Desire Wears Diamonds (28 page)

Damn it!

“I can explain!” he stepped forward. “I
think I mentioned at the horse fair that I enjoy them. But if they
offend, Grace, I will put them away. I know it’s not the most
respectable library for a home where a lady is present and…”
Michael stopped himself as she reached the mantle and took down one
of the serials he’d had bound together. “A favorite of mine, Grace,
but not anything you’d ever…”

Oh, god. I’m losing my edge, aren’t I? How
didn’t I piece this together before this moment?

“You’re a writer.”

“I’m a writer,” she repeated breathlessly
and pressed the bound serial to her chest like it was a holy
tome.

“That’s brilliant!” he said then watched the
strange fierce pride in her eyes as she clutched the work of A.R.
Crimson. “Grace? Are you…?”

“I told them I was a secretary and personal
assistant to
the
Mr. A.R. Crimson and left a manuscript for
their review. It was the worst kind of theatrical bravado but they
believed me. I invented him. His entire portfolio and a few
ridiculous letters he’s supposedly dictated on travels in Spain to
convince them. I’ve never been to Spain, sir. But I…never thought
it would sell and—I can’t give it up, Michael.”

Michael ran a hand through his hair doing
his best to absorb what she was saying. “You wrote
that
?”

She nodded. “It’s...fanciful, I know.
They’re silly bits. Pirates and mermaids, centaurs and my favorite
part, the floating cloud cities. Though I confess I added that part
in at the last after I saw a man on a ladder painting a neighbor’s
house and started to think about ladders hanging down from the
sky…”

Michael reached out to gently pull the book
from her hands, turning it over as if it were made of glass. “You!
You
are A.R. Crimson?
You
wrote “The Black Staircase”
and the “Isles of Thunder” series?”

She nodded solemnly. “I did.”

“My God!” he spoke without thinking. “These
stories are chilling and grim! But
you
! No offense, Grace,
but you are the most cheerful person I have ever encountered. It
doesn’t seem possible.” He turned the book over in his hands. “But
all those clever things you say, so original and unexpected…”

“I won’t give it up!”

Michael stared at her as if she’d grown
horns. “I would never demand such a thing!”

It was Grace’s turn to experience a shocked
delay in comprehension. ‘“I would rather die than—what? What did
you say?”

“It never occurred to me to ask you to cease
writing! What kind of man do you think I am?” Michael asked.

“You’re my husband… If it were improper
before, it is most certainly more scandalous after I’m wed, is it
not? For a married woman to pose as a man writing those kinds of
books, it’s unthinkable!”

He crossed his arms. “I don’t see what
difference it makes and frankly, since we are already up to our
necks in scandal, I for one, can’t see what you have to lose. I
like—No! I love the notion that you keep your independence, Grace.
You light up when you speak of your stories and I don’t want to be
the cause of seeing that end. I know marriage to me has destroyed
much of your happiness but let me salvage what I can.”

“Not destroyed!” she turned to him, touching
his upper arm while her right hand still cradled “Isles of
Thunder”. “I was so fearful that you would seek to stop me or think
less of me or—I dreaded disappointing you, Mr. Rutherford, more
than I dreaded anything else in this world.”

“Michael,” he said again as he covered her
hand with his and guided her to the large sofa in the middle of the
room. “Grace, look again. I live in an inn. I have brought my bride
to a very unconventional home. It is a small apartment of two rooms
and we share our sitting room, dining room and the water closet
with the other apartment on the same floor.” Michael gestured
around them, his tone changing. “But there is no cooking or
cleaning to be done. Mrs. Clay and the staff would be mortified to
think of you not pulling that bell and I should warn you that when
the weather turns cool, Tally will make it his personal quest to
keep this room so toasty you will never wear wool again.”

“You make it sound so perfect,” she smiled
up at him.

“You’ll write. You’ll write to your heart’s
content and I will keep the world at bay. What say you?”

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“There is a price for all of this, Grace. So
you’re wise not to jump quickly.”

“What price?” she asked warily, the bright
pink in her cheeks fading fast.

“You must vow to let me read all your new
stories before you send them off to your publisher.”

