Desire Wears Diamonds

by Renee Bernard

  Bascombe’s hands fisted at his side. “That’s a lie!”

  Hell, I should thank you, you fat prig, for distracting our associates for all that time! Bascombe’s failure had been a small boon to him, drawing their attention away for a while and Sterling hadn’t sat by idly.

  “You tipped your hand too soon to his lady love and to Lord Winters and then you sailed off like an idiot to India despite every word of reason I offered.” Sterling crossed his arms in front of him. “And how did that go again? Find anything interesting, old chap?”

  Bascombe launched himself at Sterling’s throat, his hands transfigured into claws, but strong hands restrained him and the calm icy voice of the man behind the desk ended it. “Both of you will sit, at once. We’ve lost control of the Company to the crown where India is concerned but don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m not a power in my own right.”

  Rand’s face was so red, Sterling wondered if the older man weren’t about to keel over, but the man recovered. “I went into debt to chase that rock! At your urging, Porter, so how dare you look at me like some smug child and speak of my mistakes!”

  Sterling shrugged as he sat down. “We are each responsible for our own choices.”

  Rand nearly jumped again, but this time a single hand on his shoulder was enough to remind him of the company he was keeping. “Well,” Rand said, a slow cold smile creeping over his features, “that is true! I have repaid my debts to the Company and—“ his eyes darted to the man behind the desk with eyes the color of frozen mud who barely blinked. “I remain grateful for that opportunity.” Rand continued, turning his attention back to Sterling. “Whereas you, Mr. Porter, have yet to repay a single penny, is that not correct?”

  Sterling had to swallow the cold dread that threatened to choke him. “Not yet. But unlike you, I accepted that after the raj fell nothing would be simple. I told you it wasn’t there anymore. I was the one who made the connection to the Jaded and I’ve not wasted time and resources stomping around in a jungle nor will I be forced to marry some rich curdled old bitch to make good on my loans. I intend to deliver the diamond, Rand, single-handedly and without a nod to your hollow contributions.”

  “After all this time? After so many repetitions of that same promise?” Melrose said from his place leaning against the bookshelves. “You can still say those words and look us in the eyes?”

  “How?” another man asked, as he refilled his glass from a small bar against the wall. “How are you going to do it single-handedly?” His words slurred from the whiskey’s power but he was still steady on his feet.

  Sterling pressed his lips together. He had no desire to tell them the particulars of his plan for at least two solid reasons. He didn’t want Rand or any of them trying to intervene since they’d made it clear that they didn’t trust his competence. And secondly, he was too close now. Tonight, he’d brought Rutherford as proof that he’d gained vantage into the Jaded’s ranks but it was a move he regretted. Any of his compatriots could swoop in and spoil it or achieve the mystic diamond without involving Sterling and he may have tipped his own hand too far.

  Damn it! If they’d given me the resources I demanded in the beginning, all this would be over! Instead I’ve been shoved aside and forced to beg and borrow at every turn; inventing ridiculous makeshift schemes to try to further my cause and break the Jaded without the others taking matters into their own hands.

  “Well?” Rand asked, openly enjoying Sterling’s discomfort. “Tell us, Sterling. Tell us how you only need a few more months and you’ll have it this time. Tell us how you need “one more” small advance to seal the deal. I do so love a good fairy tale!”

  “Feel free to fuck yourself, Bascombe.” Sterling leaned forward and ignored everyone but the man behind the desk. “I have a very elegant solution underway. I don’t think I’ll say more except that nothing I’ve done has been wasted. I’ll have it before the first day in July. The diamond is here, in London and I’m willing to stake all that I have on that.”

  “All?” The room fell silent and the flames on the candles danced from an unseen force.

  Sterling began to pray as he hadn’t in a long, long time. Please dear God in Heaven. This time. This time let me win.

  “All that I have.”

  I may have staked my life on it.

