Heart of the Diamond Page 4

  The duke cleared his throat, then stared at the surface of his desk as though he had never seen it before. He busied himself with moving aside several untidy stacks of papers.

  While Blake waited, he took in Billington's burgundy jacket, which appeared to be constructed of the same fabric as the heavy velvet curtains framing the narrow window at his back. His cravat had been skillfully tied, but had a tendency to drift off toward the left shoulder. A dollop of some unrecognizable food item stained the white shirt beneath the tie and became visible each time the cravat strayed.

  It looked like a great brown eye winking at him.

  Blake crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap, and fastened his gaze on Billington's flushed face.

  “Well now!” Evidently satisfied that he had cleared a sufficient spot in the midst of the disorder to rest his elbows, the duke cleared his throat again and ran a finger beneath the edge of his cravat. “Good of you to come. I . . . before we discuss your marriage to my daughter, I want to put certain matters behind us.”

  Blake smiled slightly. “Oh? I had thought those matters best left to their . . . fitful slumber.”

  “Not that easy, my boy. I know it was you who sabotaged my business ventures. Cleaned me out. Cost Nicki her Season in London. I'm willing to forgive and forget that nonsense and to . . . welcome you into my family.” The speech, forced from a tightly clenched jaw, lacked the proper inflection necessary to lend it truth.

  Blake raised a brow. “I have been in America these past six years, Billington—as you well know. Since it was your actions that caused my banishment from England, I hardly believe you are now willing to embrace me as a son.”

  “Yes, well . . . ” Jonathon fumbled in his jacket and withdrew a handkerchief. He mopped the perspiration from his forehead and stuffed the linen back inside his pocket. “I tried to set that right. Went to your father and told him I was mistaken—but Diamond would hear none of it. Said you were too headstrong and the entire ugly business would be a good lesson to you.”

  The words pierced Blake's defenses and struck a nerve. He tensed. “That sounds like my father.” Offering a vague smile, he forced himself to hold on to indifference. “In the end, perhaps he was not far from the mark. I have done quite well for myself in America. I shall be in a position to amply provide for your daughter.”

  “She was betrothed to the Duke of Melton, y'know. We had a marriage contract in place and Melton agreed to pay off my creditors and finance a Season for my younger daughter Wilhemina. Said he'd provide a residence in town. You saw to it that I lost my place in town.”

  Yes, he had. That particular victory he celebrated in Boston with an attractive young widow. Her late husband, rest his soul, had left her an excellent wine collection.

  Blake tented his fingers and watched Billington for a long moment. “Melton's offer was generous. From my brief encounter with the Lady Nicole, I would say overly generous. But she is now engaged to me. I, on the other hand, will not buy a bride.”

  Billington methodically cracked each knuckle of his left hand. The chords of his neck stood out, and Blake mentally gauged how much further the man could be pushed before he exploded.

  “I ask that you reconsider, Diamond, or by God I'll accept Melton's offer after all.”

  Blake gave a shout of laughter. “Nonsense. Melton would not come within miles of a ruined girl, though she might possibly be quite striking when dressed appropriately. You have only my offer—or install her in a convent. I would discourage the latter suggestion. Your daughter does not strike me as possessing the proper temperament for a life of religious seclusion.”

  “Damn it all, Dylan! It was your doing that got her into your room in the first place! I don't know what you're about but I won't allow my girl to be caught in the middle of our feud.” Jonathon stood abruptly, sending his chair teetering toward the window before it righted itself with a muffled thunk. “I told you I tried to talk to your father. He said you were already bound for America.”

  Blake unsteepled his hands and ran one long index finger across the battered wooden chair arm. The Diamond signet ring, the face of a wolf with diamonds for eyes, caught his attention for a moment. “I agree you were not the sole player in that little scenario and I suppose I should feel fortunate that you chose to drag me before my father rather than call me out.”

