Desire Wears Diamonds (31 page)

Grace held out her hand to shake Mr.
Pollson’s, shocking him with the masculine gesture. “You have a
deal, Mr. Pollson.”

They retreated quickly but not quickly
enough for Grace to stifle the giggles midway down the stairs.
“Usually—I am so nervous in there I can barely breathe! But that,
my dear Mr. Rutherford, was thrilling fun!”

“He’s quite a badger of a man and his office
smells like mushrooms,” Michael observed. “But I’m going to agree.
That was thrilling fun, Mrs. Rutherford.”

“There’s no doubt that he thinks that you
are Mr. Crimson,” she noted sagely, a mischievous smile crossing
her features as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. “I knew he
would! You certainly are mysterious enough, my handsome and
almost
mute husband.”

“He can think whatever he likes. We know
better.”

“I love our conspiracies, Michael.”

“As do I.” He leaned down to speak softly
into the shell of her ear, the bass of his voice sending a shiver
of delight down her spine. “Shall we go back upstairs and see if
he’ll double it?”

Grace gasped and playfully punched him in
the shoulder. “Michael! We are not thugs! Besides, if you give poor
Mr. Pollson a heart attack, I will be hard pressed to find another
publisher!”

He shook his head. “Hardly! What publisher
in London wouldn’t fall all over themselves to capture the newest
works of the wicked Mr. A.R. Crimson?”

“You are prejudiced in my favor,
husband.”

“I should hope so.”

He helped her alight back into the waiting
hackney and the ride home to the Grove went quickly as her husband
distracted and teased her senses. Michael was as gentlemanly as
ever, but he could evoke her desires with a single light kiss on
her bare throat and as she’d nearly begged him to throw her skirts
over her head on their way to Oxford Street; it was her own
restraint she didn’t trust. She was reluctant to admit it, sure
that it was a failing in her character, but if it hadn’t been for
the pre-set appointment with Mr. Pollson, she would have done her
best to keep her husband abed for much of the day.

“If you don’t stop doing that, I’m going to
carry you upstairs over my shoulder and your afternoon will be
wasted with a long series of hedonistic pursuits, Mrs.
Rutherford.”

Grace’s eyes widened in shock, wondering if
the wicked turn of her mind weren’t audible. “If you are trying to
intimidate me into submission, you’re making a terrible mess of
it.” She flashed him an enticing grin. “I am spurred on to wicked
disobedience in hope of his punishment.”

“Very well!” He bent down and lifted her
easily to balance her over his shoulder, eliciting peals of
laughter from his bride. With one practical hand resting on the
delicious curve of her bottom, he quickly mounted the stairs with
his prize. “You are well and truly kidnapped!”

“Michael!” she pressed her hands against his
back to push herself up but gave in to mirth. “It isn’t a
kidnapping!”

“Isn’t it? Wait until I tell you what
ransoms I’m going to demand in exchange for your release.”

“Oh!” she squeaked and then relaxed in a
playful feint. “How promising!”

He achieved their door, unlocked it and
carried her inside, then turned to lock the portal behind him
apparently fumbling with the mechanism and taking an inordinate
amount of time to tease her with the delay. Grace lifted her head
to protest and stiffened in surprise as she noticed a change in the
room’s layout.

“Michael! Put me down!”

“On the bed?” he asked innocently.

“Michael!”

He put her down very gently, then put his
hands behind his back. “Do you like it then?”

Grace tried to answer him but couldn’t. She
walked forward in a daze, trailing her fingertips over the surface
of a beautiful lady’s writing desk and matching chair that had been
delivered in their absence. The top was a splendid satin finish
with inlaid woodwork in the shape of flowers and vines that trailed
down to decorate the drawers and turned legs. The chair was
upholstered in a rich yellow taffeta embroidered with golden stars
and tiny silver crescents. Curved and delicate, everything about
the pieces he’d selected brought a feminine touch into a room
dominated by the stronger pieces that were his. A stack of fresh
paper tied with gold ribbon sat atop a new leather-bound journal
embossed with the gold letters, A.R.C. and a cut crystal writing
tray glittered next to it. The main drawer pulled out as smoothly
as velvet and revealed pens, small ink jars and a tiny gold key to
allow her to keep her work secured if she wished.

