Desire Wears Diamonds (16 page)

He walked away before Sterling could add
anything else to the exchange or draw him back into another round
of verbal jousting. He circled the makeshift paddock and
deliberately moved close enough to pass within arm’s reach of the
“gentleman” that Sterling had spent so much time talking to. He
didn’t stop and question him, but took a quick inventory of the
horse trader. Michael was puzzled at the rough and frayed edges of
the handler’s coat, the dirt on his neck and the flat and crooked
bent of his face after enduring more than a few fistfights in his
lifetime.

For all his pretentions, not exactly a
member of the Ton for Sterling to be so keen on spending time with
the bloke…unless he’s the most clever thug in disguise I’ve ever
seen.

The handler spit on the ground laughing as a
potential customer made a low offer and Michael subtly shook his
head with a smile, dismissing the fantasy of Sterling openly
meeting some assassin at a horse market.

Which meant the purpose of the outing still
eluded him.

And the only thing he’d learned was that of
all the women in the world, it turned out that Grace Porter was
like a diamond in disguise.

“A successful morning,” Sterling sighed as
he settled into the carriage seat.

“Successful? In what way?” she asked. “You
barely spent five minutes in his company and when you did rejoin
us, it was…” Grace bit her lower lip. “You goad him into thinking
he should come to my defense.”

“Shouldn’t he?” Sterling smoothed the cloth
of his sleeve. “I
am
cruel to you, remember?”

Grace looked out the carriage window as she
spoke. “I never forget it.”

Sterling allowed her the pout. He stretched
out his legs and tipped his head back, closing his eyes and
effectively ignoring her completely. He had no intention of giving
her any more insights into his plans. He was already regretting
some of the unguarded comments he’d made.

His confidence in Grace’s compliance wasn’t
absolute. But things were going so beautifully Sterling wasn’t
going to press his luck. Her ignorance was crucial and from where
he’d stood, only added to her innocent appeal to Rutherford’s
inherently chivalrous nature. He’d never have guessed it looking at
the hulk of a man that he would have as soft a nature as his addled
sister. Sentiment was a mark of weakness and for now, it was the
only clear advantage he would ever have with Rutherford.

The masks were off, even if neither of them
had admitted it aloud.

But it was Grace that was holding Rutherford
in check. Sterling was sure of it.

He’d watched them at the paddock. Rutherford
so attentive, bending slightly to catch Grace’s every word, smiling
and nodding as if the woman were the cleverest creature ever born.
Every instinct he’d had at that first dinner was cemented into
fact.

Another week to the ball and Sterling would
have the chance he’d dreamt of. He would publicly have one of the
Jaded on a leash and have all the proof needed to demonstrate to
his debtors that his schemes were finally coming to a head.
Bascombe’s folly would stand in even greater contrast to his own
elegant patient plans and help him to put the minor setbacks he’d
suffered into perspective.

Mine. Nearly mine now…

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Grace eyed the gown hanging on her wardrobe
door. It sparkled in the afternoon light and scattered impossible
miniature rainbows along the walls and floors. The morning’s outing
to the horse market had been surreal and her stomach hurt to think
of the wasted chance for a private conversation with Michael. She’d
meant to use whatever precious minutes she gained to warn him that
Sterling was…

Her brow furrowed. Even now she didn’t know
what her brother intended. Something was wrong, that much was
crystal clear. He wasn’t going to his office regularly and his
focus on every nuance of Mr. Rutherford’s speeches and appearance
made no sense to her. He’d emphasized his authority in urging her
to be appealing and tightened his grip on control of the house.
He’d repeatedly spoken of prizes and chances until Grace was
convinced that some grand carnival had entered their lives.
Sterling was like a manic matchmaker. But she couldn’t see why
after years of telling her that she was lucky to have her brother’s
protection to keep her from the workhouses, he was shoving her into
Mr. Rutherford’s path.

Worst of all, she was weakly allowing all of
it.

Because being in Michael Rutherford’s path
was thrilling. God help her. The man’s presence and quiet looks
were enough to turn her knees to rubber and then, dear heaven! He
listened so sweetly and attentively to her blathering on that she
was struggling to remember why anything in the world mattered.