  And time was officially running out. He’d had enough of Bascombe’s ridiculous party and the scrutiny of his peers. Sterling turned and left the room without a word, slamming the door behind him. Rutherford would be the work of another day. He would find his sister and drag her off the dance floor if need be, but the charade was over.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  She was light in Michael’s arms, but not insubstantial. Her smaller height was no true match for his, and yet she magically fit perfectly against him. Michael was able to place a hand between her shoulders at her back and to hold her without hunching over and as he accomplished the first few turns without incident, pride began to seep into him straightening his shoulders and allowing him to forget his fears.

  Here was no porcelain doll! Grace Porter was warm and lively, her touch instantly reminding him that the current of desire that had nearly carried them away at the Grove was no dream. There’d been no reproach or mention of that embrace and Michael was grateful for the reprieve. He was determined to demonstrate restraint and prove that he could be a gentleman when he tried.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

  “Immensely!” she replied. “It is a night I will always remember as my first and likely last ball.” There was no bitterness in her tone, only a matter-of-fact acceptance and joy in the moment.

  “You are too confined to the house, Miss Porter.”

  “Oh, I get out.” She gave him a secretive smile and evoked an English Mona Lisa. “I have my own unique methods for seeking escape. It’s just that Sterling prefers me to run the household and he doesn’t approve of ladies social clubs and the like.”

  “No?”

  “My brother has a deep suspicion of them and swears that they are all essentially political and subversive.”

  “Are they?”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t know! I’m not allowed to join any. But I don’t think they are as dangerous as he imagines. Our neighbor three houses away, Mrs. Sieverding, is a member of one and it all looks rather innocent.”

  It was his turn to laugh. “But that would be the definition of a subversive group, wouldn’t it? One that gives every appearance of innocence while they secretly plan to topple the government or assassinate every vicar in England? Can’t you see it? Petticoats and petit fours as a cover for an elite team of female assassins?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s…true…” It was as if he’d flipped a switch and lost her. Wherever her thoughts had taken her, it was far away from his presence and Michael admired the phenomenon. Darius did the same sometimes when he was working on a vast problem. One minute he’d be making conversation and the next, mid-sentence, he was a man adrift.

  She’s a thinker, like Darius. God, she’s so smart…but far prettier than Thorne when she’s distracted.

  She blinked suddenly as if recalling that she was in the midst of a waltz and that Michael was there. Her steps slowed and she would have stumbled if he didn’t offer the steady frame of his arms for her to cling to. Michael eyed the other dancers who were less apt to slow their pace and decided that the best course of action was retreat. He gently escorted her off the floor and away from the swirling crowd. With her fingers tucked into the crook of his arm, he walked her out the French doors of the large salon out onto a narrow verandah overlooking the gardens. The spring night air was cool enough that balcony was empty ensuring their privacy. Michael chose to keep talking, as if nothing had happened. “Your brother is unworthy of you, Grace.”

  “Sterling would vehemently disagree, but I don’t need rescue, sir.”

  His jaw clenched to bite off the argument that sprang to his lips. Like hell, you don’t!
<
br />   Another pair of dancers stepped out onto the verandah, openly clinging to each other and making Michael wonder if the punch were more potent than it appeared. Their privacy vanished and he regretted it deeply. “Miss Porter, if it’s not too forward, would you care to take a turn in the garden away from…” He glanced over at the lovers, his own face growing hot. “The crowds. It seems well-lit with Chinese lanterns and I confess, I might need some more fresh air before attempting another life-threatening turn in that ballroom.”

  “How thoughtful!” she readily agreed and took his arm to walk down the stone steps to the garden. “It is a crush, isn’t it?” She stopped halfway down, her movement abruptly coming to a halt. “If it’s my life you’re referring to, I felt quite safe, Mr. Rutherford.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps I was thinking of the other dancers. My waltzing skills are a bit erratic and there’s no telling what weak soul I might have run over in there.”

  She struck his arm playfully with her folded fan then laughed. “I have always wanted to do that!”