She laughed, the last tendril of fear in her
eyes fading. “Consider it my wedding gift.” She retrieved her
valise and opened it to retrieve a few loose pages. “Here.”

Michael took them and read quickly, secretly
delighted beyond words at the notion that A.R. Crimson had handed
him a hand-written excerpt of a story that no one else had
seen.

“
The opiate was derived from the blackest
inky blood of the Kraken that swam in the deepest depths of icy
ocean imaginable. It was rumored to first come to them as a “gift”
from a sea witch to their King. No one was sure of its origins. But
the residents of Atlantis had come to prize it above all other
things. One small dose transported the subject into a state of
euphoria like no other, warming their skin and reminding them of
what it had been to stand in the sun and walk as men—but the
temporary side effects were a nightmare to behold! The black ink
coursed through their veins and showed through the pale glove of
their skin, pulsing in branches of gothic feathery dark veins
across their bodies and proclaiming their immorality.

But the true horror was that over time, the
addictive opium permanently stripped them of the white marble like
beauty they possessed, a beauty that had inspired the Greeks and
Romans to believe in Gods—and transformed them into tentacled
monsters with gaping maws where their mouths had been and serpent
shaped spines.”

“Well?” Grace asked tentatively. “Grim
enough for you?”

“It’s the best present I have ever
received.” He handed the pages back to her. “Thank you, Grace.”
God, how had it come to this? He was married to a woman he’d
already thought clever and beautiful but now, she was…so much more.
Inside that golden head of hers were all the worlds he’d always
escaped to; the epic stories that entertained and chilled.
His
Grace was the author he’d most admired.

And was still the woman whose beauty made
his hands ache to touch her, to hold her and explore every inch of
her body.

If Ashe’s advice was true…

Michael shook himself to refocus on the
moment at hand. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to impose himself
on her, tonight or any night. “Welcome to your new home, Mrs.
Rutherford.”

Grace took in the room. Where the current
fashion in décor was all patterns and contrasting textures with
ornate useless objects, there was nothing in her new husband’s
rooms that didn’t have a purpose or seem created for comfort. There
wasn’t a scrap of lace or feminine touches although she suspected
that the flowers in a vase on the table by the windows were Mrs.
Clay’s influence. The furniture in the sitting area was oversized
and upholstered in beautiful dark leather that looked worn yet
butter-soft and obviously sturdy enough to allow Michael to relax
as he wished. A beige and yellow thick oriental style rug lay in
the room’s center and the black walnut planked floors shone from
years of wear and beeswax polish. She shyly noted that even his bed
was larger to accommodate his height; the four-poster bed filled
the entire alcove and jutted out two feet beyond.

The windows were diamond paned like the ones
in the sitting room adding a certain charm as the oak trees outside
filtered the light and gave his kingdom a magical touch. The noise
of the city was muted and the haven of Mr. Rutherford’s rooms had
an appeal all their own.

Michael cleared his throat. “Here is the
wardrobe. Mrs. Clay…took most of my clothes, well frankly, I don’t
know where she took them, but it seemed important that you have
room to hang your things and to feel at home.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Here is your private parlor, study and,”
his voice trailed off a bit as he pivoted in a circle without
taking a single step. “Bedroom.”

“Yes, I see.” Grace nervously smoothed her
palms on her skirts. “It’s enchanting.”

He gave her a wary look. “You’re being
generous but I’m grateful for the gesture, madam.” Michael smiled
and straightened his shoulders. “Are you hungry? I think Mrs. Clay
will have dinner for us soon.”

“To be honest, I don’t think I can face all
of them and a dinner…and cake and…I feel like a thief that’s stolen
into your life, Michael. And Mrs. Clay—she is so…kind.” Grace
twisted her hands, wishing she knew how to voice her fears.
Everyone was being so accommodating and tender, she felt like she
would fracture into a thousand pieces at the first touch. It was
irrational but the new fierce happiness that had seized her was too
raw and too impossible to absorb. “I’m sorry. It’s a dream and I
don’t want to jostle myself awake and lose this. Can we stay here?
Can we stop time?”

