Page 12 of The Diamond's Absolutely Delicious Downfall

Juliet slipped into his chambers ready for seduction, but instead she was greeted by the scent of ink.

Strings had been hung from wall to wall and pieces of paper had been draped over them. The paper was covered in black inked words and pictures.

The printing press stood in a corner, and Tobias Miller stood with his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows.

It was the most appealing thing she’d ever seen. She could scarce move at the sight of him.

He looked nothing like a gentleman of the ton. He looked… Rough.

Ink was on his face. She had not noticed it in the shadowy light by the door. Ink was on his arms and his hands. Oh his hands—they looked as if they knew hard work and could swallow hers up.

How had she not taken note of that before?

He wore a great leather apron to cover his clothes. He looked like a fiery blacksmith, except there was no anvil here. No, the power of the printing press was in words. Words that could be spun into things that would move whole societies.

And he was the master of that. A changer of fate. A man who informed the populace when so many wished the world to be ignorant.

Tobias Miller was a man who broke down the walls that kept people from knowledge, and somehow, seeing him here at his work, was far more tempting than anything else.

And he had already tempted her dearly.

She crossed slowly into the chamber, gazing about her with wonder.

“Whatever are you doing?” she asked, distracted so entirely from her original intent to be there that she could not ask what portals to other worlds hung from those strings overhead.

For that was what words were. Portals. Portals to all sorts of places.

“I’m doing what your brother asked me to do,” he replied simply.

“Which is?” she prompted.

“You’re truly curious?” he asked, surprised.

“Knowing my family as you do now, how could you think I wouldn’t be?” she asked, raising her hand to touch the papers but stopping when she realized the black ink was still wet.

“True,” he said. “I am to write and print on many topics. For there are many ills in society. Today? I’m printing a pamphlet on the importance of bread.”

She frowned. “The importance of bread?”

“Yes. Mr. Pitt and your brother are putting through several bills to control the price of corn and improve the ability of the poorer classes to eat. Surely, after what happened in France, the government will see the importance of the people having bread.”

She blew out a derisive breath. “For someone who revolted against this government, you are surprisingly optimistic. There are far too many old lords who do not give a deuce if the poor starve.”

“I suppose I cannot argue that, but I did not wish to seem hopeless.”

“Are you?” she demanded.

“What?”

“Hopeless?” she challenged.

“No. If I was, I wouldn’t be here.” And then he smiled slowly. “Do you know what gives me a great deal of hope?”

“No.”

“Mr. Pitt working with your brother.”

A laugh burst from her lips. “My goodness. How true.”

“They are two very different sorts. Your brother seems to be someone who enjoys the grey areas of this world. Pitt is determined and unflappable in his beliefs, but they agree on many points.”

She nodded. “You see the world in a much better light than most.”

He inclined his head. “If I do not make the attempt, what will I live for? I have to believe that somehow men like your brother will help change things. He goes about things differently.”

“The way our entire family goes about things is different,” she pointed out. “And you, after all that war, still hope for a better future?”

That delicious smile of his lit his face again. “Of course.”

“Why?” she breathed. “When so many people are determined to keep us in the dark—”

“We won, Juliet,” he said softly.

“So you did,” she agreed, and for the first time she was genuinely happy that England had lost the war with the colonies. Perhaps it signaled that the world was changing from the old order of a few men controlling all.

He turned back to the printing press.

“What are you doing?” she asked, feeling slightly odd that he was turning away from her when she had come to be seduced.

He stared at his printing press as though it was his beloved child. “I can’t leave it like this. I have to finish. Do you wish to watch?”

“I do,” she whispered, somehow finding this to be extremely intimate.

Somehow, she felt his vulnerability, working before her like this.

Wordlessly, he went back to the press and began his work. He made certain that the print blocks were all in place, that they were covered with ink. His muscles strained as she watched him in his smooth progress.

She had no idea what things were called or what he was doing, but she was amazed as he took up the sheet of paper, placed it over the letters, and then began to crank down the top of the press in one firm stroke. The mastery of his movements, the confidence of them, stole her breath away. It was like watching music personified as he worked. Then he untwisted the press, lifting the heavy top, and very carefully peeled back the paper so the ink did not smear.

“You are a master.”

“I have been doing it since I was a small boy,” he allowed as he draped the print over another long string across the room. “My father raised me up doing it.”

She could not ignore the note of sadness that deepened his voice. “Your father,” she said. “The one who is a Royalist.”

He gave a curt nod.

“That must have been very hard.”

Tobias turned to her and stared, his eyes turning to shadows. “He nearly beat me to oblivion when he found out I was using his print to create seditious materials.” Tobias drew in a long breath and gave a wry smile. “He was printing papers saying that we should be loyal to the king. I was printing papers saying that we should get rid of him.” That rueful smile turned positively gallows in its bitterness. “It did create difficult tension in our house.”

She dared to take a step towards him, longing to soothe the pain she saw furrowed in his brow. “I’ve never known such tension. My family and I get along on everything.”

“I’m glad for you,” he said as he slipped off his apron, took up a cloth, and wiped the ink from his person.

She studied him carefully and ventured, “Your sister?”

He cocked his head to the side and his face was a mask of hard planes and shadows as the firelight danced over him. “Yes?”

She cleared her throat. “You support her independence. I don’t understand if your parents—”

“My parents left for England a long time ago, and my sister refused to go with them. We’ve been on our own for a long time.” This time, his bitter smile softened and grew fond. “And she is a very strong-willed person. I could not stop her from doing anything. Especially not from printing whatever she thought the people should know.”

“I think I’d like her very much.”

He took a step forward and his gaze lingered over her face before he reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps, but you are very different.”

“Are we?” she asked, her insides beginning to dance at his nearness and the way he touched her so tenderly. “In what way?”

He paused as if he worried he might give offense. “She does not dress like you. She does not speak like you, and she’s not interested in finding a husband.”

“I suppose she does not have to,” she whispered.

“Do not fool yourself, Juliet,” he warned. “It is not so very different where I am from. Ladies are still expected to find husbands, but my sister says that as long as ladies are chattel to their husbands, she will never submit.”

She raised her chin, wondering what it would be like to hold such beliefs so firmly. “Good for her.”

His smile dimmed. “I just don’t want her to be lonely.”

“And you?” she whispered. “Are you lonely?”

“How could I be lonely?” he returned, cupping her face and pushing aside all the pain, all the past, with a few quick words. “You are here.”

She did not miss that his pretty words were a quick avoidance of her deeper question, but she was not going to push him on this. That was not what she was here for. No. She was not here for some deep exchange of the soul. She was here for that which had gone between them in the theater hallway and was still here in this very room.

“What do you want from me, Lady Juliet?” he asked, slipping his fingertips down from her cheek to her neck, then to her clavicle, which he bared by teasing the edge of her throat.

“I want… I want to know…”

“What?” he whispered.

“I think you already understand.”

“I do, but I want to hear you say it. So there can be no confusion.”

She shook her head, then lifted her hand and placed it over his, moving his strong fingers until they pressed over her heart, just above her breasts. “There’s something about you. Something I’ve never felt with anyone else. Something I fear I might never feel again, and I would hate myself if I let this go without partaking in it.”

“Hate yourself?” he rasped, his eyes a dark storm at her words, at her touch. “Those are very strong words.”

“But true,” she insisted, moving his hand inside her robe now. “There is something between us, like a current, and if I never give it full voice, I will always wonder. I shall always recriminate myself for it.”

“We cannot have that,” he growled as he slid his hand to her breast and gently cupped it.