Diamond in the Rogue

by Wendy Lacapra

  The farther she got from Rayne, the easier she breathed.

  If everything between them was settled, over, done, why did Rayne’s presence set a bundle of unanswered questions burning in her heart?

  And why did something in her reawaken, as if succumbing again to his innate pull?

  At her side, the elderly Miss Watson sniffed.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  Miss Watson smiled. “Oh, I’m probably coming down with something…as usual. But don’t let that worry you. It was good of you to walk with me, child.”

  “Good? Not at all,” Julia answered. “You wished to walk; I had to accompany you. Why, you used to carry me from church to Southford all the time when I was a little girl.”

  Miss Watson splayed her fingers against her chest. “You remember that?”

  Julia nodded. She didn’t remember much, but she clearly recalled the feeling of being cuddled safely in Miss Watson’s arms…and the relief of not having to ride with her father.

  Miss Watson hummed thoughtfully. “You didn’t like carriages.”

  “I still don’t particularly enjoy a long carriage ride.” Though what she hadn’t specifically liked was the way the walls enclosed the heavy gin-scent of her father’s breath. “I hide my discomfort better now.”

  She hid a lot of things better now.

  Mostly.

  “Is your aversion to carriages why you asked to lodge with me while your brother takes his wedding trip?” Miss Watson asked.

  Julia nodded, although she hadn’t been invited to go on the trip, of course. She’d been expected to return to the city with Bromton and Katherine. But, for the first time ever, the very thought of London filled her with distaste.

  Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, everything had become so muddled. Rayne’s presence worsened her condition, but, unfortunately, Rayne wasn’t entirely at fault.

  No. Rayne was a problem, but not the problem. The real problem? Though happy for her siblings’ love matches, for herself, she’d lost faith in love.

  She winced into the cold, turning her face toward the pale, empty sky.

  For as long as Julia could remember, she’d had plans—glorious plans to rule the world, or, at least, her world. She’d seen too much of the alternative.

  In fact, by eighteen, the life experiences of those around her had practically formed a guidebook for how not to live. She had no memory of her mother’s short life, but she knew that when her mother died her father had succumbed to drink. After her father’s death, her brother had struggled under the weight of their father’s debt, and, for other reasons, her sister had wound up exiled at Southford in shame.

  But, despite everything, deep in Julia’s heart, she’d held to the conviction that love—like Miss Watson’s childhood cuddles—would make everything right in the end, if she just took charge.

  Then, Rayne had entered her life.

  Diamonds, they’d called him, and he had the hard polish to match. She hadn’t just seen him, she’d felt him—like the bass chords in a rousing song. After they’d kissed, she’d named the overwhelming sense of recognition love.

  Falsely, as it turned out.

  She’d announced her love in front of her family, but then Rayne had disappeared, leaving her reputation intact but her heart shattered. Still, had she collapsed? Never. She’d defiantly resumed her plans.

  Love was out there…somewhere.

  She’d made her London curtsy with Farring’s sister, Horatia. Together, they’d fooled the stuffy matrons into believing them demure, and, for their efforts, they’d been crowned diamonds of the first water.

  She’d taken particular pleasure in the title, as if, by name, she’d usurped Rayne.

  But now, Horatia was engaged and busy planning her trousseau. And for Julia, without someone who knew her true heart, crowded ballrooms had become deserts of loneliness barely prettied by false cheer.

  As for love?

  Not a sign on the horizon.

  Miss Watson dipped her head to catch Julia’s gaze. “I’m surprised you aren’t in a hurry to return to London, dear. I heard you’d made quite the impression on the ton.”

  “Surprised, are you?” She forced a smile. “I behave as I ought when I must.”

  “Of course you do.” Miss Watson patted Julia’s arm. “And you must have countless gentlemen clamoring for your attention.”

  “A few.”

  To her consternation, none of them had sparked a tenth of the thrill she’d felt when close to Rayne.

  She feared none ever would.

  “I had a season once,” Miss Watson said wistfully.

  “Did you?!” Julia exclaimed, grateful for the distraction. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, it was long before you were born.” Miss Watson sighed. “You should have seen the styles, then! So many men in so much lace.”

  Julia wrinkled her nose. “Men in lace?”

  “Oh, I know tastes have changed, but on the right man, lace can be”—Miss Watson’s gaze went dreamy—“remarkably manly.”

  Julia lifted a brow. “The right man?”

  Miss Watson blushed.

  “Miss Watson! You have a secret!”

  “Not a secret, really. Not anymore. But I did once fancy myself in love. Quite mad about him, I was.”

  Miss Watson had been old for as long as Julia could remember. She couldn’t conceive of the spinster ever holding a tendre for anyone—and definitely not a “mad” tendre. She pondered the notion as the pathway widened, joining Southford’s drive.

  “Did the gentleman return your affection?” Julia asked.

  Miss Watson fiddled with her glove. “Yes.”

  Well. Julia frowned. Was there anything melancholier than wasted love?

