Diamond in the Rogue

by Wendy Lacapra

  She folded her arms. “I imagine you think a woman incapable of such planning. And that’s Lord Belhaven to you.”

  He snorted. “Don’t want me to sully his name with my libertine mouth, do you?”

  “He’s so far above you…” She lifted her arm to demonstrate, and her waistcoat fell apart. “You couldn’t touch him if you tried.”

  Nothing. She had on nothing beneath her shirt. And evidence of her womanliness had hardened into dark, arresting points.

  “Pardon me.” She placed her finger beneath his chin and lifted. “My eyes are up here, Lord Rayne.”

  “I said you were obviously a woman, didn’t I?”

  She curled her shoulders forward. “The bindings I used are still wet.”

  “Again”—his gaze dropped—“obviously.”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. “For your information, I wasn’t going to insist on delivering you to Markham.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “To start, the diversion would make me late. A land agent is expecting me.”

  “A land agent?” Her voice fell to a rasp. “You’re going to sell the Grange?”

  He opened one eye. “Lease, most likely—unless I can find a way to break the entail. I may also hire a permanent steward, depending on the land agent’s advice.”

  She paled. “You intend to leave again, don’t you?”

  “I bought Clarissa’s portion so that she would always have access to her own funds.” Surely Julia had known he meant to return to New York. Everyone knew. “You know Clarissa’s marriage to your brother was based on that agreement.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to lease or sell your estate, does it?”

  “On a fine point, no.” But absent the mines, the estate wasn’t in the least profitable—and would take years to restore. He felt no need to perpetuate the symbol of a line that had brought forth nothing good from the time the title was created. “The Grange isn’t Southford. I have no reason to stay.” None but the propagation of some false notion that, by birth, he was superior.

  Clock gears within clock gears clicked away behind her eyes. “So,” she said slowly, “you have to meet a land agent. I have to get to Scotland. What do you propose?”

  For that, he had an answer. He’d been thinking it through all night. “We travel on.”

  She frowned. “To what end?”

  He forced himself to speak the words. “To deliver you to your intended groom, of course.”

  He would keep her safe until she reached the end she thought she wanted. However, by the time they made it to the border, he hoped to make up for his past wrongs by convincing Julia to hold off on this impulsive elopement and wait to find someone worthy of her family’s blessing.

  If not, well, she and her family would be Cracked-skull’s concern, wouldn’t they?

  …

  What demon had made her suggest to Rayne she was eloping? And her groom—Edmund Alistair Clarke, Viscount Belhaven, whom she’d never met and who was probably ninety if he was a day.

  Miss Watson’s love had been the first name that popped into her head when Rayne rightly—though arrogantly—assumed she had made a fool of herself by chasing after him.

  Again.

  Seemed reasonable enough at the time. Not that her frozen mind had been working.

  And, though she’d mentioned Lord Belhaven to hide her hurt and to take Rayne down a peg—or ten—had Rayne been humbled?

  No. Of course not.

  The man had no shame. So long as he wasn’t her aim, he didn’t appear to object at all to her flight.

  Again, so much for Farring’s theory that he cared.

  And yet, he had the audacity to steal glances at her unbound breasts as if he found thinly covered nipples the most fascinating things in the world.

  Libertine.

  How would he like such perusal?

  She dropped her gaze to his feet and slowly took her fill. From the trousers that clung to his calves to the thighs which had sheltered her in their muscled warmth through the night.

  There, she paused.

  Ogling—she intended to prove—was a two-way sport.

  Instead, the obvious protuberance beneath his falls ignited a slow burn in her belly, a fire that set the room and her heart askew.

  Perspiration broke on her brow. Her already peaked nipples ached as they had yesterday, when she’d stared at his thighs…only worse.

  Because now she knew how those thighs felt when wrapped around her waist.

  No denying she wanted something from him—even if he didn’t deserve her in the least. Exactly what she wanted remained unclear.

  Still, lust whispered terrible suggestions into her ear. Suggestions in the form of perfectly reasonable questions like—why shouldn’t she take him up on his offer to escort her to her nonexistent groom?

  She’d have days to unravel the reason he affected her like no one else.

  Days to closely observe this undercurrent that again and again proved strong enough to upturn her careful plans.

  Days to work out what this hot, restless feeling portended.

  She took a deep breath.

  “Very well,” she spoke to his thighs. Or, rather, the tented apex between them.

  “Julia! Look at me.”

  She did. He’d flushed the color of a scorching sunset—devastating, in contrast with his sky-blue eyes and midnight hair.

  “I will allow you to escort me to my Alistair.”

  Even Miss Watson had probably never taken the liberty of calling the man by any one of his Christian names. Which made her just a little ashamed.

  Rayne’s mouth moved fishlike as he struggled to find words. “Did—did you bring clothes?”

  She lifted a brow. “I told you last night. I haven’t any other clothing.”

  Something exhilarating slithered behind Rayne’s gaze. “Are you telling me you were planning to meet Alistair dressed as you are?”

  Whoops.

