Desire Wears Diamonds (18 page)

“But make no mistake. I will go to the ball
at Bascombe’s but I won’t be accepting any more of my brother’s
invitations—or yours.” She turned on her heels and was gone before
he could summon an answer.

He acted without thinking and vaulted down
the stairs, taking them four at a time and reaching her at the door
to the inn before she could open it. “Miss Porter!”

“Yes, Mr. Rutherford?” she answered but did
not turn her head so he found himself addressing the top of her
bonnet.

Shit.

“I
do
think you’re lovely,” he
blurted out and then went on in a rush, “You
are
terrifying
and I find I’d much rather be bullied than lose your friendship and
I hereby officially apologize for being a social idiot and ruining
whatever it was…whatever magical thing that was…to share lemon
biscuits and cups of hot water and feel…I’m out of words, Miss
Porter.”

Grace looked up her eyes shining with unshed
tears. “One.”

And he forgot every rule, every restraint
and every thread of reason he’d ever known. He leaned forward and
kissed her, the lightest brush of his lips to hers and for the
space of a single breath, he at once savored the hot silk of her
mouth but also waited for her retreat.

For Michael believed with every fiber of his
being that ladies did not submit to the kisses of great brutish
clods who towered over them and lumbered about fearful of breaking
furniture or spoiling their toes.
God in His Grace,
merciful—

Grace didn’t retreat.

Her hands reached up to frame his face and
she deepened the kiss with an unpracticed sweetness that banished
fear and inflamed his desires. She sighed in surrender and he
experienced a madness that made the world fall away. Hunger gnawed
at the edges of his heart and Michael almost cried out at the pain
and the healing feast that was Grace Porter’s mouth against him. He
gently encircled her with his arms and lifted her against his
chest. The pace of his kisses kept rhythm with his pounding heart,
her lips parting and inviting a sensual exploration of his
tongue—and he was ablaze with raw desire. There was no simmering
build to warn him; no slow realization that there was even a line
to cross. He was consumed with need and the line was long behind
him and beyond his reckoning the instant he touched her.

Heat snaked up his spine and his body
thrummed and vibrated with every breath, and Grace’s arms were
around his neck, leveraging her body against his, her responses so
natural and unrestrained, he felt like a man clinging to
heaven.

His body took the lead and muted the storm
of his thoughts, silencing the whirlwind of protests and warnings
raging in his mind with an electrical shimmer of sensation across
his skin. Every nerve ending was stretched taut and he had the
fleeting idea that this was what Lazarus might have felt. Kissing
her was like being reborn, but also brought about the discovery
that he’d been dead for a long time, shut away from the world.

His blood knew nothing of shame. Desire
flowed down his spine, like hot sand pooling in his hips, and made
his cock harden and swell. Grace arched her back and pulled his
lower lip into her mouth, and sent another wicked dance of
shuddering sparks through him. She was all woman, willing and warm
and impossibly perfect against him…

Impossible. God, all of this…

Not private. Here. Not wise. Damn…

He’d have sold his soul to be able to claim
that he’d ended it because of some gentlemanly streak of honor or
that his reason had returned to proclaim that he was too good a man
to ruin a woman in an entryway next to the coat closet and boot
scrapers. But he’d have lost that wager for it was another agent
entirely that restored order to the universe.

His savior was a young soul that Michael had
long relied on.

The loud clatter of a dropped tray against
the bottom step of the stairs had the effect of a cannon shot and
Michael ended the kiss instantly and staggered back with a groan of
frustration without dropping her.

Tally.

Michael looked over and Tally signed his
unhappy dilemma.
I’d meant to bring the tea since mother was
sure she’d forgotten it but
—Tally gestured to the destruction
at his feet, his poor face as red as an apple.
I made a mess of
everything, didn’t I?

Michael put Grace down, a thing of glass and
priceless measure and turned to Tally. Michael spoke aloud so that
Grace would understand the exchange as he used his hands to reply.
“It’s right as rain, Tally. I’ll get it and if there’s a mess, I
made it. You’re a good man.”

Tally ducked his head with a shy smile and
retreated back down the hallway, leaving them alone.