  Without her help, Markham and Clarissa may never have come together. And she didn’t even want to think of the opportunity that would have been lost if she hadn’t goaded Katherine and Bromton.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “He was promised to another.” Miss Watson’s voice fell as they approached the manor house. “And, like the good gentleman he was, he refused to break his vow.”

  Julia harrumphed. “I don’t like that story. Why can’t everything go as it should?”

  Miss Watson considered the question. “And how should it go?”

  “Love should win, of course.”

  “Over honor?” Miss Watson shook her head. “I could never have been happy, knowing my happiness came at the expense of another’s.”

  “Who is to say your love and his betrothed are happy?” Julia asked. “And, even if they are, their happiness came at the expense of yours.”

  “Wife,” Miss Watson corrected. “And were.”

  “Were what?” Julia asked.

  “Were happy. Content, at least. They never roused a word of gossip, anyway. But the past tense is proper, as his wife passed on a few years ago.”

  Julia paused. “Is he still living?”

  “Julia,” Miss Watson said warningly. “Don’t you go getting any ideas!”

  “And don’t you go thinking your scowl will keep me from looking him up!” Julia bounded up the stairs. “What if he never forgot about you?”

  “Fuss and vinegar,” Miss Watson muttered, following after.

  A footman opened Southford’s doors, and Julia led Miss Watson past the guests gathered in the dining hall, straight into the library.

  “Markham just purchased the latest copy of Debrett’s.” Julia slipped the book from the shelf. “His name?”

  “You won’t let this go, will you?” Miss Watson asked.

  “Absolutely not. And you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “I suppose I did.” Miss Watson smiled a gentle smile. “Very well. His name is Edmund Alistair Clarke.”

  �
�Clarke… Clarke…R… S… T… There we go.” Julia squinted up. “Edmund Alistair Clarke, Viscount Belhaven?”

  “He wasn’t a viscount then, of course.”

  Julia ran her finger along the entry. “He has two sons and a daughter, and…why, I’ve heard of this estate! It’s just on the English side of the Scottish border…not more than a day’s ride from Bromton Castle.”

  “Well, then, now we know. And knowing he is alive is enough. At my age, raised hopes are not only ridiculous…they can be downright dangerous.”

  Julia scoffed. “I’m not saying you should dash off in the middle of the night. But Katherine’s already invited you to visit the Castle. Accept”—a tingling ran down Julia’s arms—“and see what happens.”

  Miss Watson patted her cheek. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you, my dear?”

  Of late, she’d felt quite the opposite. But if, for her, love refused to manifest, she could damn well be certain everyone else she knew had the best opportunity.

  She smiled encouragingly at Miss Watson, willing her to see the possibilities. Then, a gust of wind turned her attention to the hall beyond. Farring and Rayne crossed over the threshold. Rayne snorted at something Farring murmured as they both divested their coats.

  Rayne had been gone for almost two years—two years that hadn’t been easy on him, if she were to guess by his weathered skin and bearded cheek. However, his gait—the alluring, unintentional swagger all his own—had enhanced. And those bright, singularly captivating blue eyes hadn’t altered one bit. They still weakened her knees and heightened her senses, leaving her watchful. Expectant.

  She scowled.

  His blue eyes hadn’t any particular allure. As for his swagger…given his advanced age of nearly thirty, he’d soon be stooping.

  He hurtled some quip back at Farring, spreading his fingers and tugging the edge of his glove. Considering their size, he had uncommonly graceful hands.

  Uncommonly affecting hands.

  A memory ghosted through her mind—she and Rayne in the stairwell just around the corner. Those same hands deliberately traveling down the contour of her back while, with his lips, he’d kindled fire like she’d never known.

  Excitement sparked a shiver in the present.

  Her eyes fixed to his hands, and every cell in her body vibrated with the command—Make. Something. Happen.

  She snapped the book she held closed.

  Stop.

  Rayne was what he’d always been…hemlock—a pretty poison, but a poison nonetheless. And she never made the same mistake twice.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Miss Watson,” she said. “Some things are better left in the past.”

  Which didn’t put an end to her rapid heartbeat. Nor resolve her conviction that love should and would win, if given a fighting chance.

  Chapter Two

  Resisting his attraction to Julia was like resisting the wind—bone-wearying and, ultimately, fruitless. Every time Julia laughed, every time she absentmindedly touched her cheek, Rayne practically vibrated with sharpened awareness.

  And then, when she slipped out alone, an inner directive arose—go to her…now!

  To deliver his apology, of course, of course, of course.

  An apology that would force her specter to cease haunting his mind.

  Or so he consoled himself as he hovered in the corridor directly outside Southford’s wedding-transformed billiards room.

  Julia’s solitary figure graced the far corner of a billiards-table-turned-gift-depository. She ran her fingers across the intricate carvings on a silver soup tureen. A decorative ribbon dangled from the wax tray beneath the chandelier, occasionally wafting against her skin.

  What he wouldn’t give to gently brush his fingers against the curve of her neck in the same way. Doubtless, she’d swat him away, too.

