Page 2 of The Diamond's Absolutely Delicious Downfall

In the opinion of Tobias Miller, when the world was coming undone, the only intelligent thing to do was to go to the theater.

He had survived the American Revolution, fighting at the Battle of Yorktown, enduring starvation and freezing months at Valley Forge, and facing the threat of Cornwallis overpowering them.

He had also endured the tedious nature of John Adams all throughout his stay in London, attempting to help the man negotiate London society. It had been no easy thing. John Adams was terrible in company and could not seem to stop himself from upsetting people wherever he went.

Tobias admired the man, of course. Adams was, one could argue, a genius, but he was impossible.

That in itself was not why the world was coming undone. After all, the United States of America had come to be out of much suffering.

But the world did seem as if it was rattling towards destruction.

England was dealing with its own chaos. The rumors about King George were no small thing. Had the Americans actually driven the poor fellow mad? Tobias did not know.

No one really knew, but there were whispers in London that the king was not simply ill. He had lost his wits.

The newly formed government in the United States, as did half the world, held its breath, waiting to see if there would be a transfer of power.

Would King George’s impossible son, Prinny, become regent?

No one knew for sure, and it seemed as if the entire city was a tinderbox, waiting to see what would occur.

And then, of course, there was what was happening across the English Channel.

Though 1789 was a very exciting year, Tobias felt that a little less excitement might be good for everyone because the storming of the Bastille had sent ripples throughout the world, including his own new country.

The United States was hopeful that France would see a peaceful revolution to a Republic or some such. But Tobias feared for his friend, the Marquis de Lafayette, because stories coming out of France since the storming of the Bastille and the March on Versailles had reached him regarding what was happening in the French countryside this summer.

Violence. Upheaval. And it was like a fever spreading.

Tobias had a strange sensation that it was not going to be the sort of revolution that had happened in the United States.

Oh, the thirteen states had known their fair share of bloodshed, but France somehow felt different. There was an anger seething in that country that he could almost feel across the water.

And so, instead of getting drunk as so many of his compatriots took to doing when things were not quite right, he did what he had always done as a child and then as a young man. He’d sneaked away to that part of town which allowed for artists to transport one away from the dreariness, difficulty, and danger of life outside the theater walls.

Tobias loved plays.

He was a man of war and a publisher by trade, but the theater, in his opinion, was one of the greatest gifts that mankind had.

Drury Lane was a beautiful theater, nothing like the St. John’s Street Theater he had grown up with.

During the war, performances had been banned by Congress, and then when the English had taken New York, much to his shame, the English had put on performances there at one point.

It had made his blood boil.

It was odder still that he was now surrounded by English people, but he supposed it was no surprise, given the fact that his parents had been Royalists.

That had made for an interesting few years whilst they had been jailed during the revolution.

It had also been why he had been thrust into England because his parents had returned to England, purchased a small estate, and then had chosen to fully invest themselves in being English.

Tobias understood the English in a way that many Americans simply did not. His parents had considered themselves to be English and not American, raising him to believe so too.

He had not agreed.

As he strode through the halls of the theater, he headed towards the back, where he could give his compliments to Mrs. Dover.

It was one of his favorite things to do, to genuinely compliment the artists who made life bearable.

He would tell her what a marvelous Titania she had made this evening.

Yes, he owed Mrs. Dover and her fellow actors a great deal. For as of late, he couldn’t forget the brutal news he had been printing with his press. For, here in England, he was still publishing pamphlets out of his rented rooms.

Ink was in his blood. It always would be.

But he hoped to bring more of the theater to his country. In fact, he had a proposal for Mrs. Dover.

As he had listened to the words of Mr. Shakespeare reverberate through the beautiful space, he did think that the actors in England were excellent, and it was his hope to convince them to come to tour in his newly founded country.

It would do the country a great deal of good to have such entertainment, or at least so he thought, and he hoped Mrs. Dover would agree to the proposal.

