Desire Wears Diamonds (15 page)

And do his best to keep his balance and—his
distance.



“Do you ride, Miss Porter?” Michael
asked.

She shook her head. “No. I’m not…one for
riding. I think I’m too soft hearted for the enterprise and a bit
too short to enjoy being that far off the ground.”

“Soft hearted?”

“It’s true,” Sterling said. “Grace cries
every time she sees a man with a horse whip—mind you,
holding
it, not necessarily using it. A sweet fault but it
does make riding around the streets of London with her an emotional
affair I like to avoid at all costs.”

Michael kept his eyes on the large roan
being taken out for another turn in the auction stall and
deliberately concentrated on not turning and striking Sterling in
the face. “I share her loathing of cruelty, Mr. Porter. I admire
her sentimentality.”

“Do me a great favor, Mr. Rutherford.”
Sterling stepped back from the railing. “I see a gentleman I wish
to talk to. Would you keep my sister company as I attend to this
business?”

The request surprised him, but he nodded his
assent. “Of course.”

Sterling moved away, leaving him alone with
Grace in the midst of the milling crowd of horse traders. Michael
watched him go for a moment, suspicious at this sudden cavalier
hand-off of his only sister’s care.

But Sterling disappeared from sight and then
there was only Grace to consider.

Let’s see if my talent for small talk has
improved.

“I’ve always had an admiration for horses,”
he started tentatively. “Perhaps that’s why I avoided the cavalry.
I couldn’t imagine torturing some noble beast by asking it to haul
me around on its back. Can you see it? Anything less than a
destrier and I look like a man sitting on a Shetland pony.”

When she didn’t answer him, he looked down
to see if he’d lost her. Her eyes were downcast but he immediately
suspected that it was not out of maidenly shyness as her expression
was one of rapt fascination. Although, he wasn’t sure what it was
about the ground that had captured her attention so completely.

“Miss Porter?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what you’re studying down
there?”

She looked up quickly, her cheeks flooding
with pink. “I don’t wish to say.”

He nodded. “I see. That is your prerogative,
naturally, to keep your thoughts to yourself but…I will admit that
I’ll have to assume you were thinking something dreadful about the
state of my boots—or worse, the size of them. They are clumsy
looking, aren’t they?”

“Oh, no!” she said quickly, the color in
face deepening. “That’s not at all what I was thinking, Mr.
Rutherford!”

“Well, then you’ll have to confess. Surely
you trust me to keep your confidences,” he cajoled her gently.
“After all, I
did
save your life.”

She looked up at him and for the space of a
single breath he wondered at the wisdom of pressing her. Her eyes
shone with the intensity of her internal struggle to speak her mind
and he nearly retracted the matter, about to babble something about
his lack of conversation when she spoke. “My thoughts escaped the
moment. I was listening. Truly I was but then I thought of the
British army and all those feet marching all over the earth…and I
was considering all the boot prints and then…yours next to another
man’s.”

“Pardon?” he asked softly.

“You see, I read in a book once about a
character who could tell all sorts of things about the villain he
was tracking from one single foot print and—well, I was trying to
see how such a thing were possible.”

“What could he tell from a track?”

Grace smiled, warming to the subject.
“Supposedly he knew how tall the man was, and that he had a limp
and that he was left-handed! But,” she eyed the ground again, “I’m
at a loss and feeling a bit duped.”

“You’re clever to realize it,” he said,
glancing at the pattern of steps in the muck, including a few
delicate imprints from Miss Grace Porter herself. “My father was a
gameskeeper and he taught me to track everything, including men,
but that bit about being left-handed is a bunch of codswollop,
miss.”

“What
can
you tell from a foot
print?” she asked eagerly.

His breath caught in his throat. Why her
questions and the keen sparkle in her blue eyes affected him; he
had no idea. He only knew he’d answer any question she had and
would have to fight the urge to make up fantastic lies if he didn’t
know the answers. He wanted to say anything and everything to keep
her happy.

“A great deal sometimes. If someone is
injured or limping, perhaps, but not which hand he prefers to use
to pick up a tankard. You can tell if they’re heavily laden or
maybe just heavy…”

“What else?”

