Diamond in the Rogue

by Wendy Lacapra

  “My liege?” he prompted.

  “Yes?”

  “If you can get to the part about the abduction.”

  “Well, that part I assumed you already knew.”

  “You assume wrongly.”

  “How interesting.” James put his hand out. “As told to us, Farring convinced you to take the coach—which is really his wedding gift to you, by the way.” He turned his hand in the other direction. “And then he talked the lady into going after…how did he put it? Ah yes, what she truly desired. Which, I daresay even you must understand, is you.”

  Well, then. His first assumption had been correct, after all. But then who the devil was Edmund Alistair Clarke? “If Farring intended to gift me with the carriage all along, and Julia planned to abduct me, why on earth would he send us both here?”

  James blinked. “I should think that would be obvious.”

  Obvious?

  Well, now that he was thinking clearly, he could imagine only one reason Farring would intentionally send them both into the heart of Shepthorpe’s most closely guarded secret.

  “He sent me here to force my hand.”

  James nodded. “Lord Farring figured, at the very least, that seeing Master Theo and Annette would remind you of the lengths one should go for love. And he asked us to intervene if the two of you hadn’t managed to sort things out.” He leaned forward. “You are going to sort things out, are you not?”

  “Yes.” Farring’s gamble had worked.

  He and Julia were here—a place built from nothing into a home of acceptance and love—and all of Rayne’s arguments against staying, facing his demons, and creating a life here in England fell away.

  James cleared his throat. “Lord Farring went through a great deal of trouble for you.”

  “Yes,” Rayne said drily. “I’ve seen more than a little trouble myself these past few days.”

  “Anything worth having is worth some inconvenience.”

  Inconvenience.

  Hardly a word for the complete upending of his plans.

  Twice.

  James set the pin box down on the dresser and picked up a looking glass. “Shall we have a look?”

  Rayne peered into the glass, seeing the self he’d once been reflected almost as if he’d never left. How—and why—he’d allowed James to talk him into shaving off his beard, he still wasn’t sure. But between his clean jaw, trimmed hair, and the clothing, he looked, every inch, Diamonds.

  He snorted.

  All this time he’d been running, and he’d ended up exactly where he’d begun.

  Kissing Julia.

  Wanting her for his own.

  Her family was going to have his head—and rightfully so…but Farring, at least, believed he could become a deserving husband.

  He didn’t know exactly how he would remake his world to accommodate Julia; he only knew that she was his intent, his obligation, and possibly even his redemption.

  He’d borrow Farring’s folly for now. As for Julia—he could only pray he would still be what she wanted when she saw for herself the true condition of his estate.

  “Now may I go?” he asked.

  James sniffed. “You are dismissed.”

  “My liege.” He bowed his head and then headed for the corridor, seeking Julia.

  His wife.

  The time had come for reckoning.

  In the distance, he heard her laugh—loud and heartfelt. The very opposite of the emotion she’d expressed when she’d hastened out of the bedchamber.

  He’d missed something again, obviously.

  In his defense, not many men could think clearly after being wrung dry by the person they adored…something he’d forgotten she didn’t have the experience to understand.

  He headed toward the sound of her laughter.

  But just because she was happy at the moment didn’t mean she’d remain so when he bared his heart. Everyone at Periwinkle Gate was happy—that was, after all, Mother Hatchard’s aim. And every one of the residents was equally responsible for each other’s happiness.

  The place had always fascinated. Confounded, even. But he’d known them long enough—Theo in particular—to respect what he couldn’t always fully understand.

  And, right now, he had need of Periwinkle’s magic.

  If Farring had sat him down and said trust Julia, he would have scoffed. Instead, Farring had sent them here, a place where everyone stopped running.

  He entered the orangery to find a tableau that would have shocked most of the ton into stillness. For Periwinkle Gate, it was just another Tuesday.

  Julia conversed with a man in robes and a turban while absently stroking the wing of a bright blue bird. Mrs. Shillingham, the debutante housekeeper, rested her head on the shoulder of the Seven Dials fräulein. Had Theo and his wife been present, no doubt they’d have happily joined the quartet—in their usual position—Annette’s head resting in Theo’s lap.

  But Julia probably would have recognized Theo’s resemblance to the other Maxwell-Hughes siblings. No doubt, she’d come to the correct conclusion. Lady Theodora, the eldest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Shepthorpe, had disappeared long ago. Theodora was presumed dead, but Master Theo, formerly of the 88th Regiment, had come into his own and was very much alive.

  At least he could leave that explanation for another time.

  Then again—he watched Julia smile—Julia probably wouldn’t ask. She would—as usual—accept everyone as presented.

  He’d called her foolish, reckless, and spoiled, which was, quite frankly, a mean-spirited translation of principled, persistent, and, simply, loved.

  More loved than he’d ever been. Not that he’d been bitter early on. He hadn’t known what he’d been missing—not until all his substitutes for love had utterly failed.

  Then, he’d been a mass of fetid contempt.

