Diamond in the Rough Page 14

  Clara let out a giggle. “If I had that ability, I daresay Lord Berkley would have proposed by now.”

  He scowled at that, which only made Clara feel better. “This,” he said, waving a hand between them, “cannot happen again. It cannot, Miss Anderson. It will only lead to one thing and it is something you will regret for the rest of your life. You understand what I am saying.”

  Clara nodded. “Fornication.”

  “Yes. I am a man who is not typically ruled by the physical, but I find it nearly impossible to resist you. It would be easy for us to forget the dire consequences of allowing ourselves to be caught up in whatever it is that is happening between us. I cannot allow that to happen.” He closed his eyes briefly. “You deserve better than to be treated like some common trollop. I cannot marry you, Miss Anderson. You do know that, do you not?”

  Her cheeks burned as she nodded. “I never contemplated such a union.” That was a patent lie, for she had allowed herself to imagine they might marry, that she could convince her parents that love was more important than social status. Perhaps she could convince her father, but Hedra was about as stubborn as a person could be and it was highly doubtful Clara would be able to sway her away from her plans to elevate the family socially. She’d even imagined herself and Mr. Emory hightailing it to Scotland with her father hard on their heels. So, yes, telling Mr. Emory she hadn’t thought about a match when it had begun to consume her was a rather large fib, and it stung a bit that he was so obviously opposed to the notion. “I suppose I didn’t do much contemplating at all.”

  He chuckled at that. “Nor did I. But we must. I must. I do realize that matrimony is a consuming topic to young ladies and their mothers, but I am in no position to marry any woman.”

  Raising one eyebrow, Clara said, “Certainly. So it is not me in particular that you are so opposed to, but matrimony itself. And I am not so terrible?” Silly, but it meant something to know that he held her in a bit of esteem.

  “You are an angel and I am not at all the man you believe me to be. I am not kind. I am not charming. I am single-minded and determined. My greatest fear is that one day you will see me for the scoundrel I am.”

  Clara smiled at that. “I know you, Mr. Emory. You are a man of honor.” When he made to protest, she held up a hand. “How many men would have stepped back just now? With a willing girl in his arms?” Bending down, she picked up both their hats, then placed hers back upon her head and handed his over to him. “But you are correct. We have been crossing a line that should never be crossed between an employer and an employee. This cannot happen again.” Saying that aloud was far more unpleasant than she’d anticipated.

  “I am glad we are in agreement.”

  “And if it should happen again—”

  “It will not.” He stepped back to prove his point.

  “Mr. Emory, please hear me out. Yes, you were here waiting for me. But I was the one who came to you. You are not to blame, not entirely, at any rate. I suppose the only thing you are guilty of is making me want to come back here. Should this happen again, I will know full well what I am doing. I want you to know this.”

  She watched his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed.

  “I shall push you away,” he said.

  His words were cold but his eyes flared with heat. “I believe you shall, Mr. Emory.” She smoothed down her skirts. “I am going to return to the garden and putter about for a while. I am confident we will be able to act properly.”

  “Perhaps you should just go inside, Miss Anderson.”

  She glared at him a long moment. “Perhaps. But I shan’t.”

  After she’d gone, Nathaniel leaned against the shed and lifted his head to the sky, filled with remorse and, worse, the feeling that he might die if he didn’t have her. His grandfather would have been so disappointed in his behavior, and he was glad the old man was not around to witness his shame. Clara was a sweet, innocent girl. Not so innocent anymore. No girl could be completely innocent who’d had a man pull her against his raging erection. He let out a humorless laugh.

  It would take some time before he was presentable if he continued to revisit what had just occurred. He looked at the pond, contemplating a quick swim fully clothed, anything to douse the desire that ran hot in his veins. Instead, he settled on dunking his head beneath the spigot and letting the icy water run down his back. When he had stopped throbbing and his friend had stopped its insistent call for love-making, Nathaniel headed back to the garden and tried not to look her way. It took little for him to become aroused when she was nearby: the sound of her sigh, the way her dress tightened across her breasts when she reached over to nip a bud, the sight of her full lips tilting up in a smile. My God, he felt like a young boy experiencing the first thrill of getting hard.

