Diamond in the Rough

by Jane Goodger

  Chapter 7

  “‘And hour by hour, when the air was still, the vapors arose which have strength to kill. At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt. At night they were darkness no star could melt.’”

  “Why are you quoting Shelley to me?” Nathaniel asked without thinking. A gardener, even a bad one, would likely not have a working knowledge of the famous English poet.

  Clara looked at him askance and he held his breath. “Because I’m worried about our plants.” It was a chilly day with the wind blowing hard over the Atlantic, creating whitecaps on the sea that were visible even from this distance.

  “I thought the temperatures rarely went below freezing here.”

  “They don’t. Still, I would be greatly saddened should something happen to destroy our garden when it is just now beginning to, well, look like a garden.”

  Clara put the book aside and stood, pulling her wool coat closer around her. Her cheeks were rosy from the chilly air and wind, and she looked particularly beautiful. Nathaniel clenched his jaw, aware of her moving closer to him.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked.

  He darted a look to her and found himself clenching his jaw again. It was either that or take her hand and drag her into his lair and ravish her. These past few weeks, the lust he’d been feeling had not dissipated. Indeed, it, along with his affection for her, had grown even stronger. Even with her bundled up in a shapeless old wool coat of a nondescript color, she was far more appealing than any woman he had ever known. Angry? No, he was not angry. He was mad with lust. And maybe just a little bit in love.

  “I am not angry,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Hmph. Then perhaps you should stop clenching your jaw incessantly. I daresay you will shatter your teeth.”

  As she moved past him, he stared at her a long moment before finally giving in and letting out a huff of laughter, which won him a classic Clara smile. “There,” she said impishly, looking back as she walked along trailing her fingers lightly over the hydrangeas that would soon need trimming. “That is much better than frowning all the time.”

  She paused, as if just noticing the once-colorful blooms were now more brown than vivid blue. “We shall have to prune these,” she said, and for some reason, her use of the word “we” made his heart do a strange thing in his chest. There was no “we” nor would there ever be. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her the way he’d dreamed of doing since that first day in the garden when he realized how extraordinary she was. Thoughts like that only led to one thing, and that was disaster, for he was quite certain he would not be able to stop at one kiss. As a man of honor, he would have to be certain such an indiscretion never happened. Clara was young and exceedingly innocent, and despite drowsy eyes and parted lips that begged for his kiss, he was aware she truly did not know what she was wishing for. At least he prayed not. That one thought—that she was an innocent and wanted to remain so—was an invisible but impregnable wall, one he would not climb. Based on their conversations, no man had done more than plant a chaste kiss on her lush lips. He hated those men who’d had the pleasure of hearing her sigh when he knew he never would. Despite his deep sense of honor, he knew he was racing against time. He must find the diamond soon lest all his defenses and good intentions crumble at his feet. Impregnable wall? Indeed, he feared he was kidding himself. All she needed to do was let him know she wanted his kiss and all would be lost.

  Christ, just the thought of kissing her was making him aroused; he shifted uncomfortably.

  “We’re leaving for London at the end of the month for an extended time,” she said, her words acting like a bucket of cold water. She looked up as if gauging his reaction, which he was quick to mask. Was it only two months ago that he’d promised himself to give up his search after one month? And yet he was still here, still searching, still creating her garden. At some point in the past weeks, he’d abandoned his self-imposed deadline. Why?

  Long hours passed when he didn’t even think about the diamond, when all his focus was on the garden. Or on her.

  “Your garden will miss you,” he said, and she grinned.

  “But not my gardener.”

  “That would be presumptuous, do you not think?” he asked, aware they were flirting. So much for honor and sacrifice.

  “I shall be brave enough to say I will miss you.” She raised one saucy brow. “You are the only person in the world I can tell my secrets to without receiving a lecture.”

  He let out a chuckle. “I cannot recall any secrets told, Miss Anderson.”