Grace closed the drawer and turned back to
look at him in amazement. “It’s flawless and…I never dreamt
of…”

“We can move it anywhere you wish. If the
light doesn’t suit there for working.” Michael gestured to the last
touch. “And Mrs. Clay suggested adding this shelf above the
windows. For reference materials or…anything you’d like
really.”

It currently housed a blue glass vase with a
small bouquet of spring flowers but her heart pounded at the
possibilities. Her wonderful husband had gifted her with a little
study all her own!

“But where is your desk?” she asked.

Michael pointed nonchalantly to the corner
by the wardrobe where his desk was now housed. “I can work there
just as easily if I need to or in the sitting room. I have a
portable writing desk that a friend gave me. I’m no writer,
Grace.”

Grace’s fingers touched her throat and she
looked up at him through a shimmering curtain of unshed tears.
“Michael.”

His name.

Nothing more and it was the world at his
feet. Michael rushed forward to pull Grace into his arms, bending
over to lift her up against him and in three strides he’d achieved
the bed.

She kissed the bare skin at his throat and
pulled her hands through his hair to send chills down his back. He
was instantly aware of every inch of his body and savored the
moment when reason was tethered and desire took the reins.

Tears spilled down her cheeks and Michael
kissed each one, his tongue darting out to drink in the salty
sweetness of them. “Grace. If you cry, I’m not sure I can have my
wicked way with you. It’s very…disconcerting,” he teased softly as
he lowered her onto the bed.

“Shh! I’m happy! Now ravish me, Michael and
allow your wife to have her own wicked way.”

“I’ve never ravished anyone before,” he
whispered, nipping the juncture of her neck and shoulders the way
he knew she loved. “If I tear your clothes off and then take my
time, does it still count?”

She smiled and pushed away from him
slightly, shifting up onto her knees next to him. “Let’s omit the
loss of a few buttons and the embarrassment of asking Mrs. Clay to
help me repair my clothes, shall we?” Grace’s hands moved quickly
and with her eyes on his to measure his appreciation of her labors.
The buttons gave way and Grace shrugged out of each layer,
lingering when his eyes flashed with fascination and relishing the
play of salacious need she alone was orchestrating.

The confidence in her eyes was an
aphrodisiac more potent than any he knew.

Her chemise fell to pool around her and
Michael’s breath caught in his throat as his bare goddess lifted
her arms to pose for his approval. The cool air across her skin
made her nipples pebble hard and her skin was smooth as she
innocently cavorted and turned to show off her curves and entice
him with the seductive allure of her body. He reached out with his
fingertips to trace the outline of her hips across to the indent of
her waist and the exquisite firm set of her pert breasts.

His palm splayed across the soft rise of her
belly above the triangle of silken dark curls that gleamed in the
candlelight. Her inner thighs were already damp and a single
trickle slipped down like honey and Michael’s tongue darted out
already anticipating the taste of her sex.

Grace reached for him and eagerly dispatched
his clothes, caressing and stroking every inch of his flesh that
was bared to her, hurrying him with the promise of her mouth and
hands. God, she loved his physical form, every hard line and firm
curve of his masculine beauty whet her appetite and made her crave
him. The empty ache between her legs sharpened and she flushed at
the strength of it.

There seemed nothing like the polite prose
of romantic poetry in the insistent and unrelenting demands of her
body for carnal satisfaction. There was nothing tepid or metered in
the lust that whipped through her as she pushed his trousers down
to free his growing sex into her hands. Lush and rampant, it did
not feel ladylike to openly stare and admire it but Grace couldn’t
resist the impulse.

If it was devilry, she didn’t care.

Without releasing him, she pushed him over
onto the mattress and climbed atop him, her thighs spread across
his hips. He wasn’t yet fully aroused, but Grace stroked his
phallus and guided him into her body where the searing coil of her
desire begged for him; begged for him to overtake the emptiness and
impale her core.