  The sound of a wagon pulled his attention away from her and toward a team of horses pulling a large load of building materials. Work on the hothouse was about to begin, apparently, and Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief. With all the workers about, he would have absolutely no opportunity to drag Miss Anderson behind the shed. The fact that he had, that he had been so weak and allowed himself to maul her, filled him with no small amount of shame. He knew he was in the wrong, and yet he’d continued to kiss her, caress her, allowing his passion to rule his head. Even though he’d resolved never to touch her again, he could not stop his mind from wondering what it would be like to sink into the wet heat of her, to hear her cries of passion, feel her legs wrap around his torso…

  “Mr. Emory,” Mr. Billings called as he began unloading the wagon. “If you wouldn’t mind giving a bit of direction.”

  Nathaniel snapped out of his lustful fog. “Of course.” He jogged over to the wagon, laden with a large pile of boards that would be used to create the frame for the hothouse. Nathaniel had thought the idea of the hothouse was a stroke of brilliance. It had allowed him to dig up a large expanse of the garden all at once. But his shovel had never struck a box or anything other than loose and worthless stones. A large mound of earth was proof of his fruitless labors. He’d thought, when discussing the possible location of the hothouse, that this area, near the edge of the property and away from the house, might have been the ideal place for his grandfather to have buried the diamond. It had been another failed endeavor. There were times when he looked out over the garden that he found it impossible to believe the diamond could still be here. With every shovelful of earth he moved, there was less earth still left to search.

  Where the bloody hell could it be?

  As he helped Mr. Billings remove the boards from the wagon, he looked over the garden and for the hundredth time tried to imagine where his grandfather had hidden the—

  And then he looked at the pond, and he felt the blood drain from his head. No, his grandfather would never have put a wooden box in a body of water, not even locust wood, known for its ability to resist water. As he stared at the small pond, his mind whirled. Had the pond always been on the property?

  “Mr. Emory,” Mr. Billings said, gaining his attention. He’d been standing there holding his end of the four planks they carried for too long.

  “Gathering dust,” he said as an apology, then placed his end of the load and returned to the wagon again. “What do you think of a gazebo near the pond, Mr. Billings?”

  The older man squinted his eyes. “Not until spring. And I’m afraid this hothouse is going to have to wait as well. Every man in this county who knows how to hold a hammer is working at Costille House. The new earl is renovating it. Lady Greenwich made some changes to the old place he didn’t care for.” He smiled as if he was glad of the earl’s disapproval. “Thought it was nice, though, but the earl, he wants it back the way it was. I’m only here today to deliver the wood. Thought maybe you could get started without me. It’s a simple enough project if you know anything about building.”

  Nathaniel grimaced. “Unfortunately, I do n
ot,” he said. “But I will relay the news to the Andersons that the hothouse will likely be delayed. When do you think you’ll be able to begin?”

  “Not until right before Christmas,” Mr. Billings said, pulling a large tarp from the bottom of the wagon. Nathaniel quickly moved to help the man and the two of them draped the tarp over the wood. After they’d finished, Mr. Billings moved closer, as if to impart some important bit of information. “With all this digging you’re doing, you find anything…unusual?”

  After pretending to think for a moment, Nathaniel said, “Now that you mention it, I did find an unusual rock, a fancy bit of blue quartz.”

  Mr. Billings’s eyes widened and Nathaniel couldn’t help but chuckle, causing the older man to scowl heavily. “Aye, you’re a right funny fellow, you are.”

  Shrugging, Nathaniel smiled. “If I find the diamond, you’ll know quick enough because the Andersons will be posting for another gardener.”