  The memory came back in a flash as if lightening had struck: Langley, furious, demanding Blake's punishment. Then the unyielding anger in his father's silver eyes. Blake thrust aside the memories.

  “After all these years I continue to wonder if my honor would have been better served by a duel rather than banishment.”

  Billington moistened his dry lips with his tongue, then glanced to a table close by. Blake followed his gaze to several crystal decanters filled with amber liquid positioned on a glass tray surrounded by sparkling glasses.

  “You might've told me at the time that you were acting for another,” murmured the duke.

  “You were not open to discussion, as I recall.” Blake laughed again, the sound a harsh rasp in his ears. “The other party involved was my friend. If he felt it his duty to come forward, he would have.”

  The duke lost whatever inner battle he had waged and strode to the side table. He lifted the stopper from one decanter, splashed a generous serving into a glass, and started to drink. He stiffened suddenly, and raised the glass in question. Blake waved his hand in denial.

  Billington downed the liquid, gasped, then slammed the glass onto the tray with a clatter of crystal. After squaring his shoulders, he turned to face Blake. The polished mahogany wall at the man's back glowed with an inner light and Billington's face appeared deathly pale in contrast.

  “The whole damned business got out of hand, Dylan. We'd be better off to forget it ever occurred.”

  “As I said, I did not come here to discuss the past, but the future of which your daughter is now a part. Am I correct in my assumption?”

  The duke took a deep breath. He looked as though he might toss his breakfast. Blake knew well the feeling of another person maneuvering your life. Billington lifted his gaze to Blake. “I see no alternative. What date did you have in mind? Perhaps the fall?”

  “I have business to attend to in America, therefore I must insist on expediting the wedding. You shall have a month to prepare.”

  “That isn't much time. Nick hasn't had time to get used to you yet, or to the idea of leaving home.”

  “Such is life. My business always takes precedence over my personal life.”

  “Very well.” Langley stood straighter, striving for dignity. “I must ask one thing, Diamond. You've refused to cooperate in my other requests, but there are several things I must insist on.”

  Blake leaned forward, resting his elbows on the chair arms. He feigned boredom. “Yes?”

  Emotions dueled across Billington's face like a well-enacted theatrical event. Anger, frustration, wounded pride. “Nicki's a fine girl and she deserves happiness. If you plan on getting revenge against me through her—then I must withdraw my acceptance of your offer. I'll not have my girl's heart broken.”

  Blake leaned back slowly, linking his hands behind his neck. “Still doubting my honor, Billington?”

  The duke's color returned in a rush. “Devil take it, she's my daughter! I won't see her done in.”

  “You may rest assured I do not go about preying on innocent females, no matter what you once believed. And your other request?”

  Billington made a move as though he would once again pop his knuckles, then thought better of the gesture and instead rested one hand between two buttons of his shirt and the other behind his back.

  “I don't mind having a quiet wedding here, but I'd like to have my close family present. Nicki's my oldest, y'understand.”

  Blake rose and held out his hand. This time Billington's grip was dry and firm. “I have no objection to a few family members being present. My steward shall come around tomorrow to retrieve th
e necessary documents.”

  “But . . . won't you be wanting to see Nicki now?”

  After considering the suggestion briefly, Blake shook his head. “I do not believe so. She and I will see quite enough of each other when we are wed.”

  Billington scowled and ran a finger beneath the edge of his cravat once again. The brown spot flashed, then ducked back beneath the folds of the tie. Blake's lips twitched, but the duke appeared too preoccupied to notice.

  “There'll be hell to pay when I tell her Mina won't be getting her Season.”

  Blake maneuvered his way through the collection of downtrodden furniture and gaudy figurines to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, then glanced back at Billington. “If Lady Nicole is displeased with the price you negotiated, that is your problem, not mine.”

  “But . . . ” Billington bit off the words.

  A thought occurred to Blake. “I nearly forgot one stipulation to the contract. You will forego any claim to the inheritance Lady Nicole will receive upon our marriage. Good day, sir.”