  Not that he would blame her. Not in the least. Who knew better than he his capacity to harm? He’d thought he’d polished his emptiness smooth, but his anger had ruptured the surface, and he’d shown who he was to those he’d cared for most.

  He neither deserved—nor would he stoop to request—a second chance.

  She looked up from the table, pinning him with her too-perceptive gaze. This time, she did not look away.

  “Everyone disappeared from the dining hall,” he said.

  She tilted her head, listening. “Then why do I hear voices?”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of people left in there. But Clarissa went upstairs, and Markham followed soon after. Moments later, Katherine and Bromton left as well.” He lifted a brow. “What is it about this place?”

  She shrugged. “Weddings make some people amorous, I suppose.”

  And you? He strolled into the room. Do weddings make you amorous? He wanted to know.

  And he definitely did not want to know.

  She hefted the bowl and made a show of ignoring him in favor of closely examining silver-rendered insects.

  “Dragonflies are an interesting choice for a soup tureen, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “You are mistaken.” She set down the bowl. “They’re clearly damselflies.”

  “Are they?” He leaned over her shoulder to get a closer look. “But a damselfly’s wings are closed when at rest.”

  “Who says they’re at rest? They could be fluttering about, as flies are wont to do.” She shifted, slowly lifting her gaze. “Besides, if they were dragonflies, their front and back wings would have different shapes.”

  “I see, now.” He reached from behind her and ran a finger over a veined wing. “Damselflies, indeed. They have more delicate bodies.”

  “Deceptively delicate. Remember…damsels can be predators”—her short, puffed P puckered her lips—“too.”

  Such a mouth she had. And such a face. Even a gifted artist would despair, trying to capture her changeling spirit in pigment. “Do you have an interest in entomology?”

  “I’ve always been drawn to insects.” She folded her arms. “As you should know.”

  Anger, he understood. Hers bore down on him—a deliberately placed heel. She would crush him if she could. Which made him want to respond in unspeakable—possibly even illegal—ways…all of them erotic.

  The taste of rancid shame pooled beneath his tongue. He must apologize and get out. Fast.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.

  “I’ve been avoiding you?” Her lids narrowed to slits. “You put oceans between us.”

  “One,” he replied softly. “One ocean.” One soot-watered, lightning-capped ocean, churning, at this moment, beneath his ribs.

  “One ocean”—she swallowed—“was more than enough.”

  Had it been?

  In an instant, time and distance withered to nothing. The fruits of his sweat, pain, and self-recrimination? Gone.

  Her pull stretched and deepened his inner mayhem. He wanted to pin her down, let her claw him all she wished, so long as she whimpered please when he pressed his lips against the vulnerable column of her throat.

  Her woman-scented skin visibly prickled with gooseflesh. Not so much an invitation as evidence—proof she was no more immune than he was inoculated.

  Attraction. Simple.

  Lust. Common enough.

  No reason to plunge into waters and drown.

  “I sought you out to apologize,” he said.

  She paled, even as the bright spots in her cheeks darkened. The contrast made her less intimidating, more doll-like. Now, he wanted to take her into his care.

  As if she needed care.

  As if he knew how to care for anything.

  “Markham”—she turned her face away—“already delivered your apology.”

  “As asked. I didn’t want to address you directly.” Then, after he’d seen her, he realized he had no choice.

  She
snorted. “Not surprising.”

  There. Right there. Sarcasm.

  Instinctively, he searched for the pain. “What, exactly, did Markham tell you?”

  “He said you acknowledged the wrong of”—her breath skipped—“toying with an innocent.”

  Toying. He’d set out to use her, yes, but she’d been anything but a toy. She’d been a danger to him then. She was a danger to him now.

  She ignited something shadowy—perverse, inner directives that felt essential. And, from the moment they’d met, she’d known exactly how she affected him.

  She may not have guessed the exact nature of his thoughts, but she’d sure as hell recognized his desire. Her certainty had infused her with power and sensuality beyond her experience.

  Yet now, she doubted.

  If he could heal nothing else, at least he could return her pride.

  “Julia, whatever you believe, understand I was…” He searched for the right word. “Taken with you.”

  Taken. Stolen. Thieved. Stripped of all protective illusions. Left wanting things he didn’t understand.

  Kissing her, teasing her, tempting her with decadent dissolution had been wrong, but his desire had been real. Destructively real.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that knowing how innocent you were”—knowing he had nothing to offer her but corrupted want, the shell of a home, and a family history of callous indifference—“I should never have allowed—”

  “Allowed?” Her eyes flashed. “I was not a child, Rayne.”

  God, he was aware.

  “And I’m not innocent.” She covered his stubbled cheek, softly running the tips of her fingers through his beard. “Not anymore.”

  Her eyes were pools of fury muddied with carnal craving. Again, she became an impossible combination of banshee and seductress. A combination he longed to bind…and then languidly unravel.

  “Rayne,” she whispered, her voice raw with hunger.

  He recognized her tone, her expression.

  I know you want what I want.

  Her words from long ago echoed in his mind. Then, as now, she’d been so alive, so exquisitely determined, ripe fruit dripping with readiness to be plucked.