  “Bah,” Mr. Billings said, apparently not appreciating his sense of humor. “I’m starting to think that fancy fellow from London is having a grand time pulling our legs.”

  “You could be right about that, Mr. Billings. You could be right.”

  The fine folks of St. Ives had reacted very much as Roger had predicted. Every lane he walked down he saw evidence of someone digging holes or poking the earth. Rumors about the diamond were flowing fast and free, but as time went on, he was beginning to sense a bit of hostility. The villagers were beginning to think he was disingenuous in his claims. It was too bad, really. St. Ives was a pretty little town and he found the brilliant blue-green of the sea soothing to his soul. His wife would have loved it here. On his third day in St. Ives, he’d walked along the beach, empty but for a few plovers skittering along the edge of the foamy tide, wondering if the current Baron Alford had disappeared for a reason. Perhaps he had already found the diamond and had disappeared somewhere to sell it. America?

  The old baron had died, and it didn’t take too much imagination to think he might have told his grandson where the diamond was hidden. Nathaniel Emory was as much a mystery as the diamond itself. Few people knew him or could even say they’d ever met him. Apparently, the young man had been somewhat shunned by the aristocracy thanks to his drunken father, who had made more enemies than a man should in one brief lifetime. The Emory family seemed to be rife with scoundrels, and Roger had no doubt Nathaniel Emory was the same as all the rest.

  “Where are you, Alford?” Roger said, gazing out to the sea. A man could not simply vanish from the face of the Earth, certainly not a peer. Speaking with the family attorney had gotten him no closer to finding the baron, though Roger was certain the man knew more than what he was saying. Roger would bet the three hundred pounds Mr. Belmont had given him that the attorney knew where the baron was.

  Roger had found himself in this picturesque little village by following the old baron’s trail. When he was a young man, not much older than the current baron, he’d been set upon by thieves and left for dead—on the road coming from St. Ives. What would a man of his station be doing on an isolated road, far from both London and his country seat? What business could have brought him to St. Ives, not a few months after returning to England? As it was fifty years prior, Roger could find little information. The current constable kindly went back through his records and had found a small mention of the incident, but it was woefully empty of details. Alford had been unconscious when he’d been found and it wasn’t until later that his name was added to the report. The incident had been blamed on smugglers who at that time used St. Ives’ isolation and safe harbor as a place to store their goods.

  He was loath to leave, but there was nothing in St. Ives to keep him much longer. If someone did indeed find the diamond, which he doubted would happen, he or Mr. Belmont would most certainly hear of it. Just thinking about Mr. Belmont made him uneasy. The man had given him a fortune to find the diamond or, at the very least, find Baron Alford, and he had failed to do either. He dreaded returning to London with so little to show for the time spent away. St. Ives, it seemed, was another dead end.

  Chapter 9

  Clara watched with a large dose of dread as Jeanine hurried to pack the last of her gowns for their trip to London. She had so many reasons for not wanting to go, first and foremost the knowledge that though her mother was convinced Baron Longley had agreed to sponsor her, they’d heard nothing from him to indicate he would. Still, armed with the baron’s London address, Hedra convinced herself this was a chance worth taking. They had rented a townhouse in a reasonably fashionable area of London—at least that’s what Mrs. Pittsfield had told her mother. Clara couldn’t help but think Mrs. Pittsfield, whose career as a lady’s maid had ended fifty years earlier, likely knew little of the current state of things. Still, she certainly knew far more than the Andersons.

  “Are you excited about going to London?” Clara asked her maid.

  “I am,” Jeanine said, but there was a clear “but” after that sentence. “I do wish it wasn’t for so long. I don’t like missing Christmas at home. My mother was counting on me to make my saffron buns.”

  “I adore your saffron buns,” Clara said. “Perhaps I can convince you to make some in London.”

  “Oh, I doubt the kitchen staff there would want me moving about their kitchen,” Jeanine said. She seemed uncommonly puckish, so Clara turned and gave Jeanine her full attention.