  When he left the room, the door closed sharply behind him. He heard Billington let out a roar. The butler appeared, silent as a cat, to hand over Blake's cloak and hat.

  As Blake left the house, he paused on the front porch to draw the fresh air deep into his lungs—and waited for the familiar thrill of success to fill him. He should have been exultant. After all, victory belonged to him.

  So why did he not feel like the victor?

  Blake donned his beaver hat and flung his cloak around his shoulders. A lightness entered his gait as he strode down the stone steps, then took the graveled path leading around the side of the house to the stables.

  The courtyard stretched before him in quiet solitude. Banbury, his bay gelding, stood tied to a carved railing in front of the stables, head drooped, waiting for Blake to finish his business.

  The thought of Jonathon Langley facing his own daughter set a smile tugging at the corners of Blake's mouth, though he did not envy the man for the task before him. Last night, Blake had witnessed the lengths to which the Lady Nicole would go in order to get her way. She would not take her father's news calmly.

  The grin broke free, the expression foreign and unnatural. It had been a long time since anything had truly amused him. From what he had seen of Nicole Langley thus far, the entertainment had only just begun.

  Chapter 3

  . . .

  Branches of the shrubbery grabbed at Nicki's hair and clothes and scraped her hands as she emerged into the tiny clearing near the abhorrent trellis of Rosewood. Her boots sank slightly into the softness of decaying leaves.

  A three-quarter moon reflecting off the aged bricks of the manor house granted Nicki plenty of light. Still, she eyed the climb with trepidation. Certain parts of her anatomy still suffered from last night's expedition, but she simply had no choice in the matter.

  She must speak with the earl.

  With a sigh, she bunched the skirt of her riding habit and threw the voluminous folds over one arm. Her father had made such a clatter over her use of Shelby's trousers she could not justify using them again. Before leaving the house, she had taken the precaution of donning her thickest pair of ribbed silk stockings and her riding boots. They would have to suffice.

  She grasped the latticework with one hand and stepped up, only to swing backward and slam into the side of the house. With effort, she regained her balance and dropped to the ground. Several seconds passed before she gathered enough courage to brave the trellis again. Battling the weight of her skirts, she managed only a few yards before she ran out of breath.

  She looked up, gauging her progress. Had the window been so high last night?

  Determined, she pressed on. She could have come to call in the daylight hours, but Lucy, the cowardly wench, had nearly fainted at the suggestion that she accompany Nicki to Rosewood. Obviously her cowardice stemmed from Shelby's tirade about the earl's resemblance to the devil. Mina had been equally as stubborn. Nicki thought her sister's reticence quite unbecoming, since it was for her future Nicki intended to bargain.

  Several minutes later she reached the top of the trellis. Reaching for the window frame with one hand, Nicki secured her grip. Her arm trembled as she pulled herself level with the glass.

  Merciful heavens.

  The window was closed.

  Nicki pushed at the frame in an attempt to raise the window, but she could not get enough leverage to hold on and use her strength at the same time.

  One of the slats snapped beneath her foot and Nicki slipped. Frantic, she hung on with one hand while fighting free of the skirts still draped over her other arm. Her fingers scraped along the wood. She grabbed the sill with her other hand. With all her weight on one foot, the other piece of lattice gave way. Desperate, Nicki dug in with her fingers.

  Her heart thundered in her ears. Then she thought she heard the screech of the window sliding open.

  “What in the . . . ?”

  Nicki's fingers scraped along the wood toward the edge.

  The moment she thought she would surely fall, strong hands grasped her wrists. Swinging freely in the air, Nicki finally summoned the courage to open her eyes and look up. She met the clear gaze of the Earl of Diamond.

  Relief washed over her, then a surge of temper surfaced through the fear. “How could you have closed the window so tightly!”

  Amusement flickered across the earl's face as he dragged her toward the opening. “How thoughtless of me, Nicole. May I call you Nicole? We are soon to be married, after all.”