“You can tell if they’re familiar with the
terrain.”

“How?”

Michael shifted back against the fence. “My
father said it came down to a man’s ability to see what others
overlook. If at every moment, you are mindful of your surroundings
then if there is a change, a broken branch, disturbed underbrush or
wet leaves overturned amidst a dry bed; you are better prepared to
see a trail or a sign.”

“Mindful every minute,” she said quietly.
“It sounds exhausting.”

“I read a penny dreadful,” he began shyly.
“Not that a lady like yourself would bother with those kinds of
things, but…well, they are a bit habit forming and I pick them up
occasionally.” Michael cleared his throat. “Anyway, in this story,
there was an island inhabited by centaurs who tracked their prey
with scent alone. I thought it a terrible idea at first, since
horses and men have a knack for using all their senses but as the
tale unfolded, it was quite clever. Because they could
see
how a thing smelled, they could
feel
it on their skin
and—“

He stopped, mortified at the tangent he’d
gone off on. It felt inappropriate to tell her more. He’d forgotten
how the story related the sensuality of the human animals and
hinted about the symphony of pungent musk involved in their mating.
Which was all well and good except he was suddenly wishing he’d
brought up another example because even in the pungent and chaotic
horse yard, he could smell lilacs from her skin and hair and she
was provoking all his senses with a desire to lift her from the mud
and hold her.

“Yes?” she asked, her face flushed.

“I…meant to say that it was…accurate in that
when you are present and mindful, it overtakes all your senses. So,
muddy footprints are merely the start of it—if you’re tracking.” A
snake of heat unfurled up his spine. “Are you taking up hunting,
Miss Porter?”

“No!” She replied quickly, averting her face
to press her gloved fingers against her cheeks but then turned back
to him in a blink, a woman recovered. “My thoughts are as scattered
as leaves on a windy day. Sterling hates it. I am so comfortable
with you, I forget myself. I ask all the wrong questions and say
all the wrong things. In children, it’s considered precocious if
tolerated but as a grown woman, I should mind my tongue. Even the
footprints, that wasn’t what I meant to talk to you about at all!
You distract me, Mr. Rutherford. It’s…most unexpected.”

Michael blinked. He loved her thoughts. They
diverted and surprised him at every turn and he was mesmerized by
the dance of her wit.

“And,” she continued quickly, “You are not
so tall.”

“Pardon?” The comment caught him off guard
as it related to almost nothing he could trace.

“I am scattered but I didn’t want you to
think I wasn’t paying attention to what you said, Mr. Rutherford.
You would look as noble on a horse as any man and while I agree
that you may consider something more along the lines of a draft
horse for your comfort, I don’t agree that you would look foolish
or that a horse would be unhappy to have a gentle and kind rider.”
She pressed her fingers against her cheeks and then smiled. “You,
sir, are not so tall as you think.”

His eyes widened, all his movement arrested
in a single breath. “Am I not?”

Grace smiled. “Well, you are…tall, of
course. And it is striking but I wonder if you are self-conscious
of it and the characteristic is magnified in your mind.”

God, she cut to the heart of things,
didn’t she?
“Is it only in my mind then? The low ceilings and
struggle to find a good pair of boots?”

Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “No. Which
reminds me that under no circumstances should you ever cross my
neighbor, Mrs. Goodman’s threshold, sir. Her sitting room beams are
so low that I’ve hit my head on her hanging lamps no less than
three times.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” He leaned back
with a smile, and caught himself in the ridiculously relaxed motion
of it. He was there to shadow Sterling and instead he’d been
hanging on her every word.
Sterling! Where the hell did he get
to?
Michael turned as if a gun had gone off, instantly finding
Sterling in the small gathering across the yard. He appeared to be
in conversation over a pale grey gelding but Michael suddenly
wasn’t sure.
Could it be a meeting with another assassin? Am I
standing here like a fool while he plots something?

“Your brother’s business looks serious,”
Michael stated. “I wonder why he thinks to conduct it here.”