Unlike his parents, he loved a good time and a novel idea.

After all, he’d stared death in the face with cannonballs, roaring gunshot, and disease. He’d survived it all, and he was going to enjoy every damn day.

Just as he turned into the wings, past the places where the sets flew in, he spotted a cloaked figure.

It was a young woman, and he stopped, his entire body crackling to life at the sight of her.

He had never seen a young lady quite like this one. He couldn’t explain it.

He was captivated. On pure sight.

There was something enigmatic, compelling, and alluring like a siren’s song about her lithe form swathed in silks and mystery.

Her beautiful emerald cloak hung about her figure.

The hood tumbled down her back as she turned suddenly, baring her russet hair, which gleamed in lush curls about her face.

He found his breath stolen away and his body began to hum with desire.

She had not been on the stage.

He would’ve recognized her immediately.

For a moment, he was certain she was going to dart into the shadows, but she lingered as if she was as captivated by him as he was by her.

“Hello,” he rumbled. “Whatever are you doing alone? A lady as beautiful as you?”

She bit her lower lip gently but made no reply.

He gave an elaborate bow and let his gaze trail over her form. “I mean you no ill,” he whispered. “I should dearly love to do you good.”

There was a moment in which she looked rather like a deer in the forest, caught, tense waiting to see if he was friend or foe.

But with such a creature, how could he ever mean harm?

As a matter of fact, with each passing moment, he found that he wanted to mean something quite different. After all, if she was here in this hall alone, she was no innocent young lady, on a shelf where she must be untouched.

Perhaps… Perhaps after so much time alone, he could allow himself connection, pleasure. A companion, if she was amenable. He’d not wished such a thing until now. Until her.

“Good sir,” she began, her voice a liquid song of temptation. “I am just departing. And I have no time for ill or good with you.”

“Ah, you have an engagement,” he observed, unable to hide his disappointment.

“No, I am about to go home.”

“But the night is young. How can you possibly wish to go home? A lady such as yourself must have many admirers.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement then. “Oh, I do, sir. I do have many admirers, but none of them are here.”

He took a step forward. “Oh, you are quite wrong.”

She licked her lips and drew in a slow breath. “Am I?”

“I am here,” he growled softly.

“How can you admire me, sir?” she scoffed, even as her gaze warmed. “You have just had your first sight of me.”

“Do I need something more,” he inquired, unable to deny the intensity of his growing hunger for her, “than to lay sight upon you? Surely, my lady, to see you is to admire you.”

She arched a russet brow. “You should be on the stage.”

He arched his own brow. “I have never had the opportunity to tread the boards. I am happy to sit back and watch those who do it so well. Such as you.”

Her eyes widened at that. “Such as me?” she echoed.

“Indeed, surely you’re an actress of great skill.” He was surprised by her amusement. She was a captivating creature and made more so by her frank merriment. “Are you training with Mrs. Dover?”

She swallowed. “Something like that,” she replied.

He wanted her. He wanted to make her his. Even if only for this night. “Forgive me,” he said, “I am clearly not from London, and I do not know if you are the star of another theater, though I do try to attend all of them.”

“Are you such a devotee?” she teased.

“I try to attend several nights a week.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Though sometimes duty calls me elsewhere.”

“How tragic for you, to be called away from what you love so well.”

He slowly closed the distance between them, and the low candlelight from the sconces threw shadows over her cloaked form.

Her eyes flared as he stopped just as his boots skimmed the hem of her gown. He stared down at her, half tempted to drag her into the shadows and bring her to pleasure here and now.

After all, life was short.

He’d learned that a long time ago. It was good to seek pleasure where one could, to enjoy anything that was handed to one because life could be seized by a lead ball, an accident, or disease at any moment.

Life had to be celebrated. Moment by moment. For the moment was all anyone had. So as he stood before her with her rose scent wafting towards him and the candles guttering, tossing light about them, he said, “I wish to kiss you.”

