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Diamond in the Rogue
by Wendy LaCapra

Copyright © 2019 by Wendy LaCapra. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

Graham Laithe, Earl of Rayne, relinquished his sister to her blushing groom. As Lady Clarissa and Lord Markham spoke their vows, Rayne retreated to the back corner of the chapel, settling into the shadows between a knight’s ancient tomb and a Norman holy water fountain—just another relic at odds with the stained-glass infused sunlight further candying the already too-saccharine scene.

Rayne studied his formerly close friend, Lord Bromton, who, as brother-in-law to the groom, occupied a place of honor near the altar. Once, he and Bromton had been as close as brothers, too. In fact, his respect for Bromton, who’d been his neighbor, confidant, guide, and friend, had bordered on adulation. But that had been before Bromton had broken trust with Clarissa, before Rayne had reacted in self-righteous fury, and before—Rayne’s gaze settled on Markham’s younger sister, Julia—her.

Julia grasped the pew-box rail in front of her, glowing as if she were the reason Markham was currently slipping a ring onto Clarissa’s finger. Rayne wouldn’t be surprised if Julia had played a significant part in pairing his sister and her brother. What Julia wanted, Julia made happen.

He knew because she’d once wanted him.

Nineteen months, four days, three scars, and two ocean crossings lay between himself and the colossal mistake that had cost him his self-respect and the esteem of his most valued friends. Now, however, safe in the shadows, he could finally drink his parched fill of Julia’s face.

Her short, brown curls framed softened features. But her mouth was as plump and crimson as ever, beckoning to be plundered. How well he remembered those lips, raised and parted in sweetly seductive invitation.

His breath went heavy in his chest.

The forbidden kiss they’d shared in a darkened stairwell had started as revenge but ended igniting needs far more potent. Even now, after all that had happened, he still craved the fire-eyed, devil-tongued minx in ways both consecrated and depraved.

Julia glanced back, her luminous gaze colliding with his. Shock infused his muscles. He readied. For what? For nothing. His reaction was as meaningless as it was visceral—nothing more than an abhorrent, prehistoric impulse to seize her as his mate, primal yearning he’d thought he’d vanquished.

She turned back to face the altar without even a glimmer of recognition…a cut that impressed, in a twisted, painful way.

Ah, well. He’d known, in her power, she’d be something to behold.

And Julia—extraordinarily passionate, perennially exuberant—deserved a husband who would not snuff out her light, a husband whose presence would not threaten her incomprehensibly close-knit clan.

Even if Rayne had been able to completely transform, he could never fully atone.

All his life, Rayne had striven to follow Bromton’s example. In contrast to Rayne’s reclusive, miserly father, Bromton had been steadfast, influential, and widely admired. But then, beginning with Bromton’s refusal to honor a longstanding betrothal agreement forged by their fathers, Bromton had changed…and Rayne had changed with him.

By the time Bromton had agreed to wed Markham’s older sister, Katherine, Rayne’s grievance had a sharpened, serrated edge, jagged enough to justify—in Rayne’s mind—dallying with the young, infatuated Julia before vengefully revealing that Bromton had “won” Katherine’s hand from Markham in a high-stakes card game.

Rayne had wanted to hurt as he’d been hurting. By God, he’d succeeded.

Both Markham and Bromton had sent him to the devil, with a dire warning to stay away from Julia. Julia’s subsequent plea, however, had become Rayne’s reckoning.

But I love him.

No, minx—Rayne’s response slashed anew from the inside out—no, you don’t.

In that moment, his inherent cruelty had come into stark relief. He’d acted with the same basic disregard for decency as his callous, ironfisted father, and he’d feared he was equally unfit for anything but a solitary life. Soon after, he’d sailed for New York with little more than a letter of introduction to a friend’s distant relative—a favor he’d had no choice but to call.

While abroad in the Americas, he’d shunned title and past, adopting challenges his younger self never could have imagined. With will and brawn, he’d slowly dismantled his character—his very understanding of himself. Hardship, he deserved. But penance without reparation wasn’t penance at all.

