneys. But he was in no mood for anything pretty at the moment.

  Christmas was just a day away and he was lonelier than he had ever been in his life. It was good, he thought, that he was not home, where memories lived in every item he looked at. But those memories could be comforting; at least he knew at one point in his life, he had been loved, he had been happy. The last Christmas his wife and daughters had been alive had been a festive time. Mary had decorated their small home with holly and ribboned wreaths, and the sharp smell of cider and cinnamon had filled the air. They were not rich, by any means, but they were happy in their little flat. The Kings were better off than most, with a large goose ready and dressed for their dinner and the girls playing with their new blocks, sent from their grandparents all the way from Kent.

  Roger closed his eyes, trying to picture himself there with his family, trying, trying to see their faces, to breathe in and smell that goose cooking, to hear their laughter, those little giggles he remembered adoring. They’d been gone for seven years now, and no matter how hard he tried, he simply could not see them clearly anymore. The only comfort he had was that they were spitting images of his wife, and he at least had her wedding portrait and could dream of how they looked before that terrible day. If he thought about Christmas, he could drive those other images away, the ones filled with blood and horror.

  Roger pushed himself away from the window and gathered up his notes. He pored over them each day, hoping to see something he had missed before. Three mothers of twins, dead. Four children slaughtered from one end of England to the other and yet he could find nothing that tied these murders to any one monster. Once he’d discovered the third murder, he’d written a letter to Scotland Yard. The evidence had been summarily dismissed and he’d been cautioned him against spreading “virulent rumors that will frighten the population.” He’d crumpled up that letter and tossed it in the fire, feeling his hope of ever finding his family’s murderer slipping away. Up until most recently, he hadn’t had the time nor the funds to devote all his time to the search. But once he had solved the mystery of the missing diamond—and the missing baron—he would have enough stashed away to search for months.

  Mr. Belmont, it turned out, was far more patient and understanding than
Roger would have thought. While he was no longer paying Roger ten pounds per day, he was continuing to pay him ten pounds per week, plus expenses. Roger could search for his family’s murderer for a year and still not worry about money. His gratitude to Mr. Belmont was immeasurable, and he’d be damned if this case would be drawn out longer than it needed to be.

  Which was why he’d set Lion’s Gate on fire.

  This was not the work of a demented man, but rather the work of a man who was in a hurry to flush out his prey. Find the baron, find the diamond. And since no one seemed to know where the baron was, Roger was left with little choice. If Baron Alford was in England, he would come to assess the damage. He was certain the baron’s solicitor was aware of his whereabouts, and just as certain that he would inform the baron of the fire. Given the condition of his estate—the family was known to be in financial straits—the baron should come at least to see how great a loss he’d sustained.

  It was just a middling fire; most of the structure still stood and only the east wing had sustained any real damage. And he’d made damn sure no one was in the building before setting the blaze. It was a case of the ends justifying the means. Any day now, the baron would arrive in Keswick and he would be able to solve this case. And then he’d be able to do what he’d wanted to do for years: devote every waking minute to finding a madman.

  Nathaniel stamped his feet in the snow and looked at the damage wrought by the fire, relieved that most of the structure remained standing. Around him, snow swirled, lightly falling and leaving a fresh layer of white on the landscape. Lion’s Gate looked abandoned and was in dire need of repair, but at least it was still standing, despite the charred remains of the east wing.