Desire Wears Diamonds (30 page)

“Pardon me,” Grace climbed over him,
deliberately making an effort to get a better view of his back. “I
feel like Psyche so if you’re hiding wings, I would like to know
now, Michael.”

“Not wings,” he said with a sigh.
“Scars.”

Grace gasped as the candlelight in the room
revealed not just a few raised lines across his back but dozens
upon dozens of scarred stripes and deep wounds so layered she
couldn’t fathom their number or the agonies they represented.

“Are you disgusted, Grace?”

She shook her head. “No! They make you seem
even more intriguing and very…virile. But are those—whip marks?
Were you flogged?!”

He turned over to swiftly pull her back down
onto the feather mattress and into his arms. “A story for another
day, Mrs. Rutherford, but if it’s any comfort, you did
not
marry a criminal.”

“Well! There’s a relief!” she said archly
then kissed him on the tip of his nose.

He looked down at her as if she were the one
wearing wings. “You never cease to amaze me, Grace. And I never
meant to…press you for…” Michael sighed. “I was going to win you
with a show of restraint, Grace.”

“Oh,” she said then laughed, nestling up
against him, her palm pressed against his chest. “No offense, but I
think my proposed version of events turned out far better, don’t
you?”

Once you lose your heart, it’s hard to get
it back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“You found it, didn’t you?” Josiah Hastings
asked quietly and the Jaded all looked at Michael in stunned
anticipation of his answer. “The diamond in disguise?”

“Yes.” Michael kept his usual place by the
window in Rowan’s study. “I did, indeed.”

“When?” Darius asked calmly.

Rowan sighed. “Thank God! Let’s put it
somewhere safe until this business is over.“

“No.” Michael crossed his arms, bracing for
battle. “It’s safe where it is and I’m not putting any of you in
danger by burdening you with it at this point in the game.”

Ashe leapt up from his chair. “To hell with
the game! It’s
not
a game! You’re the one in the viper’s
nest, Rutherford!”

Galen cleared his throat. “I’m sure what
Blackwell meant to say is, congratulations on your marriage, and we
are all openly concerned about your continued well-being.”

“I did not and I’m not congratulating the
man on being half-witted enough to marry some—“

Darius also stood quickly to cut him off.
“Ashe, you are letting your mouth run ahead of your manners! We
have not met Mrs. Rutherford and there is no judgment to be made
here.”

“My home and this room have always been a
sanctuary,” Rowan said firmly. “And they will remain one so long as
I have a say!”

Ashe swallowed hard and then let out a long
slow breath. “I misspoke. I apologize.”

Michael nodded his assent. “I take no
offense considering Blackwell was once an expert on romantic
impulses and half-witted choices, and while he was lucky enough to
marry Caroline, there’s not one of us that doesn’t agree that
landing on his feet with the love of his life was nothing short of
a miracle.” Michael smiled. “Apology accepted.”

“When did he get so witty?” Ashe asked with
a wry glance at Michael and retook his seat.

Darius laughed. “Rutherford was always
clever but with the rest of us chattering away, when does a shy man
get the opportunity to demonstrate it?”

“Marriage has brought out his sense of
humor,” Josiah Hastings noted from his favorite leather chair.
“Bravo, Rutherford.”

“Jests aside,” Ashe readdressed the group,
“I think you should reconsider the doctor’s suggestion, Michael.
Your bride is bound to get a little bored confined to a small
apartment and women have a gift for going through a man’s private
things to amuse themselves. She’ll find the diamond. And at the
risk of starting another round of battles, that may be her true
purpose in all of this.”

The men grew quiet but Galen finally picked
up the thread of the conversation. “It wouldn’t be an unreasonable
notion. You meant to use her to get closer to Sterling and he could
have turned the tables on you. No longer any need for him to break
in for a search, Rutherford, now that he has a potential agent in
your home.”

“Grace is not her brother’s agent and has
nothing to do with his schemes.” Michael deliberately dropped his
arms to avoid looking defensive. “She is innocent in all of
this.”

“You’re sure?” Rowan asked gently.

“I am sure.” Michael walked over to the bar
set on the side table and poured himself and Ashe a drink. He
delivered the glass to Ashe, as a small peace offering. “The
diamond is safe. I’ve not abandoned my oaths and I know what I’m
doing.”