So, he’d returned—temporarily—to apologize, ensure his sister’s welfare, and place his estate in competent hands by leasing it out or hiring a permanent steward. The only thing he hadn’t been fully prepared to do was face the man reflected back in his former friends’ gazes.

He rolled his shoulders and ran his fingers through the reassuring scruff of his beard. In one more night, he’d be on the road, free of Julia’s temptation and her family’s contempt. Soon, he’d discharge the rest of his obligations and escape again to the other side of the world.

This time for good.

He refocused on the service, the itch to be gone festering beneath his collar.

When the rector pronounced the conclusion of the ceremony, Julia, with a triumphant squeal, launched herself between the newly wedded couple.

“Well, come on, then!” she exclaimed. “Let’s sign the registry so we can all have cake!”

Chuckles rippled throughout the room as Markham, Clarissa, Katherine, Bromton, and Julia all disappeared into the vestry.

Rayne leaned against the tomb, suddenly cold.

Lord Farring, one of Rayne’s few friends who still treated him with some measure of affection, searched the room and spotted him. Rayne held his breath as Farring sauntered down the side aisle, joining him in the shadows.

“Hiding, are you?” Farring nodded to himself. “Too much froth, I suppose.”

“Quaint, you must allow.” Rayne rocked back on his heels. “Combatively quaint.”

“Come, now.” Farring grinned, pushing up his tortoiseshell glasses. “How could you fail to delight? The scene’s so quintessentially English.”

“Quintessentially Southford, anyway,” Rayne corrected, referring to the name of Markham’s nearby estate.

Rayne’s estate—bleak, mostly abandoned, and far away in the rocky North—was equally English, but no one would call it delightful, quaint, or quintessentially anything beyond a blight. At least here, in the verdant South, Clarissa had a chance at happiness…a far greater chance than she’d had in the dark, musty shell she’d grown up in and he’d inherited.

Rayne lifted a brow. “Might I remind you that delight is your forte, Farring? Not mine.”

“Oh? I’m not convinced your capacity isn’t completely shriveled,” Farring answered with his usual buoyancy. “And, for Clarissa’s sake, I’d suggest you attempt to display a smidgeon of cheer.”

“Can’t.” Rayne glanced askance. “I’ve exceeded my daily allowance of pleasant expressions.”

Farring smirked. “I’ve missed you, you miserable ass.”

Warmth blossomed, but Rayne walled his heart. No point, after all.

He, Bromton, Markham, and Lord Farring had once been so frequently together in the gaming hells of London, they had been given card suite names: Rayne, Diamonds, Bromton, Spades, Farring, Clubs, and Markham, Hearts. Back then, Rayne had reveled in his childish nickname, truly believing the shadows bred into his blood could be masked by his twinkling diamond cravat pin, savoir faire, and friendships nothing could alter.

He’d been wrong.

The village boys flung open the doors as the Stanley family reemerged from the vestry. Together, the bride and groom proceeded down the aisle, followed closely by their family and other guests. Rayne tingled as Julia passed—a consequence of the chill spilling in from the outside…obviously.

He followed Farring to the top of the stair, shielding his eyes against the bright winter sun. At the center of the courtyard, Markham reached inside a pouch and, with a whoop, sent dozens of coins flying. The village children squealed as they scrambled to collect the bounty.

A small boy at the forefront of the crowd delivered his coin to Julia. She knelt down, thanked the boy with a tender smile, and then closed his chubby fingers, telling him to keep his prize. The child’s obvious disappointment vanished as she placed a kiss on his cheek.

Wrong—wrong—to be envious of a boy in short pants. But covetousness pierced Rayne just the same. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clarissa wave from an open landau.

After years of his neglect, he could not account for the fondness in her face. Clearly, she’d been infected with her new family’s exuberance. He returned her nod, his cheeks ever-so-slightly cracking.