  No turning back now. She lifted her chin. “Alistair prefers me in breeches.”

  The exciting slither flashed again.

  “He says”—she swiveled around—“I have the most darling—”

  Rayne paled. “That’s enough, Julia.”

  “Julia?” She swiveled back. “Who is Julia? You’d think—” She cocked her hips. “You’d recognize your very own Katerina, darling.”

  His voice lowered—in tone as well as in volume. “I am not going to call you Katerina.”

  “Very well.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I prefer my paramours call me Kitty.”

  His eyes rounded. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

  Damnation. She’d guessed right, hadn’t she? “Who says I don’t understand? Let’s not forget my dearest Alick.”

  His nostrils flared. “Alec—not Al-lick…if you want me to believe you’re on intimate terms with the Viscount, at the very least use the correct pronunciation of his name. Now, Mrs. Van Heldt—rules.”

  “I think not.” Fie on his male authority. “I don’t do well with rules.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Sarcasm”—she tightened her lips—“does not become you.”

  “Look, kitten—”

  She stopped breathing. “What did you call me?”

  He flashed a row of straight, white teeth. “Good for the goose, good for the gander.”

  She folded her arms. “You know the plural of both gander and goose is geese, don’t you? Almost as if the males are disposable, which they may well be…except for…well, you know.”

  He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, we are going to be traveling for days.”

  “Three more,” she clarified. “At a minimum.”

  He eyed her with surprise. “Yes, t
hree.”

  “Really, darling, I’ve been north before. Katherine is mistress of Bromton Castle, or have you forgotten?”

  “Forgotten? No.” He blinked. “Have you been inside the Grange?”

  “Only on the grounds. Clarissa preferred to stay at the Castle.”

  His lips puckered as if he might spit.

  She stepped back. “Is not mentioning Clarissa’s choice of residence one of these rules you are so interested in establishing?”

  His lips flattened. “Yes.”

  She considered. “I have a rule.”

  “The leader makes the rules.”

  “As I believe I told you a long time ago, a team labors in harmony. Why should I assume you are the leader?”

  “Aside from the obvious?”

  “Your swinging male appendage?” She’d heard Cook say that phrase to a footman once. Again, she planted her gaze directly at his crotch…and not entirely to make her point.

  Then, suddenly, she understood. Her eyes widened involuntarily. When horses wished to rut—their appendages grew. She cocked her head and stared with greater interest.

  “I’m the leader because I have the carriage. I have the money. I know the way.”

  “We just established I know the way, too. And what makes you think I don’t have money?”

  “Do you?”

  She laughed. “Do you think I’m mad enough to set off to Scotland without funds?”

  “Believe me,” he said roughly. “I have no idea what you’re capable of.”

  She considered. “Quite a bit, as it turns out. As a matter of fact, I’m so comfortable with my own competence, I’ll even agree to abide by your rules…at present.”

  His right brow shot up. “Thank you?”

  “You’re welcome.” She’d follow his rules…until his rules were proven wrong. Which they inevitably would be, of course.

  Some consequences were perennial.

  She meekly folded her hands in front. “So?”

  “If we’re lucky, they’ll be no one in pursuit. You may have taken care of Markham and Bromton, but are you certain Miss Watson won’t mention your change of plans to someone who knows you weren’t in that caravan to London?”

  “But no one…” Well, spillikins. She couldn’t rule out someone having seen her after the caravan departed. And Lizzy—the proprietress of The Pillar of Salt—would notice when she failed to collect her horse for a ride.

  “Not completely sure, are you? Well, you had better hope Miss Watson isn’t visited by the good rector before Sunday.”

  “Then we had better get on, don’t you think?” She wet her lips. “I’ll take the rail.”

  “Oh no you won’t—it’s still raining. We’ll both travel inside the coach, where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m not…I mean I don’t…” Blast! She couldn’t tell him she got scared inside carriages on long rides.

  “If you’d rather,” he suggested, “I can take you back to Southford.”

  “No,” she squeaked. “I’ll manage.”

  “If there’s good weather,” he continued, “we’ll travel through the day…and night. If the storm continues, we’ll acquire a suite at nightfall, and I’ll stay outside the door, under the guise I am protecting you.”

  She forced a smile. “I feel safer already.”

  “When we reach Periwinkle Gate, we’ll have to alter our story…”

  “Why? Is Farring’s grandmother acquainted with Katerina?”

  “The dowager is not Farring’s grandmother. She’s his grandfather’s second wife.” He paused as if he were making some decision. “And, yes, she and her entire court will know at once you aren’t Katerina.”

  Her court? “Well,” Julia suggested, “we’ll make another switch. I’ll simply go back to being your footman.”

  “No.”

  “Really, Rayne. Solutions aren’t ever discovered by negating suggestions.”

  “You’re right.” He sighed harshly.

  “I am?”

  “We’ll decide when we’re closer. Perhaps I’ll secrete you at an inn nearby.”

  “No.”

  He lifted his brows. “Perhaps you can be my footman.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “You’ll have to learn a thing or two about being a man.”

  She snorted.