  The only thing Julia had ever shown contempt for was hypocrisy and, more recently, him. Well—he swallowed—he’d have to change her mind.

  He waited for her to notice him, but only the bird noted his presence.

  “Danger,” Sir Tangle squawked.

  He’d never liked that parrot.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Shillingham sat straight and clapped. “How wonderful! James has outdone himself again.”

  “He is the king,” said Fräulein Anna.

  “Thank you, ladies,” Rayne replied.

  Julia glanced over. Her smile quickly faded.

  “Danger!” The bird squawked again.

  Julia nuzzled the bird and cooed. “There now, valiant friend. Him, I can handle.”

  Handle him, could she?

  He only hoped she was able.

  “I regret to interrupt afternoon tea,” he said, “but I’d like to have a word with Lady Julia.”

  “Go on, my dear,” Mrs. Shillingham said and transferred the bird to her shoulder. “Your groom is waiting.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rayne concentrated on the weight of Julia’s hand against his forearm. A common enough sensation, and yet his augmented awareness of her presence was proof that everything had changed. His focus fixed to the slight pressure, the warmth, the way she tucked up close against his side, her palm barely spanning the circumference of his muscle.

  When they were fighting—when the fire in her fanned to full flame—he hardly noticed the considerable difference in their sizes. Times like this, however, when she was pensive…quiet…she appeared tiny enough to fold into his pocket.

  The one in his waistcoat, near his heart.

  She, on the other hand, was not focused on him at all. Instead, she took great interest in the corridor wall as they walked, her gaze catching on portraits as if they were briars. Every now and then her lips twitched as if she was working up the courage to speak but wasn’t quite sure what she wan
ted to say.

  “Did you see Farring’s letter?” she finally asked.

  “No, but James described the important parts.”

  She briefly closed her eyes before inhaling and setting back her shoulders. “Then I suppose you know you are one traveling coach richer.”

  “So it would seem.”

  A generous gift on Farring’s behalf. Truth be told, he’d grown increasingly attached to the carriage. As he’d ridden with Clarissa from London to Southford, Clarissa had bubbled over with happiness to be wed, and every mile since, the chariot had been increasingly marked by images of Julia.

  In all, he’d already made more tender memories inside the glossy monstrosity than he’d made anywhere else. Although… “One cannot accept a wedding gift…without a wedding, don’t you agree?”

  She stopped walking, withdrew her arm, and turned to him. For a moment, he thought she would launch into his arms the way she had after the bridge.

  Instead, she fluttered her hands and then backed up against a column. She slapped her flattened palms behind her against the wall, as if she were afraid she might be tempted to touch him again.

  For the first time, he noticed what she was wearing. The same gold-tinted silk she had worn to Clarissa’s wedding had been cleaned, aired, and fell to the floor in elegant folds.

  “Let me guess. Farring sent you clothes, too?”

  She nodded. “This and three other dresses I had left with Horatia in London.”

  Like his mother, Farring had an eye for detail.

  He imagined Julia changing inside Southford’s stables while Farring kept watch at the door. He heard the silk whisper as she pulled it over her head, imagined the sound of her laces as she untied her stays. He frowned.

  “Do your stays lace in the front or the back?” he asked.

  Her expression softened. “I didn’t need help changing into the livery, if that’s what you’re asking. All of my stays lace in the front. While I stayed with Farring’s family, I didn’t like to trouble the duke’s staff more than necessary.” She lifted her brows. “Four young women plus the duchess means a constant flutter of clothing.”

  He heard nothing after lace in the front.

  He’d inadvertently discovered why conversations about undergarments were strictly prohibited. He’d been admiring her dress. Now, all he could see were her breasts.

  And all he could imagine was undoing her laces.

  So many laces.

  And string was ever so fascinating.

  Heat simmered beneath his collar. Controlling his lust was going to mean a lifetime of pain.

  “Thoughtful, isn’t he?” she asked.

  Rayne blinked. “Who?”

  She frowned. “Farring, of course.”

  “Ah, yes. Farring.” Rayne forced his gaze back to her face. “Thoughtful with a dollop of cunning deception.”

  “I can’t quite judge him for meddling in my affairs, now, can I?” She lifted her brows. “Not when I liberally meddle in the affairs of my loved ones.”

  “Noble restraint.” His lips twitched. “Are you always so fair-minded?”

  “When not…overcome.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m often overcome, with you.”

  Lord, did he understand.

  “You set out to abduct me.” A fact, not a question.

  She nodded.

  “And what were you going to do with me once you abducted me?”

  The corner of her mouth turned up. “Well, I briefly considered pirates.”

  He could imagine—bloodthirsty little thing. “Pirates?”

  She gazed out beneath her lashes. “Briefly.”

  She was very pretty when she blushed. Pretty enough to take a bite. But first— “Who is Edmund Alistair Clarke, Viscount Belhaven?”

  “So you do know his name.”

  “I do,” he conceded. “But I do not know his relationship to you, do I?”

  She cocked a brow. “Who do you think he is?”