“So, you can still smile,” Farring murmured. “I had wondered.”

Rayne quelled Farring with flattened lips.

The coachman jostled the reins, and the carriage set off in a cacophony of clattering pots. Clarissa snuggled close to her new husband beneath a blanket trimmed with fur.

“That’s that,” Rayne quipped.

Farring lifted his brows. “How ominously final.”

Final, yes.

Rayne accepted Clarissa’s choice for a husband as right for her, though a distinct coldness would always separate himself and Markham. The best he could do for Clarissa was advance his plan to depart.

Wedding breakfast. Apology. Restless night at the local inn. Mail coach north in the morning. A simple progression—if he kept his head.

Across the courtyard, Markham’s sisters prepared to leave as well. Julia headed down the path to Southford with an older woman Rayne did not recognize, while Katherine, heavy with child, leaned on Bromton, allowing him to lead her with great care to their carriage.

Clearly, Bromton was well on his way to completing his transformation from arrogant peer to devoted husband. Bromton just might have become—Rayne begrudgingly admitted—a better man. What Rayne had become, he wasn’t yet sure…nor could he comprehend how Bromton’s betrayal had led the man to such a contented end.

Mystifying. Just like everything else about this family and this place.

“May I ride with you to Southford?” Farring asked.

Rayne eyed the traveling chariot Farring’s parents had insisted he borrow for the wedding—shiny, black, sleek, and expensive. Something that would have suited him perfectly…before.

“Certainly,” he answered. “You’ll find your father’s travelling chariot is exceedingly comfortable. Your mother has an eye for detail.”

“An eye for detail. You should have been a diplomat.” Farring chuckled. “His Grace insisted you use the carriage. Amply encouraged by Her Grace, of course. You know what a stickler my mother is for appropriate pomp. She would not allow Clarissa to be driven to her wedding in a”—he shivered with exaggerated revulsion—“hired carriage.”

For Clarissa, Rayne had swallowed his pride and accepted—through Farring. However, he’d never expected the Duke and Duchess of Shepthorpe to go so far as adorning the sides with the Rayne crest. The two-day ride here had left him feeling like an impostor.

But that was over now, too.

Farring would take charge of the carriage. The horses belonged to Markham, the coachman in Markham’s employ. Tomorrow, Rayne would be riding with the mail—anonymous once again, at least until he reached his estate. Even then, there’d be nobody but the caretaker to greet him…just as he preferred.

“You will thank your father for me when you return the coach, won’t you?”

“Actually”—Farring drew out the word—“the carriage was never meant to go back to my father…which brings me to my proposition.”

Rayne frowned. “Your proposition?”

“My request, more like. Travel by mail is dashed uncomfortable. And crowded.” Farring peered over his rims. “One never knows who one will meet. The Rayne I knew would never.”

The Rayne Farring knew was dead.

“Travel by mail is fast,” Rayne countered. “No tolls. I can reach the Grange in just a few days.”

“Ah, but why rush when you could travel in comfort…at least to the outskirts of Appleton.”

Appleton? “Are you asking me to deliver the carriage to Periwinkle Gate?”

Farring nodded.

Rayne hadn’t been to Farring’s eccentric step-grandmother’s even more eccentric estate in a long time. He definitely did not wish to go now. The place was a testament to a time before he’d so deeply disappointed his friends and himself.

“Their Graces are expecting me to take the chariot to the dowager.” Farring turned to contemplate a group of ladies. “However, my sister, her husband, Bromton, Katherine, and Katerina”—he emphasized their mutual friend, the Dutch widow Katerina van Heldt’s, Christian name—“are traveling back to London in a three-coach caravan.”

“Let me guess.” Rayne sighed. “You are angling for Mrs. Van Heldt’s open seat.”

Apparently, some things never changed.

“Respectable privacy,” Farring replied. “Relative, anyway. You know a chance like this is rare.”

True.