“Absolutely. Let’s hide then, like the
conspirators we are, for a while longer.” Michael stood. “Stay
here, settle in and unpack and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do you trust me, Grace?”

She nodded, unable to answer him as her
emotions surged and her heart clamored to tell him the truth.
It’s more than trust, Michael.

My life is yours.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It decided to transform dinner into a
decadent picnic as he returned with a tray piled high with a
wedding feast for two. Mrs. Clay had even managed to make sure
there was a healthy slice of wedding cake atop it all and Michael’s
brow furrowed as he balanced his burden and closed the apartment
door behind him.

“Was she terribly disappointed?” Grace asked
cautiously.

He shook his head as he triumphantly landed
the tray on the small table in the sitting area. “Not even a smidge
of a fuss, I swear it.” He turned back and his chest tightened with
the jolt of satisfaction at the sight of Grace Porter standing in
the midst of his apartment still in her wedding finery.

Not Porter. She is Grace Rutherford from
this day forward.

He prayed he looked more nonchalant than he
felt. “I presented it as more of a romantic desire to spend time
alone than…an aversion to hearing a dozens of speeches and
impassioned toasts to our happiness.”

She smiled. “Good. I, um, took the liberty
of unpacking as you suggested and I have to agree that wherever
your clothes have gone, Mr. Rutherford, you may need them if the
weather changes.”

He laughed. “They are a bell pull away, no
fear!”

She moved to sit down and began to arrange
their dinner. “I fear I’ve disrupted more than the arrangement of
your wardrobe, Mr. Rutherford.”

“Michael,” he corrected her softly.

“Michael,” she repeated it like a gentle
caress and Michael’s knees turned to rubber.

He conveniently sat down to hide his
discomfort, assisting her as best he could by setting out the
plates within his reach. “Would you like some wine, Grace?”

“Oh!” A flash of mischief sparkled in her
eyes. “Sterling never allowed me wine.” She pressed nervous fingers
to her heart and Michael had to bite the inside of his cheek to
keep from smiling at the fetching picture she made. “I would love
to try it!”

My God! I’m…corrupting her….already….and I
swear I don’t feel even the vaguest twinge of remorse. I’m a
horrible person.

“Then you should have a glass,” he said with
a confidence he didn’t feel as he stood to go over to the side
table where he had all his spirits. He chose a very small glass
meant for sherry or port and delivered a sample of French Bordeaux
to his bride. “It’s not very sweet but the flavor is…very nice if
you sip it slowly.”

She sniffed it first, unsure of the
contents, but merrily took a small taste.

Michael watched in fascination as his wife
truly contemplated the liquid in her mouth, her expression
mercurial with her internal assessments. At last, she smiled at him
like a child at Christmas. “It was—vibrant!”

“Vibrant is good,” he said.

The sun was setting and the spring night was
cool with the apartment’s windows slightly open for fresh air, and
they both began to relax in each other’s company. Before long, they
were laughing and talking about nothing of Sterling or the shadows
across the origins of their union. They ate until they were too
full to even eye the scraps and Michael set the tray outside on the
dining room table in the sitting room for Tally to collect
later.

When he returned, she was sitting on the
sofa with both of her feet tucked underneath her, like a Persian
cat curled up atop the cushions of his sofa.

“What?” she asked self-consciously. “You are
staring, Michael.”

“Tell me a story, Grace.”

“Really?” she asked.

He sat on the thick rug on the floor,
resting an elbow on the cushions, to sit at her feet. “I can think
of nothing I would like more.”

“The power of a good story,” she sighed
remembering Mrs. Clay’s tale and smiling. “I am Scheherazade.”

“I wasn’t going to kill you in the morning
if you don’t please me, Grace.”

“Yes, but it does make it sound more
thrilling.”

“Then enchant me, wife. Enchant me and
instead of saving a life, make mine worthwhile. I like that.”

“Very well,” she agreed, unconsciously
relaxing her shoulders and taking on the timeless posture of a
storyteller sitting by tribal fires. “Long ago, long before a time
when life was measured by the heartless movement of clocks and the
rush of machines and modern inventions, there was a young man who
lived in a village on the edge of a vast wilderness…”