Michael let out a long slow breath and
returned his attention to Grace. “Mrs. Clay’s son, Tally. He’s a
deaf-mute but very clever and…” Michael’s words trailed off and he
braced himself to wait—for whatever tirade she would summon and
that he had rightly earned. The damage was done and he didn’t think
a phrase of apology existed to make amends for what had occurred
between them.

“Please,” she whispered, stepping back on
unsteady feet. He began to reach out to offer his hand but she
waved it off, her cheeks blooming with pink and her eyes bright.
“If you…have any regard for me, Mr. Rutherford, do
not
apologize.”

Michael blinked. “No?” Guilt warred with the
lingering effects of her kisses. “Isn’t that—required?”

Something in her expression snagged at his
memory of a breathless girl describing a carriage wheel passing in
front of her face and Michael’s throat tightened with emotion. He’d
trespassed but apparently the lady was not as fragile as he’d
feared.

Grace shook her head vehemently. “You only
have six apologies left, Mr. Rutherford. Don’t waste one on—“ She
pressed her fingers to her lips to cut off her own speech. “Good
bye.”

The door was open and she was gone before he
could draw breath.

He leaned his head against the closed door
and shut his eyes, and forced himself to let her go.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was a battle of nerves Michael was
already losing as he retied his cravat for the fourth time as he
readied himself for Bascombe’s ball. “I look like an actor.”

Ashe grinned from his seat and took a sip of
brandy from his glass. Michael had not invited his friend, but Ashe
Blackwell had never needed a formal summons to call on the Grove.
After all when had any of the Jaded ever waited for written words
of welcome before dropping in on each other? “You look very elegant
for a mountain troll.”

“If you meant to either calm me or provide a
rousing speech to inspire, I have to say you’re failing
miserably.”

“Nonsense! I’m providing a distraction.
Besides, the way you’re fussing about over that one would think you
had more at stake than a social outing to make mincemeat of a
mortal enemy. Can it be that our Michael Rutherford is torturing
his cravat because he is concerned about his appearance to the
ladies in attendance?”

Michael turned away from the mirror and
gifted Ashe with a look of deadly assessment. “Don’t push me.
Vanity is your cross to bear, not mine, and I’m in no mood to play.
I hate social gatherings and this one has all the appeal of a
flogging.”

Ashe stood, his expression one of
reconciliation. “And yet Galen still speaks gratefully of how you
bravely entered all those salons as his emissary to find his Miss
Moreland. You’re a good man in any setting, Rutherford. And I can
still come along if you’d like. Caroline will be glad to have a few
hours without me and has already given her blessing.”

“No, Ashe. Your heart is in the right place
and don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t trust you to keep
your reserve. Sterling is bound to be there and you…have every
right to call him out, Ashe, but—“

“But you’d rather I didn’t spoil your very
first formal ball by throttling the man until he’s dead?” Ashe took
another slow sip from his brandy.

“Don’t joke. It’s only my promise to you and
the others that’s keeping me from hanging myself with this damned
cravat.”

“You’ll be fine. Keep the Jackal in your
sights and pay a bit of attention to Miss Porter and you’ll be
fine.”

Michael’s spine stiffened of its own accord
and Ashe’s expression changed.

“Rutherford?” Ashe put his glass down. “It
was a blind jab but
is
there truly something you’d like to
tell an old friend?”

Michael retied his cravat for the fifth time
and avoided meeting Ashe’s gaze in the mirror. “No.”

“I said nothing when we made that stop at
the dressmakers, Michael. You wouldn’t be the first man to lose his
footing.”

Hell, I’ve already lost my footing and
insulted her beyond all reckoning.

Michael turned to face him. “I’m not losing
anything. She is merely a means to an end and even so, I’ve been as
clear as possible that I’m no proper suitor. Porter’s sister has as
much to do with me as the man in the moon and is kind only because
she thinks I’m a friend to her brother.” The lie tasted like
wormwood but Michael wasn’t about to admit his weakness for Grace
aloud to Ashe.