  “Hit me with a fan?” he asked.

  “Not you! Anyone really…women do it all the time in dramatic fashion from what I can gather and I read an article chiding ladies for getting a bit too carried away with the use of their fans as weapons.” She shrugged and resumed their walk down the stairs to the symmetrical garden below. “It sounded wickedly appealing.”

  You are wickedly appealing. His body tightened at her words and it was Michael’s turn to wrestle with his internal landscape. This is ridiculous! I have to be able to go more than two minutes without wishing to kiss this woman!

  “I can’t see you causing real injury with a bit of folded fabric and bamboo,” he said.

  “True,” she echoed and then he lost her again.

  He guided her down the gravel path lined with blooming French lavender and patiently waited.

  Her eyelashes fluttered and even by the pale light of the lanterns, he could see the blush that crept up her neck. “I’m so sorry! I was daydreaming again!”

  “I’ll forgive you only if you take a deep breath and without censure, tell me what you were thinking in that moment. All in one go.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked, tipping her head to one side to study his offer. “All in one go?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was thinking about fans as weapons and how men can put rapiers into their walking sticks and umbrella handles, but there is no feminine equivalent. And that it would be sinfully exciting to think of a stiletto built into the wooden handle of a lady’s lace and feather fan and the very last place that anyone would ever think to look if they were disarming her.” Grace released his arm and took a step back, a woman warily awaiting judgement. “Not…not that one would ever…do such a thing…”

  “My god!”

  Her eyes flooded with horror. “I was—jesting!”

  “That was brilliant!” Michael exclaimed. “That popped into your head? Truly?”

  She nodded slowly. “I did say that I was scattered, Mr. Rutherford. I’m afraid things tend to pop in my head quite often.”

  “So clever!” He held his arm back out. “What an original thinker you are, Miss Porter.”

  “You don’t mind it?”

  He shook his head firmly. “I find it very entertaining. I never know what you are going to say next and you never disappoint.”

  She was so still, her face tipped up toward him, eyes shining. “I could have said the same to you, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “I’m not entertaining,” he asserted quietly.

  “No, but you never disappoint, sir.”

  Michael fought to hold himself in check. “Would you—care to finish our turn about the garden?”

  “Oh!” She smiled and recovered her composure, taking a small step forward to take his arm. “Lead on, Mr. Rutherford!”

  The path wound to turn under a large oak tree before heading back toward the house and as they stepped into the dark shadows of the walled garden’s end, Michael questioned his own sanity at proposing an “innocent walk” at night in Bascombe’s little wilderness. They were too far from the house for his liking. “Perhaps we should head back before they send out a search party.”

  “We are a scandalous distance out,” she said, apparently reading his mind. “But before we run in like guilty children, I have to tell you something, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “Yes?”

  “I could be wrong, sir, but I have the distinct feeling that you are genuinely worried about me. You are so quick to come to my defense and I’m—humbled by it. But I don’t wish to take advantage of any misplaced gallantry on your part.” She reached up to nervously smooth back a curl from her face. “I’m not blind to the tensions between you and Sterling. I know he can be a difficult man but I can manage my own life.”

  “As you said, you don’t need a rescue, Miss Porter,” Michael said. “But that doesn’t mean—“

  “I don’t wish to shock you, Mr. Rutherford, but I intend to live independently from Sterling and I have—plans to do exactly that.”

  “What?” Michael’s amusement evaporated in a single breath. “What plans?” An irrational vision of Grace Porter having a clandestine lover ready to sweep her away from her brother’s household stirred a dark weight in his chest—a possessive tiger stretching to life. “Grace.” He took another deep breath and tried again. “Damn it.”

  “Sir?”