Also true? With Katerina’s secrets and her past, she was not an acceptable choice for the sole heir to a powerful duchy. His Grace would never allow—

Farring placed a hand on Rayne’s shoulder, halting Rayne’s thought.

“Please?” Farring asked.

Rayne squinted at the shining coach.

For years, Farring had stood by his side, seen him at his best—a long-past incident involving Periwinkle Gate—and his worst—his final night in England. Farring, of all people, deserved Rayne’s help, but—“Where am I going to find a coachman on such short notice?”

“Use postilions, as I intended to do,” Farring suggested. “You’d be doing me a vast favor.”

Damn Farring’s boyish, expectant expression. “Very well. I’ll deliver the coach.”

Periwinkle Gate could well be the one place in England he’d still be welcomed. And, at the very least, with a private conveyance, he needn’t wait until the morrow to depart.

Considering the spark Julia’s mere glance ignited, delivering his apology was going to be as risky as dancing atop a gun powder keg in a pair of flint-bottomed shoes.

He might require a quick escape.

…

The morning had begun exactly as Julia planned—love victorious, a perfect wedding, on a perfect winter’s day. Then, Julia had locked gazes with him.

Worse still, she’d yet to purge her consequent, involuntary blood simmer.

“Katherine.” Julia’s voice fell to a whisper. “I know it’s cold. But Miss Watson wants to walk, and I need to walk.”

She couldn’t face the confines of a carriage. Not now. She was too full. Too restless. Too vexed. She needed to stretch, to move, to let the December cold purge Rayne’s heat.

She’d thought she’d dismissed the arrogant earl from her heart long ago. Apparently, her body had not received the message.

While the very idea of Rayne filled her with anger and regret, in the flesh, Rayne proved as incendiary now as he’d been on the first day they’d met.

“Earl of Rayne, at your service.” His tone had been as mocking as the steel glint of challenge in his gaze. A challenge that had silently demanded, “Who do you think you are?”

A force within Julia had instantly risen in response, as if she’d been born to answer that challenge.

All her actions thereafter had spelled out her reply in no uncertain terms: “Who am I? I’m someone you will never forget.”

She’d succeeded at being memorable, all right. Just not quite the way she’d hoped.

Katherine’s glance flicked toward Rayne, then back. Her expression softened. “Giles? What’s your opinion?”

“I see no harm,” Bromton said soothingly. “Julia and Miss Watson will be spending quite a bit of time together in the coming weeks. I think we can trust their judgment.”

“You may walk,” Katherine replied, “if you think walking best, Julia.”

“I do! A short walk, and I’ll be right as—” She stopped abruptly. “I’ll recover.”

She planted a quick kiss on Katherine’s cheek to cover her fluster and turned away, looping her arm through Miss Watson’s. Together, they set off along the path, Julia’s footfalls landing with satisfying, dead-leaf crunches.

The farther she got from Rayne, the easier she breathed.

If everything between them was settled, over, done, why did Rayne’s presence set a bundle of unanswered questions burning in her heart?

And why did something in her reawaken, as if succumbing again to his innate pull?

At her side, the elderly Miss Watson sniffed.

“Are you well?” she asked.

Miss Watson smiled. “Oh, I’m probably coming down with something…as usual. But don’t let that worry you. It was good of you to walk with me, child.”

“Good? Not at all,” Julia answered. “You wished to walk; I had to accompany you. Why, you used to carry me from church to Southford all the time when I was a little girl.”

Miss Watson splayed her fingers against her chest. “You remember that?”

Julia nodded. She didn’t remember much, but she clearly recalled the feeling of being cuddled safely in Miss Watson’s arms…and the relief of not having to ride with her father.

Miss Watson hummed thoughtfully. “You didn’t like carriages.”

“I still don’t particularly enjoy a long carriage ride.” Though what she hadn’t specifically liked was the way the walls enclosed the heavy gin-scent of her father’s breath. “I hide my discomfort better now.”