  Nicki's skirts snagged on the broken sill, leaving her hanging half in and half out the window, though blessedly safe.

  “I prefer Nicki,” she snapped. She lifted her hips and attempted to scoot further inside the room while the earl tugged with admirable energy. “No one calls me Nicole but . . . ”

  Nicki's words drifted off as she realized her boots had slipped slightly. She curled her toes, but to no avail. One boot then the other slid from her feet. It seemed an eternity before a soft crackle and two clunks sounded from below.

  “Oh, my.”

  Now the earl laughed with genuine humor. His face lost much of the harsh arrogance. “I believe you are the only person with whom I am acquainted who is inclined to moonlit climbs, my dear.”

  After gaining a better hold on her upper arms, he stepped slightly to the right and pulled. His breathing intensified. Nicki feared her arms would pop out of their sockets, or her skirt would be torn from her body, before Lord Diamond would admit defeat.

  Abruptly, she popped free. When her right foot encountered the side of the casement, the force of her kick propelled the earl several feet back into the room at an alarming speed. With Nicki clinging tightly to his neck, he stumbled backward, all the while struggling to maintain his balance. She cried out—a long, drawn out sound. His footing gave way and they hit the floor with a bone-jarring crunch that abruptly silenced her.

  “Thank you, Nicole. That was exceedingly helpful.”

  His voice rumbled in his chest, vibrating through her fingertips. With her hands pinned between their chests, she could feel the steady beat of his heart and the flutter of her own. Her entire being burned with embarrassment.

  The earl had gallantly cushioned her fall with his own body.

  “I . . . I pride myself on being helpful.” Nicki lifted her face from his pleasantly cologned neck and, after pushing her hair back from her face, gazed into his eyes. “I am quite resourceful, you see.”

  His fleeting smile caused her stomach to clench. “I am quickly discovering that fact.”

  Nicki crawled off him and scrambled to her feet so she might straighten her skirts. Her skin tingled and burned and she feared she might never catch her breath. The feel of his touch lingered on her upper arms.

  She promptly bumped into a side table, sending crystal bottles clattering against each other.

  Fingers trembling, she swiftly straightened the items into what she h
oped resembled their former order, then risked a peek at the earl to see if he had noticed.

  He was on his feet. The only sign of agitation was the rigid thrust of his fingers through his tousled dark hair. A stray lock slipped over his forehead, giving him a rakish look. With a determined tilt of her chin, she schooled her features into what she hoped resembled a brave expression.

  He wore a white shirt, the ends untucked from the waistband of his black trousers. The ends of his cravat hung loose and she could see dark chest hair at the opening of his shirt. Heat suffused her cheeks once more and she dropped her gaze to his feet—which were bare.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Nicki wriggled her toes beneath her skirts, acutely aware she wore only stockings as her boots lay amongst the rose bushes outside. An entirely too intimate situation by half.

  The Earl of Diamond strolled to the bedside table where he turned up the oil lamp. After locking his hands behind his back, he trained his gaze on her. How she hated that unruffled manner of his. Not to mention his stern expression. It most certainly boded a lecture.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  She took a fortifying breath. “A matter of the utmost urgency.”

  He arched a brow. “Where you are concerned, my dear, is there any other kind?”

  Nicki chose to ignore his sarcasm and instead scanned the room. She paused, then studiously ignored, blankets turned down invitingly on the enormous canopied bed. She spied a side chair that stood against the wall near the window. Nicki hurried toward it.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable, sir. We have much to discuss.” She perched on the edge of the chair to face the earl.

  “Oh? Then I shall take a seat. Pray continue.” He pulled a chair away from the wall near the bedside table and sat in the center of the room facing his unexpected guest.

  Nicki met his gaze steadily, which was somewhat difficult as he had the most piercing silver eyes. It seemed an unfair advantage, but for the moment she was pleased to have his audience, and the devil take the pesky details.