  “I haven’t the faintest, except to know he is not your intended.” He stepped closer. “You are many things, Lady Julia Stanley.” He touched her elbow, slid his fingers down the side of her forearm, and lifted her palm. “And first among them is loyal. You would not have done what we did in your bedchamber if you were on your way to marry another man.”

  Her hand lay limp within his. “I thank you for that, at least.”

  “Still… I’d like to know who he is and why you told me—”

  “I didn’t tell you he was my anything. I just said I was going to meet him.”

  “Really? Let me see if I recall this correctly.” He altered his voice. “Al-lick prefers me in breeches.”

  She pressed the back of her free hand to her mouth. “That, I’d forgotten. Terrible of me.” Her stifled giggle escaped. “I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t. And he didn’t mind.

  She’d meant to make him jealous. And he vividly remembered how swiftly the wound had bled green. “Why did you let me believe you were going to wed him? And, for heaven’s sake, why did you leave me this afternoon and write him a letter?”

  Her dark eyes moved between his. “You aren’t going to understand.”

  That hurt, though anger at the pain was unwarranted. He hadn’t yet shown her much understanding, had he?

  “Tell me.” He held her fingers against his cheek. Less of a chance to muck things up when they were touching. “I promise to at least try and understand.”

  “Did you meet Miss Watson while you were at Southford? She was the elderly woman who walked me back to the manor.”

  “Elderly?” He frowned. “She couldn’t have been a day over sixty.”

  “Well, she’s been old forever. What’s elderly, then? Ninety?”

  “Ninety is a happy miracle.” A strange emotion stirred in his stomach as he imagined them together and old. He cleared his throat. “I was not formerly introduced to Miss Watson. But I saw you with her in the library.”

  “You saw me in the library?” She studied him out of the corner of her eye. “You didn’t look like you saw me.”

  “I knew you were watching me.” His voice went velvet. “I always know when you’re watching me.”

  She lifted her chin. “Merely to glare at you for having the audacity to arrive so late to the wedding breakfast. It’s called a wedding breakfast, Rayne. Not nuncheon.”

  “I was late; I know. Farring’s fault, actually. He was, at that very moment, weaving me into his nefarious plan.”

  She nodded slowly. “Of course he was… He had to convince you first, didn’t he? Anyway… I was looking up Edmund Alistair Clarke, Viscount Belhaven, and discovering he happened to be a respectable widower. As to why that matters…well, he is also Miss Watson’s love.”

  “Lover? Southford’s spinster has a lover?”

  “I said love, not lover.”

  Julia wiggled her fingers as if to pull away. He secured them, captive within his own.

  “They were in love. And love…” Her eyes went pink. “Shouldn’t be wasted. I told you you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. Peak…valley. Peak…valley. “So you wrote Belhaven to tell him of Miss Watson’s continued tendre?”

  She looked fixedly at their joined hands. “Silly, I know. Not something that’s done at all. But I couldn’t abide thinking he might be dreaming of her…and her of him…with time running short and”—her breath caught—“neither of them knowing.”

  She’d been correct. He couldn’t understand. But now he knew what kept the fire in her wild soul burning. She had a poet’s heart wrapped inside a warrior’s spirit.

  Terribly intoxicating. But could he ever live up to that call?

  “Why did you write him, then? Why did that feeling well up inside you, strong eno
ugh to be heedless of decorum?”

  “Because I was hurt—”

  Ouch.

  “—and angry.” Her skin flushed. “And I didn’t want this whole journey to have been in vain. Because for myself”—tears webbed her lashes—“I’d given up.”

  Given up. Her words burrowed in his sternum. Lady Julia Stanley did not give up. Ever. “What had you given up?”

  “I’d given up on love,” she said crossly.

  The small window of vulnerability was closing. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Have you still?”

  “I don’t know.” She lifted her gaze. “We can’t seem to converse without fighting.”

  “True.” Even now, remaining midstream between consternation and lust demanded his full concentration. “I can’t promise that will change.”

  With her free hand, she wiped away her tears. “What can you promise?”

  “At a minimum?” He tilted his head to catch her gaze. “Pleasure.”

  She lifted a brow. “With plenty of trussing?”

  His manhood responded by slowly—maddeningly—coming to attention.

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s start with a healthful dose of cave exploration…” Inwardly he swore he’d keep her protected…especially from his basest desires. “And perhaps, if you tire of subterranean landscapes, we’ll explore other French phrases that may be of interest.”

  She chuckled half-heartedly. “I did enjoy that bit of your French.”

  Unconsciously, she tilted her hips—an infinitesimal change that engrossed his sensual awareness. Perhaps conversing without arguing would remain difficult, but in that type of congress, they’d be in perfect accord.

  “So…now that you’ve successfully abducted an earl…” He lifted her hand and placed a lingering kiss on the spot between her first and second fingers. “What are you going to do with him?”

  Her breath caught. His stopped as well.

  “Scotland is dismally cold this time of year.” She looked away. “But there’s this infamous little inn in Gretna I’d dearly like to visit…”