She hid a lot of things better now.

Mostly.

“Is your aversion to carriages why you asked to lodge with me while your brother takes his wedding trip?” Miss Watson asked.

Julia nodded, although she hadn’t been invited to go on the trip, of course. She’d been expected to return to the city with Bromton and Katherine. But, for the first time ever, the very thought of London filled her with distaste.

Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, everything had become so muddled. Rayne’s presence worsened her condition, but, unfortunately, Rayne wasn’t entirely at fault.

No. Rayne was a problem, but not the problem. The real problem? Though happy for her siblings’ love matches, for herself, she’d lost faith in love.

She winced into the cold, turning her face toward the pale, empty sky.

For as long as Julia could remember, she’d had plans—glorious plans to rule the world, or, at least, her world. She’d seen too much of the alternative.

In fact, by eighteen, the life experiences of those around her had practically formed a guidebook for how not to live. She had no memory of her mother’s short life, but she knew that when her mother died her father had succumbed to drink. After her father’s death, her brother had struggled under the weight of their father’s debt, and, for other reasons, her sister had wound up exiled at Southford in shame.

But, despite everything, deep in Julia’s heart, she’d held to the conviction that love—like Miss Watson’s childhood cuddles—would make everything right in the end, if she just took charge.

Then, Rayne had entered her life.

Diamonds, they’d called him, and he had the hard polish to match. She hadn’t just seen him, she’d felt him—like the bass chords in a rousing song. After they’d kissed, she’d named the overwhelming sense of recognition love.

Falsely, as it turned out.

She’d announced her love in front of her family, but then Rayne had disappeared, leaving her reputation intact but her heart shattered. Still, had she collapsed? Never. She’d defiantly resumed her plans.

Love was out there…somewhere.

She’d made her London curtsy with Farring’s sister, Horatia. Together, they’d fooled the stuffy matrons into believing them demure, and, for their efforts, they’d been crowned diamonds of the first water.

She’d taken particular pleasure in the title, as if, by name, she’d usurped Rayne.

But now, Horatia was engaged and busy planning her trousseau. And for Julia, without someone who knew her true heart, crowded ballrooms had become deserts of loneliness barely prettied by false cheer.

As for love?

Not a sign on the horizon.

Miss Watson dipped her head to catch Julia’s gaze. “I’m surprised you aren’t in a hurry to return to London, dear. I heard you’d made quite the impression on the ton.”

“Surprised, are you?” She forced a smile. “I behave as I ought when I must.”

“Of course you do.” Miss Watson patted Julia’s arm. “And you must have countless gentlemen clamoring for your attention.”

“A few.”

To her consternation, none of them had sparked a tenth of the thrill she’d felt when close to Rayne.

She feared none ever would.

“I had a season once,” Miss Watson said wistfully.

“Did you?!” Julia exclaimed, grateful for the distraction. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, it was long before you were born.” Miss Watson sighed. “You should have seen the styles, then! So many men in so much lace.”

Julia wrinkled her nose. “Men in lace?”

“Oh, I know tastes have changed, but on the right man, lace can be”—Miss Watson’s gaze went dreamy—“remarkably manly.”

Julia lifted a brow. “The right man?”

Miss Watson blushed.

“Miss Watson! You have a secret!”

“Not a secret, really. Not anymore. But I did once fancy myself in love. Quite mad about him, I was.”

Miss Watson had been old for as long as Julia could remember. She couldn’t conceive of the spinster ever holding a tendre for anyone—and definitely not a “mad” tendre. She pondered the notion as the pathway widened, joining Southford’s drive.

“Did the gentleman return your affection?” Julia asked.

Miss Watson fiddled with her glove. “Yes.”

Well. Julia frowned. Was there anything melancholier than wasted love?

Without her help, Markham and Clarissa may never have come together. And she didn’t even want to think of the opportunity that would have been lost if she hadn’t goaded Katherine and Bromton.

“What happened?” she asked.