  “Here’s one, then. I loathe the aristocracy and its rules. The thought of pretending I am something I am not for the rest of my life makes me ill. My happiest memories are of being a child helping my grandparents on their pig farm. This,” she said, indicating her lovely gown, “is uncomfortable and still, after all these years, feels like a costume.”

  Nathaniel swallowed, staring at her with an intensity she must feel. “Then why do you do it? Why do you parade yourself in front of those titled gentlemen like some sort of mare for sale?”

  When her eyes filled with tears, he cursed himself for his callousness. “Because my mother is so very proud of me, of our accomplishments. I cannot break her heart.” She blinked, and the hint of tears he saw in her eyes was gone; he wondered if he’d imagined them.

  “What of your own heart?”

  She shook her head. “I have never been in love, so it’s not something I shall miss. I don’t expect to love my husband. Isn’t that what all girls of good breeding are taught? That to fall in love is the height of foolishness? What of you? Have you ever been in love?”

  “No. Never.” My God, it looked like her heart was breaking and he could do nothing, say nothing, to give her comfort. Never had he felt more helpless.

  “Why?”

  “I suppose I am in a similar position as you, Miss Anderson. Caught between two worlds and not belonging to either one.”

  She took two steps toward him and he tensed. “Who are you, Mr. Emory? Truly?”

  “I’m just a man looking for something I haven’t yet found and probably never will,” he said, glad he could tell some sort of truth. Lying never had sat well with him.

  “I will say this, sir. You have found this garden. Look at it. It’s lovely, is it not?”

  “The most lovely garden in all of…” She raised her brow as if challenging him not to lie. “…St. Ives.”

  “Sadly, even that is not the truth. Costille House has a much grander and much lovelier garden than ours.”

  “Costille House?”

  “Lord Berkley’s estate. He’s the earl I mentioned, and my mother is beside herself with joy that he has taken up residence. He’s coming to luncheon tomorrow,” she said, as if it was the worst possible news.

  “To meet you, I take it?”

  “Oh, we’ve already met. He’s a nice enough gentleman, but…”

  “Yes?”

  She smiled sadly, then looked away, out toward St. Ives Bay. “He doesn’t hold my heart.” She seemed to gather herself together. “And besides that, he’s an earl, for goodness’ sake. No earl is going to be interested in courting a commoner. He certainly doesn’t need my dowry. And he’s rather handsome. So far, the only titled gentlemen who have even glanced twice at me are those who are as ugly as a toad or poorer than a church mouse. Even with their flaws, they will not have me. They believe they would be soiling the purity of their family line, no doubt. You have no idea how the aristocracy works, how a man with little intelligence and little worth can think himself better than a great man like my father who made his own fortune with brain and brawn.”

  Her cheeks pinkened when he just stared at her. Frankly, it was difficult to keep a straight face when she’d just insulted him and his peers. “You think I am talking like a Progressive. Perhaps I am. Perhaps after all this tim
e I’ve realized that aristocrats, except for the chance of birth, are no better than I am. I might even say they are less. What do they do but prance around and wallow in their own importance?”

  To say Nathaniel was stunned would be a vast understatement. He wondered, with a sickening twist of his gut, what Miss Anderson would say if she knew he was a member of the aristocracy she seemed to so loathe.

  “Surely not all members of the aristocracy are so disagreeable.”

  She tilted her head as if going through a catalogue of people she’d met. “Perhaps you are correct, Mr. Emory. I’m certain there are one or two with pleasant dispositions who do not believe God put them on this Earth to lord it over everyone else.”

  He barked out another laugh. “Perhaps one or two,” he said, grinning.

  “The Earl of Berkley is rather pleasant. And, as I said, quite handsome.”

  “Handsome, is he?” Nathaniel fought the ridiculous jealousy that burned in his blood. Any man would find Clara far too tempting, no matter her low birth.

  That thought lingered in his mind for far too long before he shoved it away. He was any man, was he not?