“I see. Laid it all out did you? Declared
your ineligibility?” Ashe pushed his hands away from the tie and
took over as smoothly as any valet. “Rutherford, I can’t help but
get the feeling that as grounded as you are, you’re a babe in arms
when it comes to women.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“How many women have you bedded?”

“What the hell kind of question is
that?”

Ashe stood back, surveying his handiwork.
“There. Cravat tied. And it’s a brilliant question.”

“Dozens.”

“Liar.”

Michael’s hands fisted in frustration. “I’ve
bedded all that would have me! Satisfied?”

Ashe’s gaze narrowed, his arms crossing.
“Getting there.” He went back to the small table and refilled his
own glass but added another for Michael and splashed a healthy dose
of brandy into it. “You and I, Rutherford, we are not as close as
say, you might be with Rowan or even Darius.”

He handed Michael the brandy and Michael
took it gratefully. “I’m content with my place in the Jaded.”

“You’ve kept your distance but at the same
time, you’re central to our little club, aren’t you?” Ashe pressed
on. “You’re not even the oldest among us, but the unofficial leader
and guardian all the same. We all respect you so much. You never
broke in that hell hole and you took our beatings and stepped in
front of the whip more times than I can count now.”

“I’m a mountain troll, remember? We live for
pain.” Michael replied dryly than downed his brandy in one great
gulp, savoring the burn down his throat and sweet heat of it in his
stomach. “I don’t want to talk about India, Ashe.”

“That wasn’t the topic at hand,” Ashe said,
returning to his chair and gesturing for Michael to take his own
seat.

“I’ll be late.” Michael held his ground.

“Fashionably late is not late, Rutherford.
Sit.”

Damn it!

Michael begrudgingly sat down. “I’m sitting,
Blackwell. Although, for the life of me, I can’t see why! I am not
discussing the intimate workings of my most private self and I’m
amazed that you of all people aren’t reminding me that this is not
the time for diversions. It’s about the Jackal.”

Ashe nodded slowly. “Agreed. It was
inappropriate to tease and I understand that your attentions to his
sister are merely part of a ploy to stay close to the man. But,
let’s set aside the particulars, for the sake of debate.”

“We’re debating now?” Michael asked.

“Perhaps.” Ashe leaned forward until his
forearms rested on his knees. “I’ve gone over and over it in my
mind, what you said at Antonelli’s shop and if I’m to claim to be
any kind of friend to you, then I can’t let it go.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. What was the
topic again?”

“Women. You said you would never marry which
wasn’t a surprising claim from any bachelor but it was the next bit
that snagged my attention. You said the reason was obvious.”

“It is obvious!” Michael shifted
uncomfortably in his chair. God, he hated this! He was as subject
to human desire as the next man despite his denials. Kissing Grace
had stripped him of his defenses and Michael Rutherford was not
accustomed to feeling exposed and vulnerable. “Isn’t it?”

Ashe shook his head. “Not to my eyes. Have
you some malady?”

“No! Are you
blind
, man?”

Ashe said nothing and didn’t move a muscle,
patiently waiting for Michael to speak again.

“Blackwell, I can’t believe I’m speaking of
this. I’ll indulge you
this
time and then I don’t care if
you’re on your deathbed, we aren’t speaking of this again.”

“Agreed. Let’s have it.”

“I loathe you right now.”

“Understood. Out with it.”

“I’m…too tall,” Michael said with a growl.
“Is that obvious enough for you?”

Ashe narrowed his gaze, a man in enrapt
concentration awaiting comprehension. “Not even vaguely.”

“I’m…big.”
Please God, let the ground
open and swallow me whole.

Ashe didn’t move. “Women like tall men. It’s
a documented fact.”

Michael stood, too uncomfortable with the
subject to face the explanation head on, and began to pace. “Not in
my experience they don’t! And I’m not tall—I’m
too
tall! I
was extremely shy as a youth and never really ventured out much but
after I joined the Army—”

Ashe cleared his throat but didn’t say
anything as he pressed the fingers of one hand against his own
lips. Still, Michael interpreted it as a good sign that he’d
finally stuck a chord with Blackwell and that Ashe was struggling
to take it all in. Michael went on, encouraged.