“He was promised to another.” Miss Watson’s voice fell as they approached the manor house. “And, like the good gentleman he was, he refused to break his vow.”

Julia harrumphed. “I don’t like that story. Why can’t everything go as it should?”

Miss Watson considered the question. “And how should it go?”

“Love should win, of course.”

“Over honor?” Miss Watson shook her head. “I could never have been happy, knowing my happiness came at the expense of another’s.”

“Who is to say your love and his betrothed are happy?” Julia asked. “And, even if they are, their happiness came at the expense of yours.”

“Wife,” Miss Watson corrected. “And were.”

“Were what?” Julia asked.

“Were happy. Content, at least. They never roused a word of gossip, anyway. But the past tense is proper, as his wife passed on a few years ago.”

Julia paused. “Is he still living?”

“Julia,” Miss Watson said warningly. “Don’t you go getting any ideas!”

“And don’t you go thinking your scowl will keep me from looking him up!” Julia bounded up the stairs. “What if he never forgot about you?”

“Fuss and vinegar,” Miss Watson muttered, following after.

A footman opened Southford’s doors, and Julia led Miss Watson past the guests gathered in the dining hall, straight into the library.

“Markham just purchased the latest copy of Debrett’s.” Julia slipped the book from the shelf. “His name?”

“You won’t let this go, will you?” Miss Watson asked.

“Absolutely not. And you knew that, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did.” Miss Watson smiled a gentle smile. “Very well. His name is Edmund Alistair Clarke.”

“Clarke… Clarke…R… S… T… There we go.” Julia squinted up. “Edmund Alistair Clarke, Viscount Belhaven?”

“He wasn’t a viscount then, of course.”

Julia ran her finger along the entry. “He has two sons and a daughter, and…why, I’ve heard of this estate! It’s just on the English side of the Scottish border…not more than a day’s ride from Bromton Castle.”

“Well, then, now we know. And knowing he is alive is enough. At my age, raised hopes are not only ridiculous…they can be downright dangerous.”

Julia scoffed. “I’m not saying you should dash off in the middle of the night. But Katherine’s already invited you to visit the Castle. Accept”—a tingling ran down Julia’s arms—“and see what happens.”

Miss Watson patted her cheek. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you, my dear?”

Of late, she’d felt quite the opposite. But if, for her, love refused to manifest, she could damn well be certain everyone else she knew had the best opportunity.

She smiled encouragingly at Miss Watson, willing her to see the possibilities. Then, a gust of wind turned her attention to the hall beyond. Farring and Rayne crossed over the threshold. Rayne snorted at something Farring murmured as they both divested their coats.

Rayne had been gone for almost two years—two years that hadn’t been easy on him, if she were to guess by his weathered skin and bearded cheek. However, his gait—the alluring, unintentional swagger all his own—had enhanced. And those bright, singularly captivating blue eyes hadn’t altered one bit. They still weakened her knees and heightened her senses, leaving her watchful. Expectant.

She scowled.

His blue eyes hadn’t any particular allure. As for his swagger…given his advanced age of nearly thirty, he’d soon be stooping.

He hurtled some quip back at Farring, spreading his fingers and tugging the edge of his glove. Considering their size, he had uncommonly graceful hands.

Uncommonly affecting hands.

A memory ghosted through her mind—she and Rayne in the stairwell just around the corner. Those same hands deliberately traveling down the contour of her back while, with his lips, he’d kindled fire like she’d never known.

Excitement sparked a shiver in the present.

Her eyes fixed to his hands, and every cell in her body vibrated with the command—Make. Something. Happen.

She snapped the book she held closed.

Stop.

Rayne was what he’d always been…hemlock—a pretty poison, but a poison nonetheless. And she never made the same mistake twice.

“Perhaps you’re right, Miss Watson,” she said. “Some things are better left in the past.”

Which didn’t put an end to her rapid heartbeat. Nor resolve her conviction that love should and would win, if given a fighting chance.