Ashe took the glass but the intensity in his
eyes didn’t soften. “Michael, every man thinks they know what
they’re doing but when it comes to a woman, when you’re wrong,
you’ll be the last one to realize it.”

“You doubt me, Blackwell?”

Ashe didn’t answer him but sipped his drink
without taking his eyes off of Michael.

Michael stiffened and returned to the
window, looking out onto the moonlit gardens. “Nothing has
changed.”

“Nothing?” Josiah spoke quietly. “Can I
mention the obvious danger? She is Sterling’s sister and it’s
extremely possible that she would take her brother’s side in
whatever scheme he’d crafted. Your…romance has been a
bit…convenient, wouldn’t you say? And rather too sudden to
suit.”

Rowan put a hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“He’s right. From an outsider’s vantage point it would seem that
Sterling insisted you attend that event and then apparently saw to
it that you were caught in a compromising position; forcing you to
marry his sister and drawing you into his web.”

“Grace is innocent.”

“As you keep telling us,” Rowan replied.
“Have you—married this girl in some grand deception?”

“I love her. There’s no deception
there.”

“Love! Have you forgotten—“

“I’ve not forgotten, Ashe! Believe me when I
tell you that my every waking moment is framed by my vow to you to
see to the Jackal. And I will do what I must.”

“When?”

“In seven days. I have seven days.”

“And then what happens?”

Michael said nothing at first, and then
turned his back on all of them.

It was Rowan who finally broke the silence.
“And then all hell breaks loose.”

Michael nodded and answered without turning
around. “Gift me with these seven days. With this time with
her…before all is lost. Sterling will get what he deserves and
she’ll never forgive me.”

The men looked at each other, weighing out
their brotherhood, their marrow-deep trust in Rutherford against
their complete understanding that love could tip any scale and
destroy any ties.

“We’ll stay clear,” Rowan spoke for all of
them and Michael turned to leave without another word leaving his
friends to an awkward silence that hung heavy in the air.

Galen stretched out his legs and finally
risked conversation. “Well, that went better than we expected.”

“What did we expect again?” Josiah asked.
“Because I could have sworn that Rowan said something about a
gentle intervention to make the man see reason…”

“He loves her,” Rowan said. “Reason doesn’t
apply anymore. But it’s Rutherford we’re talking about and I
believe him. He has something planned in a week and we must stand
by him and wait.”

Ashe put his head in his hands and groaned.
“I hate waiting and I hate being the one to push so hard to steal
another man’s bliss.” Ashe lifted his face and gave each of them a
hard look. “But you have to ask yourselves, what would you give up
for the woman you loved? Who would you betray if it came down to
it?”

None of them answered him because the answer
was too obvious and too painful.

Everything. Anyone. There was nothing and no
one they wouldn’t yield for the women they worshipped and adored.
All bets were off.

And now their fates hung on the fragile hope
that Michael Rutherford was somehow made of stronger stuff than the
best man among them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The ride to Oxford Street evoked memories of
a different day but this time there was no need to shyly avoid his
touch. The confines of the hackney carriage gave her a lovely
excuse to lean against his arm and delight in his touch.

He trailed his fingers across her cheek and
tipped her chin up for a kiss. He’d intended a chaste touch to
simply calm his fidgeting wife and distract her from the
appointment ahead. But when his unpredictable wife ran her hand
down the line of his thigh and then slowly back up in a teasing
assault on his control, Michael forfeited his plans.

He deepened the kiss and began to lift her
up, voluminous skirts and all, onto his lap. Grace wriggled and
sighed in compliance but then pushed against him, giggling as she
pulled away. “Michael Rutherford! My bonnet is coming undone!”

He laughed. “Is that all?”

“It is enough to make me question my sanity
in dragging you along,” she said as her cheeks colored. Grace
retied the wide satin ribbon underneath her chin to put a jaunty
bow under her right ear. “You didn’t need to accompany me,
Michael.” She pressed her fingers against her warm cheeks. “Not
that I don’t enjoy your distracting kisses.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Rutherford but these
streets are rife with pickpockets and I don’t like the idea of you
risking it alone. Not to mention the runaway carriages…”

“May I—do the talking, Michael? When we go
up to meet with my editor, Mr. Pollson? Would it be untoward to ask
such a thing? It’s only that I know that it would be the natural
course of things for him to assume you have a greater authority and
I’ve fought so hard to—”

He kissed her, thoroughly enough to bring
even more color to her cheeks and make her breath come quickly once
he let her go. “I shall pretend to be mute if it pleases you. I
confess, I am simply curious to catch a glimpse of the business of
publishing. If pressed, I will assert your expertise and that is
all I will say.”