  “Too handsome. Though I do believe if I were to dress you in an expensive suit, you would look just as handsome as he.” She looked at him and laughed. “I’ve embarrassed you.”

  “Indeed you have, Miss Anderson.”

  “I suppose I should not notice such things,” she said on a sigh.

  “Or say them aloud.”

  “Are you chastising me, sir?”

  “I am.” She looked so beautiful at that moment, with the breeze picking up the brim of her ever-present straw hat and exposing her entire countenance to his hungry gaze, he could not have looked away if the blue diamond had struck him in the head.

  And there it was. That drowsy look. Those lush parted lips. He could tell by the rise and fall of her breasts that her breath quickened. Step away, Nate. For God’s sake…

  “Miss Anderson…” He nearly choked out her name and his gaze, as if he had no control, settled on her lips.

  “I’ve never been kissed.”

  Clara took a step back, as if increasing the distance between them would make what she’d just said go away. But it had come bubbling out, pushed by this terrible, wonderful feeling that boiled in her stomach whenever she was near to him. He was looking at her the way a man looks when he wants to kiss a girl. She knew that much, at least.

  “That, Miss Anderson, is a tragedy.” His voice was low, rumbling through her, making the desire she felt—for she knew that was what it was—only increase. It was very nearly painful, this ache that before had only been hinted at, a pleasant feeling that would touch her when she saw a particularly fine-looking gentleman. With Mr. Emory, though, it was a constant, heavy thing, something that had her touching herself at night, imagining her hand was his. Oh, God. What was wrong with her that she should do such things, think such things?

  Nothing could come of such feelings. He was her gardener. Oh, Lord, how had she let this happen?

  She dropped her head and stared at the ground. “I’m sorry—”

  “Perhaps I should—”

  They spoke at the same time and she snapped her head up. “Perhaps you should what, Mr. Emory?” she asked, sounding breathy, sounding not at all like herself.

  He took a deep breath. “I…” He closed his eyes briefly and his entire body went taut, as if he were about to make a dash for it. “I could kiss you,” he finally said, as if those words were wrenched from deep within. “If you’d like.”

  “I would. Perhaps. If you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

  He laughed low, so softly she hardly heard the rumble. “I would be honored to be the first man to kiss you,” he said with a small smile. “But nothing more. One kiss.”

  Clara swallowed, then looked around for a safe place for the kiss to take place.

  “Behind my shed perhaps?”

  “Now?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose it’s a good time. No one is about. I’ll go in, then you can wander around back and I can give you that kiss.”

  Clara giggled, nervously, then pressed her mouth tightly. She hated the way she sounded when she giggled; it seemed so undignified. “Very well.” She turned back to the hydrangeas and began decapitating them, her nerves getting the best of her. When she dared look up, he was gone, presumably around behind the shed waiting for his kiss. Oh, good Lord, what was she doing?

  Taking a long breath, she let it out slowly, trying to calm her nerves. It was just a kiss. What harm could come of it? Just a silly kiss that she would one day look back on with fondness and a bit of pride. Imagine, kissing her gardener. How very naughty of her. Clara, who tried and tried never to do anything that would upset anyone, found it rather nice to think she might have a naughty memory to store away amongst all the others.

  Oh so casually, she wandered toward the shed, pretended to be fascinated by a butterfly, then dashed behind the small building, only to run right into a hard, manly chest.

  “I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry for this kiss,” he said, laughing as he looked down at her. When she’d collided with him, he’d placed his hands around her upper arms to steady her, but now, his hold loosened, drifting up and down. Clara stared into his chest, at the white button that held his shirt together. “Miss Anderson?” He dipped his head in an attempt to make eye contact, and her body began to shake from silent laughter.