  Michael moved fast, emotions outpacing all else, and he caught her upper arms in his hands, stepping close to look down into her startled eyes. “I shouldn’t have cursed! If you only knew me…you’d know how out of character…” He softened his hold by an infinite degree but something in him refused to let go. “I’m a version of myself I have never known, Grace. If you have—is there another man, Grace? I have no right to ask but I—you affect me. You know you do. I demonstrated how much at the Grove but—I need to know. Tell me, Grace. Tell me your plans.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered in shock but she didn’t drop her gaze. “There is no one and I…”

  “Say it.”

  “I meant only that I’ve saved money of my own to leave my brother’s house. On my own, Mr. Rutherford.” She tipped her head back a single inch, innocently unaware of the inviting picture she created and the havoc she was wreaking on his senses. “But I find that I want you to have every right to ask, Mr. Rutherford, and that doesn’t seem possible.” She reached up to place one hand against his chest, her fingers splayed against the rhythm of his heart. “I want all my secrets to be yours to keep or betray, sir.”

  His hold on her was firm and commanding but not cruel. The heat of her body, the scent of her hair and skin and the look of absolute rust and calm nudged him over a line he had sworn to never again cross. It was sheer madness not to release her, not to apologize or beg to reassure her that he would take every secret she’d ever placed with him to his grave.

  But Michael wasn’t thinking anymore.

  Relief that Grace Porter was free gave way to a raw desire to claim her, to possess the right to protect her and hold her—to seize the chance to touch what he could not keep. He lifted her up against his chest and off her feet, lowering his lips to hers, hungry and eager to taste her mouth again. The familiar and fiery assault of sensation drove him on as her lips parted eagerly, matching his desires with a sigh and proving that the unpredictable Grace Porter was always to be a surprise to him.

  This was no echo of their first embrace but a moment unto itself as if he had never kissed her before and as if this were the thousandth time he had held her.

  Her arms reached up to encircle his neck, leveraging herself against him to demonstrate that she did indeed fit perfectly into his arms, the disadvantage of her stature evaporating as her body pressed to his. He cradled her against this chest, then knelt down on one knee, unwilling to trust his balance as the world tipped one direction and then another; spinning at every touch. She tucked against him balanced on his thigh, the difference i
n their heights diminished and irrelevant, the sweet fire of her tongue against his in an erotic dance.

  Grace sighed at the delights of kissing Mr. Rutherford, his mouth warm velvet against hers. It was intoxicating and she opened her mouth to taste more, inviting the touch of his tongue and boldly running the tip of her own tongue along his full lower lip. He moaned at its touch and deepened his kiss, his reaction a white hot passion that made her lose track of where her body ended and where his began.

  She slid her fingers upward to touch his throat and then downward to trace the pulse of his heart. Her hand sought the bare skin at his chest, eager to press her fingertips. She had one fleeting thought that her boldness would disgust him but his responses quelled the notion instantly. This was a power Grace had never known. His touch commanded her but it was clear that she was the ruler of him in turn.

  Michael came up for air only to renew a passionate assault on the delicate landscape that was Grace. It was like breathing lilacs and tasting spring. He trailed his mouth across her jaw to discover the shell of her ear. When she shivered and arched against him when he grazed the curve of its outer rim, he took it as an invitation and at the present moment, he was in no mood to refuse.

  She sighed consent and wriggled with excitement at the attention of his lips and the gentle nips of his teeth to pull on her earlobes. She tipped her head to bare more of her neck and shoulders, beautiful feast of touch and taste that did nothing to diminish his hunger for her. Michael followed the lines of her throat to uncover every point that made Grace react and practically sing in his arms.

  The lessons came quickly and Michael absorbed that every flash of pleasure she experienced was directly tied to his own body’s demands, arcs of heat and a raw animalistic hunger for satisfaction unfurled inside him, as every touch built to hint at the release he knew was possible.

  Her lips drew him back and his fingers splayed to cradle her head, to take all that she offered and possess this fiery gift of Grace’s kisses. Her hair was silk in his hands and even as a part of him dryly noted that hairpins were falling and would be impossible to retrieve from the wet grass in a dark garden… Michael was wrestling with the very real danger that more than hairpins were about to fall.