“I don’t know. We have no stables to fill.”
She shook her head slowly. “I—cannot say for certain what his
disposition is toward you, Mr. Rutherford. Please don’t think me
disloyal to my brother but he’s been acting strangely since you
arrived.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?” she asked, a genuine note of
surprise on her face. “How?”

He’d overstepped. “I’m a ghost from the
past. I can see how it would make a man uneasy.”

“So uneasy he’s determined to drag you out
for dinners and next a ball? So uneasy that the sister he’s long
been too embarrassed to accompany outside of his home is now worth
showing off?”

“Grace!” Sterling interrupted them, calling
across the paddock as he began to make his way back to the pair.
“What do you think of him?”

“Pardon?” Grace asked, a gloved hand
covering her throat.

“The grey!” Sterling replied. “Whom else
would I speak of?”

Miss Porter was openly flustered and Michael
did his best to intervene. “He looks solid enough from here. Are
you truly in the market for a horse, Porter?”

“Not at all.” Sterling rebuttoned his coat.
“But it is a good excuse to get out on a beautiful day and take a
stroll. I’m so glad you could join us, Rutherford, though I wasn’t
sure you’d brave the outing.”

“It was an invitation to a horse fair,
Sterling, not a duel,” Michael said. “Courage may be a requirement
but I was pleased to see Miss Porter again.”

Damn.
The truth of those last words
made his throat feel tight. It
was
a pleasure to see her.
Even with the strange distraction of Sterling’s games and his
dislike of feeling exposed in a public place, the world faded when
Grace Porter began to speak. Attempting to predict what she would
say was humbling, and he didn’t try. He’d no sooner think to chart
her thoughts than wager which way a swallow would turn.

“Did you thank Mr. Rutherford for the lovely
gown, Grace?” Sterling asked her. “It was extremely generous of
you, friend, and the nicest thing she’s likely ever to
possess.”

Her face flushed pink. “I’m sure I meant to
thank him again, Sterling.”

“There’s no need for that!” Michael said,
displeased at the way that Sterling brought up the gift.

“Why so surly, old friend?” Sterling teased
him easily, as relaxed as if they truly were old friends. “Grace
isn’t bothered by me. I have the advantage of being an older
sibling in that she expects very little courtesy of me and is
probably grateful that I torment her far less than I once did when
we were children.”

Grace turned away, her bonnet shielding her
expression from view but Michael didn’t need to see her
unhappiness. His rage at Porter’s bluntness required little fuel.
“I’ve never heard a man boast about being a disappointment before.
Your sister may not be bothered but I am.” Michael held his place,
daring Sterling to be the first to step back. “We are not children
to forgive cruelty so easily.”

Sterling smiled, before he stepped back with
a mocking half-bow. “What a delight to see a man rise to her
defense—and to be so generous with his opinions.”

“Please!” Grace spoke out breaking the
tension instantly. “Sterling isn’t being cruel, he’s being callus,
Mr. Rutherford and since I agree that we are
not
children; I
say you should both behave!” She smiled, gently touching Michael’s
elbow. “I’ve long since decided to accept my dear brother’s
wretched disposition and single-minded character in the hopes that
it might improve my own to do so.”

“I’m a fortunate man with a saint for a
sister,” Sterling proclaimed softly. “Envious, Rutherford?”

Michael’s breath caught in his throat. It
was worse than wrestling an eel.
God, he’s slippery!
“Envious as any man would be,” he conceded and was rewarded as some
of the anxiety in Grace’s eyes softened. “I apologize, Miss Porter,
but I should be going. Thank you for including me in the day and
for…the good company.”

“You’re welcome,” Sterling replied, tucking
his sister’s hand into the crook of his arm. “We shall see you at
Bascombe’s then?”

“I’ve already given you my word.”

Sterling shook his head in admiration. “A
man of honor! So refreshing!”

Grace’s cheeks flushed pink. “Of course he
is a man of honor! Are you so surprised?”

Sterling shrugged his shoulders openly
unapologetic. “I wasn’t surprised. I meant to compliment the
man.”

Michael waved off the insult and touched his
hat. “Until the ball, Miss Porter. Enjoy the rest of your
morning.”