  When she dared look up, he was smiling at her and looked uncommonly handsome. She had never been so close to him, never noticed how beautiful his dark green-gray eyes were, the way a dark blue rimmed them, how his lashes spiked straight out and were far longer than she’d realized. Lifting a finger, she trailed it over his cheek, a spot where he’d missed shaving, and wished she’d taken her gloves off so she might know what his beard felt like. He bent his head, his intent clear, and she placed her finger on his lips and watched as he smiled.

  “Second thoughts?” he asked.

  Instead of responding, she lowered her finger slowly, watching with mild fascination how his firm lip moved and snapped back into place when she released it. Then, standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips against his and waited, for this was as far as her imagination had brought her, to this simple and wonderful feeling of her mouth pressed against his. He increased the pressure, moving his lips against hers, producing a sharp sensation of need with that simple caress. She could hear their breaths, feel his, harsh and hot, against her lips. His hand, gloveless, cupped her jaw and he let out a deep sound, a moan, a growl, a sound that was purely male.

  With a tilt of his head, the kiss deepened, and Clara gasped. This was just a kiss, one kiss, but it was lasting far, far longer than she’d thought it would. Did it count as one kiss? His tongue darted out, tasting the seam of her mouth, demanding entrance.

  “Open,” he whispered.

  And she did, allowing him to taste her, for her to taste him, all dark and delicious. It did something to her, ignited the thing that had been brewing inside her for weeks, made her body ache and feel as if she were going to burst out of her skin. This was desire, raw and hot and wonderful. She let out a sound of pure want, not caring that he would hear her, not caring that he would know how much she wanted this, wanted him. The hand that had rested on her jaw moved to the back of her neck, and his other hand pressed her against him, splayed just above her bum.

  He stopped suddenly, letting her go, causing her to stumble thanks to knees that had grown decidedly weak. Their kiss—their one kiss—was over.

  Mr. Emory stared at her, his eyes dark, almost angry, his fists clenched fiercely by his sides. “All right, then. We’re done.”

  Clara raised her eyebrows in question. “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Emory.” She bit her lip and saw his eyes dip once more to her mouth. She swore he took a small step toward her but perhaps it was
just her imagination. Or wishful thinking. Smoothing down her skirts, she gave him a quick, business-like nod and turned away, only to have him grab her around the waist and pull her back into him. She could feel his heaving chest, warm against her back, and his mouth on her neck. He embraced her like that for perhaps ten seconds before letting go and disappearing into his room, leaving her there, panting for breath and wondering what she had just done.

  * * * *

  “Mother, where is Harriet? Lord Berkley shall be here within the hour and I cannot find her anywhere.”

  Hedra was sitting at her vanity while her maid put the finishing touches on her coiffure. “She’s out somewhere,” Hedra said, flitting her hand in the air. “Walks are good for one’s constitution.”

  “Did you not tell her of the earl’s visit?” Clara asked, aghast.

  “I didn’t want to put her through it. You know how nervous she gets, and it’s not as if the earl is coming to see her.”

  Clara sighed. “He’s not coming to see me, either, Mother. As a matter of fact, I cannot imagine why Lord Berkley deigned to accept our invitation at all. Really, Mother, Harriet could have managed one simple luncheon with one important visitor. Do you not think Harriet’s feelings will be hurt when she finds out Lord Berkley was here?”

  “She’ll be relieved,” Hedra said, brooking no argument.

  Luncheon was a tedious affair until Harriet showed up, wearing a dew-dampened gown that was more fit for cleaning a house than luncheon with the highest ranking peer they had ever entertained. Lately, Harriet had taken to allowing her hair to curl rather wildly, and Clara believed it was some sort of silent rebellion against their mother. Secretly, Clara thought Harriet looked lovely with her hair natural, but at that moment, windblown and disheveled, she did not look the part of a young woman receiving a high ranking member of the aristocracy into her family home. Despite her appearance, Lord Berkley was exceedingly charming and insisted Harriet join them, which Harriet seemed to revel in, the scamp. Few people knew that Harriet had a bit of the devil in her, and Clara liked to see that side of her sister come out.