  “Scoff all you like but observe.” He grasped her shoulders and angled them both so their reflection appeared in the beveled looking glass on the table. “Have you ever seen a footman curl his shoulders as you are?”

  She was curling her shoulders so her breasts wouldn’t stick out! But she loosened her limbs, widened her stance, and pulled back her shoulders.

  He flushed again. “Never mind.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “I’m no longer certain I wish to proceed.”

  She shrugged. “Very well, then. I’ll proceed alone.”

  He blocked her advance toward the door. She bumped up against him and froze. Chest to chest. Thigh to, well, belly…with the male appendage formerly in question as hard as his expression.

  “Not swinging,” he murmured.

  And, from the hungry, focused look in his eye, human male anatomy hardened for exactly the same reasons as a horse.

  His heat torched her blood, spreading all the way from her core to her fingertips.

  Oh yes, no question, she was undeniably a female. A male-focused female. This male in particular.

  Think.

  Rayne wanted her. Bodily, at least.

  She hadn’t been fully convinced before. But the pressure against her stomach left no doubt about his interest. Thick, pulsing interest he wasn’t bothering to hide.

  Instead, he stood perfectly still, as if her awareness of his desire were a challenge—You’ll turn back, now, won’t you, kitten?

  Wrong. She couldn’t leave, especially now, with their yet-unacknowledged connection flaring between them.

  Lady Julia Stanley never backed down from a rational challenge.

  Only was any of this rational? On the other hand, when had she ever ceded to logic where Rayne was concerned? What mattered was keeping her wits. Here. Now.

  She leaned into him, embracing all things feminine. “What about this?” She meant the heat between them, the fire that needed no tinder. “What’s your rule about this, Rayne?”

  His gaze bore into hers, penetrating. Then he focused on her lips. Everything in the room disappeared…everything except him.

  “If you’re talking about my hard cock.” His icy eyes darkened into moonlit pools. “The rule is, we ignore this…for both our sakes.”

  She should pull away. Absolutely. But cock was such a delicious new word—and hard cock, practically savory.

  So, instead, she entwined her fingers in his beard and then stroked upward, following the hard line of his jaw to his ear. She took the lobe between her thumb and forefinger and rubbed.

  A noise burst from his throat—part growl, part something deeper. Then he leaned into her hand, closed his eyes, and gruffly pressed his cheek into her fingers.

  So prickly. Such a contrast to the softness of his ear.

  She couldn’t even pretend she could come this close and not demand more. She cupped his other cheek.

  He remained still. Petrified. Unmoving. As if she were the predator and he, the prey. He dragged his big, sweltering palm against the base of her spine.

  She lifted herself to her toes. “Ignoring something doesn’t make it go away.”

  “I can think of only one thing that can make this go away, kitten.”

  “What’s that, darling?” she asked.

  He bent his head and claimed her lips.

  Finally.

  …

  Rayne had been focused on his arguments, because when Julia w
as in the room, he lost all reason. For the love of all things holy, he knew if he was going to make this trip while keeping her safe—not to mention chaste—rules would be his only lifeline. Without rules, he’d be a rudderless ship.

  He’d assumed—mistakenly, as it turned out—as long as they kept talking, he would not be able to indulge any of the other impulses he desperately wanted to indulge.

  Like sucking on her plump lower lip until its crimson hue turned scarlet.

  A body denied through a long, restless night is not a body conducive to logic or restraint.

  She’d taken one deliberate, gliding step in his direction, and the swish in her hips had stunned his attention. Just a small movement. A slight, unconscious arc his cock translated as offering—This is what you want, isn’t it?

  Then he’d glimpsed the pointed nipples visible beneath her shirt, she’d acknowledged his erection and its meaning, and he’d not been able to talk or think at all.

  Suddenly, everything she’d hidden had been manifest—the curves beneath her shirt, the need beneath her bravado, the want that wafted from her skin like summer-day sweat. When she touched his cheek, his blood turned Thames-mud sluggish…thickly pooling directly into his groin.

  Her eyes blurred as she lifted herself onto her toes. Her warm breath fanned his cheeks, and her lips parted, pillow-soft.

  Mercy.

  He was nothing she needed. She was everything he craved.

  Invitation personified, delicious, familiar, laden with nectar-sweetness. Anticipation watered his mouth as he slipped into an age-old pattern—Desire. Seduction. Reward. The pattern on which all life depended. Animal, perhaps, but deeply human, too. Vulnerable and needy, with a persistent undercurrent of please.

  He encircled her impossibly slight waist with his large, calloused hands, feeling lost. Clumsy. His cock would have none of that. His head tilted of its own accord, probing deeper, conducting the lightning flashes behind his lids as if he could shock her, too.

  Not likely. Not when she’d practically begged to be bedded.

  He tangled his fingers in the curls at her nape, hearing an untamed growl from afar. His own, likely. An animal mine. Fuck Edmund Alistair Cracked-skull; Julia’s lips had been shaped just for him. Full, determined lips, eagerly demanding.

  Julia. Jules. Harpy. Minx. Kitten.