And then miracle of miracles! That was
her
story on centaurs he’d referenced—or rather a chapter
from Mr. A.R. Crimson’s “Isles of Thunder” series! He’d evoked a
world that she’d created in secret and spoken of it with such
intimate knowledge and even respect that she’d lost all feeling in
her extremities. Fire and ice had tumbled over her skin in an
excited rush and she’d very nearly clutched his arm and confessed
all.

But fear of reproach and the consequences
kept her in check. She wasn’t ready to lose Michael Rutherford’s
approval.
Not just yet.

Grace reached out to touch the gown’s silver
braiding and sighed. All those stories and she’d imagined
seductions a dozen times. On the page, it was heated looks and the
firm command of a man’s hands; or something equally vague and
sinful sounding. But this… This didn’t match anything she’d written
or read.

This was Michael Rutherford looking into her
eyes and simply allowing her to be herself. Where Sterling would
frown or say something cruel, Michael only encouraged and applauded
her. He complimented her wit and entertained her odd opinions and
god help her, he’d invaded more and more of her waking moments,
commanding her senses and distracting her from the days ahead.

But then he’d gone even further. He’d
defended her against Sterling. Against the verbal jabs she’d
endured for so many years, she’d become numb to them.

“Ridiculous,” she whispered. “All of
it.”

Grace turned on her heels and gathered her
light coat and reticule. She hurried down to the ground floor as
she pulled on her gloves. There was no hesitation in her step and
when Mrs. Dorsett stepped out from the kitchens with unspoken
questions in her eyes, Grace didn’t blink.

“I have an errand to run, Mrs. Dorsett. I
should be back before dinner but if I am late, please serve
Sterling as he wishes.” Grace retrieved her bonnet.

“And where am I to tell him you’ve gone?”
Mrs. Dorsett demanded.

“Tell him the truth, Mrs. Dorsett.” Grace
finished tying the ribbon on her bonnet and rewarded the cook with
a smile. “Tell him you have no idea.”

She sailed out of the house with her head
held high, a giddy schoolgirl escaping her governess.

And a tyrannical headmaster.

A large woman in a green work dress and a
white apron cheerfully bustled forward, cheeks flushed from her
labors. “How may I help you, miss? Is it a room you need, or a
meal?”

“I’ve come to call on Mr. Rutherford. I
understand he is in residence and I’m hoping…that he will see
me.”

“Oh!” The woman clasped her hands together,
smiling. “Of course! I’m Mrs. Clay, owner and sole proprietor of
the Grove. He only just returned, I believe, as Tally went up with
a small tray. Not that he would ring for it! Dear man! It’s only
that I made some fresh lemon biscuits and our Mr. Rutherford has a
weakness for them.”

“Does he?” Grace swallowed at the
familiarity toward
their
Mr. Rutherford, blinking at the
tumble of information from the innkeeper regarding a tenant that
she very openly adored. “Would you please tell him that Grace
Porter has come to call?”

Mrs. Clay nodded, only to gently begin to
corral Grace through the inn’s ground floor. “Of course, my dear!
I’ll take you to the first floor parlor on the east side where you
can have a lovely bit of conversation. There’s a sitting area there
and it is semi-private away from the rest of the inn. You
understand, I wouldn’t feel comfortable escorting you directly into
his apartments. The Grove is a very respectable establishment.”

“Oh, yes! I can wait in the common room if
you—“

“What nonsense! A lady like yourself? Not
that you wouldn’t be safe as a church mouse in my dining room, Miss
Porter! No rough trade allowed at the Grove. My husband, Mr. Clay,
God rest his soul, always said that an inn worth its salt meant you
could always forget to worry—just like home!” Mrs. Clay led the way
past a large and cheerful Tudor style dining hall filled with
guests where the smell of fresh bread and beef stew underlined her
speech toward a separate entrance and stairway. “This way!”

Grace lifted her skirts as she climbed the
stairway, marveling at the cozy inn’s charms and how out of breath
she was attempting to keep up with Mrs. Clay, a woman twice her age
and girth.
I’m panting at the pace she’s setting and I don’t
think she’s drawn air between words! How remarkable!