“Here?” she exclaimed. “Now?”

“Yes,” he growled soft and low, his gaze lingering upon her lips. “Here. Now.”

Her breath hitched as if she was making some great decision.

What he would have given to know what was racing through her head.

“Kiss me then,” she urged.

And with that, he tilted her head back and took her lips in a kiss.

She gasped against his mouth and held still as he kissed her.

It took him a moment to realize there was no seduction to her, no artifice, no grand attempt to catch his fancy.

In fact, despite the spark between them, she was quite simply not very good at it. At least, not for a lady who had to have experience.

He shoved aside the odd thought.

Instead, he savored the touch of her lips. He let his arms wind to her back, and he found himself completely lost to her.

And as the moments passed, her awkwardness in his arms vanished, and she became languid, emblazoned.

He did not know how or why she was not artful like he assumed she would be, though she was passionate. As a matter of fact, she seemed to have little practice at all.

And as he teased her lips and she matched his desire with an untutored attempt to kiss him back, a thought struck him and he jolted back.

“Have you never kissed anyone?” he asked suddenly.

Her cheeks flushed and not with passion. “What would make you say such a thing?” she said boldly.

He gazed down at her, lost, trying to make sense of what had just happened between them. “I don’t know. It’s just—”

“Why did you cease?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “I’m not the sort who ruins young women.”

Her face twisted with frustration, and she looked away.

Suddenly, he wondered if perhaps he was dreaming. The whole situation felt positively mad.

“Was I really terrible?” she asked.

He groaned. “Terrible? No, but… Damnation, are you the daughter or niece of some actress?”

She tensed at that. “Why would you ask such a thing, sir?”

He flinched. “I don’t wish to get in trouble with any of the company members. I don’t seduce innocent young women, but usually innocent young women don’t wander alone in the back of theaters either.”

“I promise you that I’m not what you think…”

He let out a relieved breath. “Good.”

“I wish to try again,” she said firmly.

He frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

“Kiss me again.” And with that, she reached up, took his coat lapels in her hands, went up on her tiptoes, and pulled his head down towards her.

He was so stunned that he did not pull away.

This time, she was careful, as if studying him, but there was a fire beneath it all. The kiss was slow, passionate.

Her lips parted, and his tongue slipped into her mouth. She arched her body against his as if she was giving herself over to her passion.

A breathless moan slipped out of her throat as they kissed over and over, driving each other further and further into desire.

His hands went to her hips, eager to pull her against him and find a spot where they could be alone.

And then she abruptly dragged herself away. “I must go,” she said, her voice a breathy rasp.

“Will you not tell me your name?” he managed.

She shook her head. “But thank you for the gift of the kiss.”

He frowned. “It was not a gift.”

She smiled then, a slow, mischievous smile. “Oh but it was. It was the perfect gift. It was exactly what I needed.”

“And what did you need?” he asked, not at all certain of his feelings at that moment.

“A bit of fun,” she replied.

A bit of fun?

And he wondered in that moment if he had just been used. It was a strange feeling. For men were usually the ones who kissed and ran for a bit of fun.

And much to his amazement, he realized he did not want to let her go.

But before he could make any argument or urge her to stay, she whipped away from him and darted through the dark hall.

Her skirts and cloak fluttered into the darkness, and he was left with nothing but the scent of roses and their desire about him.

He wanted to go after her and demand answers, but he realized she was not going to give them. And he wondered if there was someone who might be able to tell him who she was. He wondered if he could find a way to pursue her.

But if she did not wish to continue, then surely the kiss would have to be enough. That’s what life was. Finding pleasure, letting it go, and moving on.

Because if one clung too hard to the past, one would drown in it. One would be taken down. And he would never ever allow himself to be drowned in the past. No. He was running from it.

And so he would take this kiss for exactly what it was. A moment’s pleasure with a young woman in the dark.

A bit of fun.

And he would not allow himself to think of what could be or what could have been.