Michael held her hips to try to slow her
descent as the grip of her tight wet channel squeezed and pulsed
around his member forcing him to harden and swell, pushing up
inside of her, filling her completely. Tighter and tighter their
bodies meshed until he feared it was too much, that he would hurt
her somehow with the length and girth of his searing cock.

But Grace dismissed his fears. She wrapped
her legs around him and drove her ankles against his back, pressing
him deeper and urging him to move against her. Michael withdrew as
far as he could and then slowly drove back inside of her, nearly
shuddering at the overwhelming feel of her body submitting to his.
Again and again, he pulled out to tease her with the withdrawal of
his body only to plunge inside, the speed of each thrust increasing
until he’d forgotten everything beyond the woman in his arms and
the tight fever-hot build of his own impending release.

He was trapped in a spiral of wanting; of
anticipation and the selfish wish to make it last—to deprive
himself of the zenith for a few moments more so that it would all
last. But Grace was pushing him hard, moving with him and against
him, crying out as she began to climax again and the spasms of her
body as she came conquered his will. He couldn’t hold anything
back, his own orgasm tearing through his body and jetting out of
him to mingle with hers. He had one last primal surge of pride at
the idea that he could possess her so completely that her body
would overflow with his release.

She was slow to return to her senses,
clinging to Michael as he leveraged himself onto his elbows to make
sure he wasn’t crushing her.
As if he could, silly man!
Grace smiled up at the ceiling and kissed his chest, teasing the
dark circle of one of his nipples and making him yelp in
surprise.

“Woman!” Michael laughed. “You are
incorrigible!”

“Kiss me,” she commanded and he complied
with the eager diligence of a man more than happy to oblige his new
bride. When at last he lifted his head to allow her to catch her
breath, Grace couldn’t help but sigh in utter contentment.

“There. I am ravished.”

“Mrs. Rutherford, you are indeed.” He kissed
her playfully on the forehead and they both lay back onto the bed
laughing at the delights of the day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sterling readjusted his coat front as he
walked down the steps from the headquarters of the East India
Trading Company. Lord Waverly’s mood had been particularly arch and
demanding today, grinding the hours into a long chain of slow
minutes that drained a man of hope. The sun had set hours ago and
his head ached with the reviews of tax codes and new tariffs the
crown wished to see implemented on her rich holdings in India.

He looked forward to the quiet of his house.
Since Grace’s wedding two days ago, the house was already changed
for the better. Mrs. Dorsett was all smiles as she regained control
of the house and had resumed a more enthusiastic attitude in his
bed—not that he hadn’t enjoyed her without it. The woman had a
gifted mouth and a fondness for his cock that had kept her on her
knees and in his service for all their years together despite his
sister’s inconvenient arrival on his doorstep. The woman was plain
but his sexual appetites were blind enough. Sterling’s steps
lightened as he contemplated ordering his proud housekeeper to bend
over the dining room table while he—

“Porter!”

Sterling turned at the unfamiliar voice. A
footman in a dark livery he knew all too well held up his hand and
gestured toward a carriage that waited in the shadows of a nearby
tree-lined lane.

Damn it. So much for their agreement to give
a man time.

Sterling walked across to the black landau
and dutifully climbed up into its interior to sit across from his
longtime patron for a clandestine meeting. “It is nearly two weeks
until July, sir,” Sterling began calmly. “Has there been some
change to our agreement?”

“I have always liked you, Porter. It makes
no sense but it is actually true,” the man answered without a trace
of humor. “If we were honest, we would both have to admit that it
is the only reason you’re still living.”

“Then I am again grateful for my charm.”

A low gravel-filled sound like frozen metal
chips sliding into a can made Sterling’s skin crawl and he realized
his patron was actually laughing.

“Oh, I don’t find you charming! It is your
ambition and drive I like.”

Sterling swallowed hard. “Good. It is a
trait I shall never relinquish.”

“Porter,” the man said. “The others are
content to wait for you to fail yet again but I’m tired. I tired of
all of it. You’ll tell me
exactly
when you will bring me the
diamond and you’ll share
exactly
how you intend to manage
it. Now, Porter. You’ll tell me now.”