“So exciting! To have a lady call on Mr.
Rutherford! It’s a first!” Mrs. Clay announced as they reached the
first floor landing and the parlor and private dining room she’d
described. Diamond shaped panes revealed that there must be a
tree-lined lane next to the Grove and the blossoms and greenery in
the late afternoon sun gave the room a fairy-tale like cast. There
was nothing ablaze in the large fireplace but the room retained a
bit of warmth and Grace smiled at the bouquet of fresh lilacs atop
a small table in the parlor’s center. Two identical doors were
visible on the opposite wall and Grace could see no other egress
from this private end of the inn.

Mrs. Clay walked over to the fireplace. “If
the room seems chilled, don’t hesitate to pull the bell. My son,
Tally, will come right away and see to things. He is such a dear
boy! And growing so fast! He has a keen wit and a good way with our
guests and long after I’ve departed, the Grove will stand in his
care.” She sighed. “I’m a very blessed woman.”

Grace could only think to nod. Mrs. Clay was
a genial font of enthusiastic information and after only a minute’s
acquaintance, she found herself bemused and envious that Mr.
Rutherford had such a lively landlady. “You are indeed blessed,
madam. Shall I…wait here then while you send word to Mr.
Rutherford?”

Mrs. Clay smiled, wiping her hands on her
apron. “Here, yes. Just there.” She turned, surprising Grace at the
development and walked toward the door on the right, knocking
briskly. The portal opened to reveal Michael Rutherford in a white
linen shirt open at his throat, his coat removed and his head
bare—a man at home. Grace had to avert her gaze, a nervous smile
blooming on her lips at Mrs. Clay’s unorthodox approach to social
matters.

“Mr. Rutherford,” Mrs. Clay said. “Miss
Grace Porter has come to call and I was sure you wouldn’t mind if I
brought her up. Shall I bring up another tray of lemon biscuits and
tea for you and your guest?”

Shock on his face gave way to rote courtesy.
“Mrs. Clay, I’ll rely on your care.”

“Aren’t you a dear!” Mrs. Clay said beaming
and then stepped back to bustle off, apparently determined to make
a great show of the Grove’s hospitality and assist her favorite
tenant. “Back in a blink!”

He came out of his apartment, closing the
solid oak door and Grace blushed. There was something strangely
intimate in seeing him in this setting, in knowing that his most
private sanctuary lay behind the door at his back. Mrs. Clay had
insisted she wouldn’t deliver Grace into his rooms but she’d
certainly come close.

“Miss Porter? Is everything all right?” The
bass of his voice was tempered with concern and something in her
melted at his kindness.

“It’s—well enough.” She nervously twisted
the ties on her reticule. “I’d have sent word to warn you of my
visit but since I only just thought to come, it seems we are both
surprised to see me here, Mr. Rutherford.”

He studied her for a moment. “I’m guessing
you must have had some reason to risk a call.”

“A very good reason.” She took one deep
breath and then let it out slowly. “Which, as we speak, I am
reordering and composing that reason inside my head so that when
you hear it you won’t think me any more scattered than you already
must.”

“I don’t think you are scattered. I meant it
when I said as much this morning. I like the way you think. But let
me see if I can draw up some small talk to give you time to ease
into whatever subject is troubling you.” Michael gestured toward
the pair of upholstered chairs set by the window. “Not my forté but
I don’t want to disappoint at my first attempt at playing
host.”

She laughed and took a seat. “No risk of
that! And may I say that I find I don’t fear breaking any of your
chairs.” She patted the solid cushion beneath her. “Yours is the
more welcoming parlor, it appears.”

“Or simply the sturdier of the two,” he
noted. He sat down across from her and Grace had to blink at the
picture he unconsciously made of a large cat stretching out in the
patterns of light from the window. He was truly handsome in a
rugged way that ignited her imagination and awoke her senses. There
was nothing affected in his manners, nothing practiced or polished.
He was as different from her brother as the sun from the moon. “I
know why you’re here, Miss Porter.”

“Do you?” she asked, a bolt of astonishment
making her sit up a little straighter.

“I was a boorish brute today. Your brother’s
maneuvers are not very subtle and you wish to beg off of attending
the ball. You’d begun to tell me at the horse market when your
brother came over.” He smoothed one hand down his shirt front. “I
don’t blame you for it, Miss Porter. While not either of our doing,
I’m the first one to forgive you for expressing disgust or—”