  “You don’t want to go at all, do you?”

  Jeanine shook her head and forced a smile. “It’s not only about the saffron buns.”

  “I didn’t think it was.”

  Her maid closed a small case filled with Clara’s unmentionables. “I think Charlie was going to propose this Christmas. He hinted as much.”

  “Oh, Jeanine, I am so sorry. But certainly he can propose any time.”

  Jeanine gave a quick little nod and her eyes got a bit misty. “It’s just that his family has a tradition, and if he can’t propose this Christmas, I’ll have to wait a whole year. I’m already nearly thirty and I’m getting too old to have children.”

  Clara laughed lightly. “You are not anywhere near too old for that.” Jeanine kept her back toward her and Clara feared her maid might be weeping. Clara was about to go to her and give her a comforting arm when Harriet burst into the room, bringing with her the fresh scent of the outdoors. Her younger sister had the glow of health lately, likely due to all her invigorating walks. While Harriet didn’t seem upset to be left behind, Clara felt nothing but guilt, which Harriet waved off as she usually did.

  It would be so much more amusing to have Harriet with her than to have to face the aristocracy on her own. At least they could giggle together when people turned up their noses at her.

  “I fear Mother will only be disappointed. Again.” Clara lowered her voice so that Hedra would not overhear. “When will she end this?”

  “When a duke begs to marry you.”

  Clara laughed. “You and I both know that is not going to happen. Dressing a pig in a gown does not make the pig less of a pig.”

  “You are not a pig, Clara. You are a lovely girl whom any man would be lucky to call his bride.”

  Clara waved a hand at her. “You know very well what I mean. It doesn’t matter how many times you or I try to explain to her that no member of the peerage will marry the daughter of a tin miner—”

  “Tin mine owner,” Harriet pointed out, as Mother so often did.

  Clara stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose. “I just go along,” she said on a sigh. “Eventually, she’ll let me come home and just live, won’t she?”

  “You do want to marry, don’t you?”

  Did she? No one had ever bothered to ask that question. Marriage seemed such an odd concept, one with vague images of her with some faceless man living in some cold mausoleum of a house. Lately, though, she allowed herself to picture an entirely different sce
nario, one in which she lived in a cozy little cottage with a strapping young husband who liked to garden.

  Clara let out a light laugh. “I have thought many times that I would switch places with you. You are so lucky to stay home. I’ll muddle through it–I always do.”

  “Who knows? Perhaps Mother’s persistence will pay off and some prince or duke will take one look at you and fall at your feet and beg you to marry him.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Fall to his feet because he’s too old and doddering to remain upright. Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “You remember Mother talking about Baron Longley? I know she fostered hopes that he would offer for me and I cannot tell you how relieved I am that he has not. But, Harriet, what if he did? He is supposed to be in London to introduce me. What if he makes an offer for my hand? What would I do?”

  “I don’t know,” Harriet said miserably.

  “But after all this, the expense, the traveling, everything. How could I say no?” It was something that had weighed on Clara’s mind heavily since their last meeting. Even though the Gardeners had invited her to their home simply to test her for a companion position, Baron Longley had seemed interested in her. Clara hadn’t missed the long, assessing looks he’d given her.

  After telling Harriet about Baron Longley, her sister confessed to having an unfortunate infatuation with Lord Berkley, a rather shocking confession, for Clara knew how Harriet disdained the idea of marrying so far above their station. Harriet thought their mother a bit touched in the head for continuing her quest to find Clara a titled husband.

  When Hedra appeared at the door, Clara felt a small flush of guilt that she’d been thinking ill of her. Mother only wanted what was best for her and Harriet, of that Clara had no doubt.

  “We leave in the morning, Clara.” Then, looking at Harriet, she said, “I wish we had ordered dresses for you, Harriet. Now that we are ready to depart, I am doubting my decision to have you remain here. Unchaperoned.”