“No, but let’s have our fun and omit
introductions!” Grace offered with a mischievous grin. “He’s a
rough man but good hearted and I would love to keep him
guessing.”

“I’ll play the intimidating tall gentleman
at your back.”

The stairway leading to Mr. Pollson’s office
was as dingy and narrow as always. The steps creaked with protest
as Michael climbed them, his elbows and wide shoulders nearly
blocking the passageway. Grace shyly held his hand as he walked
behind her as proudly as a man walking a princess on a promenade.
She knocked on the door to S&Y Publishers and entered the small
office, stepping around the piles of papers on the floors by rote
habit.

“Miss Porter! I’d hoped for you my month’s
end but this is a delightful…sur…prise…” Mr. Pollson’s sharp powers
of expression disappeared as Michael ducked under the doorframe.
“Are we…delighted?”

“We are!” Grace beamed at his discomfort.
“Mr. Crimson has experienced an unexpected burst of creative
productivity,” Grace began as if there was nothing out of the
ordinary in a lady bringing along a nearly seven foot tall living
fashion accessory on her errands. She held out her hand and Michael
handed her the leather satchel with the pages they’d brought. “I
have the newest in his brand new series, “The Fatal Storm”.”

The title diverted her editor briefly and he
took the bundled pages from her hand. “The Fatal Storm!” His eyes
shifted over to Michael who was now studying the overflowing
bookshelves of titles and odd stories. “Is
he
…pleased with
it?”

“Mr. Crimson? I should say so! Would he have
instructed me to come here post haste and demanded I do so without
an appointment? Mr. Crimson’s trust in your literary instincts is
resolute.”

Mr. Pollson’s confusion was vastly
entertaining but it was clear he didn’t want to offend the massive
tree of a man who was currently wrinkling his nose at a copy of a
poetic ode to butterflies. “I…I take it our previous financial
arrangement is still acceptable?”

The giant’s head lifted and Mr. Pollson made
a point of staying behind his desk. Grace smiled. “Your last
payment was well-received.”

Mr. Pollson’s face sagged with visible
relief. “Twenty, wasn’t it? We’ll do twenty again.”

“No.” Grace blinked fast. “You paid fifteen
on my last call, sir. Not that I wish to be rude to correct
you.”

Michael stepped away from the bookcase and
shifted to stand at her back. She could only imagine what his
expression might be but the effect was magical on Mr. Pollson.

“I
meant
to pay twenty!” he said,
then opened his desk drawer to pull out a few notes and an
envelope. “Times are hard, of course, but a simple oversight like
that can be corrected. Yes, an easy matter to make amends. Here!”
He held out a brown envelope to her. “Twenty-five pounds! Five to
make up for my clerical error in your last packet and twenty for
the launch of “The Fatal Storm” and our assurance to Mr. Crimson
that we will print all the future installments.”

Grace took the packet, her fingers
trembling. “Oh! How generous of you, Mr. Pollson!” She looked up at
Michael. “Isn’t that generous?”

Her groom was carved in granite and
nonplussed. He shrugged his shoulders. “Is it?”

“It is!” Grace gave him a swift small kick
to his shins and Michael smiled spoiling the effect but apparently
her editor was not convinced.

“Twenty-five, then!” Mr. Pollson amended. “I
will pay twenty five for each future installment but not a penny
more!”

Grace wheeled back to Mr. Pollson with a
gasp. “Twenty-five pounds? For each installment?”

“It is difficult times and sales lag in
these hard times. Hard,
hard
times! You remind Mr. Crimson
that times are
very
hard!” Mr. Pollson’s eyes darted to
Michael but he was doing his best to focus on Grace, perhaps hoping
hers was the gentler voice of assent in the room. “But his
pamphlets have been moving well and we will increase the number we
produce.”